BREATHE
If I could tell someone, who is going through difficulties, just one thing, it would be to

BREATHE.

In the year 2000, which BTW sounds so futuristic yet is now the past, I breathed a lot.

I also cried a lot.

I began listening to the one Spanish radio channel because all the others kept playing 

somebody-done-somebody-wrong songs,

 or songs that brought memories up in my head like Shania Twain's

"You're The One".

I would be at a stoplight, crying in my car, and I knew that the person in the Honda next to me might be thinking in their southern head, “Bless her heart. I bet her cat just died or her mom, dad, husband . . . "” They'd be right, in a sense. My marriage had died, and I was grieving. So I decided to only listen to the upbeat rhythms of espanol which I could let kookaracha through my heart without effect. I could pretend that they were singing about spicy dishes or dancing in the streets even though they were probably covering the same relationship break-ups.

 

Denial was the name of my new best friend.

At any rate, when the tears would begin to well up in the corner of my eyes while watching a movie in the theater, I realized that if I took a slow, deep breath and let it out slowly that the tears in my eyes would recede. A few more slow breaths and I could sit there and not make a complete fool of myself crying out loud. I began using this technique at the very onset of a thought of a tear and it would work even better. The bags under my eyes could begin to recede. 

You might be going through something right now that makes T.V. watching, Hallmark commercials, puppies, and life, in general, bring on a wave of emotion to which I am saying,

breathe. 

When you feel the emotional tsunami coming , take a slow, calculated breath and let it out slowly.

Tell yourself,

breathe,

and keep breathing. If you talk to yourself you'll realize that there is a daughter, a son, a cat . . . who

needs
you
 to

breathe

even though you just want to jump off the nearest Empire State Building. That's messy.

Don't do it.

KEEP BREATHING

I am learning that the moment I wake up in the morning is a good time to do just that and I've added 'praying for others'. If you wake up in the morning and start praying or thinking of others rather than "poor little me", it will help you get your mind off yourself. Give twenty dollars out of your wallet, purse, pant's pocket to that person carrying a cardboard sign at the corner of the busy street you drive by and be thankful it's not you 'cause in this economy, it very well could be any one of us out there begging to live.

If they want to

keep breathing,

you should too.

As long as you keep breathing there's the chance that you will wake up one morning and the sun will be shining and everything you've ever wanted is right there in front of your eyes. You're worth it.

Don't give up.

BREATHE

© nancy 8.28.2009

FLOWER
I was wondering what I could write about this afternoon and came up with the word 'flower'. Why? Because I love flowers and I love taking pictures of flowers. I like planting them and watching them grow and bloom. They're fascinating.

When I bought a macro lens, I got deeper into the blooms and saw how intricate and sensuous they can be which made me think about God and His creations. You are always hearing people say, “Write about what you know” and I know a little about flowers. 

I looked up the word 'flower' in Webster's and the definition reads : 1. the blossom of a plant.

I looked up 'blossom' to see if further details would unfold: 1. the flower of a plant.

Hmm . . . not much help. It smacked of the chalked equation on blackboards in math class: if A equals B and B equals C, then A equals C. See?

Perhaps the next definition of 'flower' would be more helpful: 2.a the part of a seed plant comprising the reproductive organs and their envelopes if any, esp. when such envelopes are more or less conspicuous in form and color.

First of all, you have to wonder about the minds who wrote this stuff because it is devoid of emotion, elation, excitement, anything. You can hear the guy in Ferris Bueller's class drone on . . . Anyone? . . . Anyone? . . . Bueller?

Huh? Wiping the drool off the mental desk of my mind I had to realize that the second definition was more graphic than I expected or wanted, but it does define some of those macro shots I took, I must admit. Webster's then offered a complete diagram of a flower in cross-section with all of its body parts named. I know flowers aren't human, but the names of its parts sure sound male/female. The diagram should have a rating on it like 'NC17' or 'Parent's Discretion Advised for 13 or Below' because your progeny, of whom you are so proud of at the I-can-read age of 5, will deftly peruse definition number 2a, then ask you in their sweet, innocent voice, 'what's an ovary'? You may not be comfortable or ready to discuss that word yet because it's hard for you to even let it blossom out of your own mouth.

So, take them by their pudgy, little hands, smile and suggest going out in the garden instead. Smell the roses. When they are sixteen, you can let them look through your macro lens and get a glimpse of a blossom in all its exposed glory.

(c) nancy 8.6.2009

THE SEVEN SECOND RULE

In 2000 I made up The Seven Second Rule.

A friend of mine and I found ourselves separated from long term marraiges so we stuck together like glue to help each other get through the days. We were High School friends but had not seen each other since graduation. I learned from another High School friend that my other friend was going through the same thing I was, and she suggested I call her, so I took seven seconds out of my day to 'dial' her number and connect. It was seven seconds that would prove to give me hours/years of friendship.

And that's all about the Seven Second Rule . . . taking seven seconds out of your day/life to connect. (I may have to rename it The Ten Second Rule because now you have to include the area code when dialing someone on your cell phone.)

We began discussing the fact that, if someone really cared about you, was seven seconds too much to ask?

Our answer was always a resounding, “No!”

Yet some folks consider seven seconds to be too much.

Really?

Because we can take our phones with us wherever we go, then “I couldn't find the time/I have been so busy” becomes a non-issue. Just be honest and say, “I didn't want to talk to/with you”. That would be better than side-clicking someone, which is the new thing you can do to the caller, throwing them directly into voicemail, breaking their train of thought to the point they end up stuttering, “Hey . . .  um . . . ” and are left hanging in mid-air with the phone raised in front of their faces in confused silence.

Cell phones were still new to some people in 2000. But if your girlfriend/boyfriend had a cell phone, and gave that number to you, then it was deemed even more personal. “Yea, let me give you my cell phone number” and you were instantly special. Giving that number to someone implied you were there for that person 24/7. And you would return their calls as soon as possible, (no lie), if you truly were in a board meeting. And if they were super special, you could put them on speed dial.

Now we use our cell phones as our primary phones because some of us do not have a landline. Cell phones these days are so small that they can go silently into the movie theater with you, rest in your pants pocket while you tee up or, should I delicately say, go into the bathroom with you. So while you're sitting there (girls) or standing there (guys) for more than ten seconds off and on all day, you could use The Seven/Ten Second Rule. (I can hold the phone in one hand and punch in the numbers and, with practice, you can too, so there's no excuse). Remember to flush, but don't flush your friends down the commode. Call them.

Aren't they worth more than seven/ten seconds of your precious day?

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the answer.

(c) nancy 8.4.2009

YARD SALES

I received a note tacked into the wood which precariously supports my rusting mailbox. The colorful note informed me that my neighborhood would be having a joint yard sale this coming weekend. I wouldn't have to do a thing but look all over my house to find appropriate yard sale items to place in my driveway. This task was going to take some thought as I had a huge yard sale only last summer!

Hmmm. What to put in the yard sale . . .

By the way, is 'yardsale' one word or is 'yard sale' two words? Does it depend on context, whether it's in the newspaper, or on a poster stapled at the corner telephone pole?

Think about that and get back to me.

At any rate, I have been racking my brain as I walk through my house. There's the stained glass chandelier that didn't sell in the last yard sale. Perhaps it's still too expensive? But what the heck. I remember buying a dining room table and chairs at a yard sale and my daughter was able to use it for a spell before she sold it on Craig's List when she got something better! Believe it or not, I also bought another dining room table and chairs at another yard sale for my other daughter and she still has it. Do you reckon it will show up at this yard sale? I'll know when the van shows up this afternoon with all her goodies. And there's the framed pictures still hanging up on the wall in my garage that didn't sell the last time around either.  Again, are they too high a price and should they be hanging up waiting for a neighborhood Estate Sale? Will that lady come back who bought the huge picture at my last yard sale? Maybe she needs to buy some more to go with the biggie that's now hanging on her daughter's apartment wall?

The attic. Anything in there? No. That area was swept and cleaned up after last summer's sale and new boxes appeared after Christmas full of ornaments which didn't have a space to rest until next December at my daughter's home where they spent a jolly holiday. That's what attics are for . . . storing your stuff and your children's stuff. You love it every time they come over because it means they'll be back at some point to retrieve their stuff in the attic and you get to see them again.

Clothes. Do people really want to see your old, worn-out rags tossed on a quilt on top of the dried-out summer grass? I know I don't. When I pass a yard sale that has clothes piled up in a heap on the lawn looking like they were just picked off of Junior's bedroom floor and thrown out his window, I not only drive by but I speed by.

And the signs. Just read them. They'll tell you if anything is worth the price of gas in your tank to investigate. I always make my yard sale signs look very promising. FURNITURE is always a good word to plaster on the bright yellow posterboard bought at Rite Aid which will be posted on a tree, a telephone pole, or on a stake that will be hammered into the hard dirt at the corner light. ANTIQUES is another good word. All those early yard sale risers who come out trying to find the best stuff, not only for themselves but for their shops, love to see that word pop up in bold, black lettering on that sign you pray to God won't fold over during the 3 a.m. rain.

CAT might be a good word for this yard sale sign since my feline decided to leave me hanging for 48 hours while she traipsed who-knows-where. I was just getting used to the thought of not having to vacuum cat hair off my furniture, when I saw her at the back door this morning, right as rain, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to gobble up three scoops of her food. It's a good thing I like her because FUR COAT, written in bold, black magic marker on the poster up the street might have drawn some yard-salers down the road to my open garage door.

(C) nancy 7.23.2009

  

Fortune Sticks

I have been opening up my can of Chinese Fortune Sticks for approximately thirty-seven times. Today was my lucky charm day for my fortune read: Unexpected money and happiness is before you.

Supposedly these sticks are “The Oldest Known Method Of Fortune telling in the World”. And yes, I typed it as it is shown on the can and the 't' in 'telling' is not capitalized. Should that tell me something?

These sticks are “for ages 8 & up”. I guess if you are aged eight or below you don't get a fortune. You just have to be glad you're alive!

At any rate, what happened to tea leaves? Weren't people drinking tea in cups or wooden bowls for centuries and divining one's life through them before they were whittling sticks and putting them in little piles to await calligraphic lines of fortunistic doom or happiness to be penned upon their smoothed surfaces?

According to my can of imminent opportunities or failures, “the original fortunes were written in Chinese poetry. A translation has been made to English from an ancient book of Chinese Fortunes”.

Well . . . la-de-da.

I guess my fortune may be translated: Unexpected money and happiness is before you . . . maybe.

Or it could read: Unexpected happiness and a penny you picked up off the pavement is probably all you're gonna get if you're lucky to trip over both of them in the parking lot of Wal-Mart.

Okay. I'll stop with the gloom and wish on the next star to the right that this fortune stick is straight out of the ancient mouth of a Chinese babe and is true. I could use some unexpected money and happiness.

(c) nancy 7.16.2009

ST. SIMON AND AN ISLAND

O.K. So who is St. Simon anyway? Is he the one you pray to if you have lost something and need to find it? My Catholic Mom would know. But I’m thinking that he must have been very good to get an island named after him. A nice tropical island with palm trees, ferns, warm breezes, The Cloister, and the rich and famous. Lucky for me, I have a friend who lives on this island and another friend who can drive longer than two hours!

So my friend and I decided to take a Thelma and Louise trip to see our mutual friend on this island. We didn’t take a gun. We weren’t planning on shooting anyone or driving off a cliff when our stay was over. But we were planning on having fun, relaxing and talking a lot. A Brad Pitt look-alike who may cross our path while on this venture wouldn’t be a bad thing to encounter.

Well . . . little did my friend know that on our second day she was going to get a Reiki session that would leave her emotionally depleted for the rest of the day not to mention those massage table dents left on her face that only a two-year-old’s skin could bounce back from in less than 24 hours. When she came out from her session and walked to the car, I felt for her. “Ouch!” I wondered what she really went through as no one gave out any information. It was a mystery, and I had never heard the term 'Reiki' before, so my mind began to conjure up the scene:

There she was in the subdued lit room with the vague essence of lavender and vanilla floating in the air like leftover herbal remedies that couldn’t make up their minds whether to leave the room and free the space of their presence or whether they should stay and cling to the next person like Petouli oil on a 1970's hippie's tie-dyed clothes. With the quiet, subtle relaxing sounds coming from the six-disc changer . . . would it take THAT long? . . .  she was told to get under the freshly washed sheets. Felt pretty good so far. Was that a giant heating pad she felt underneath her that was making her feel warm and relaxed already? She settled her face into the headrest and breathed. “Ahhhhh, she thought, I get to do this for an hour and a half”.

An hour and a half later she thought, “Damn!! I’m never doing that again! I’m exhausted, disoriented, and confused”. Come to find out, it wasn't a massage I thought she would be getting, but some kind of energy work to rid her of negative energy. I think it doused all energy that she had before she went in.

I felt sorry for my friend. I hoped she would recover in time for the long drive home the next day because, if I had to take over the wheel, we might land in Okeephaknowkee, phonetically speaking. I would surely have to pray to St. Simon at that point for I would be a lost soul on the road to nowhere with my friend asleep in the passenger seat. She’d wake up, look around and exclaim, “Are those prairie dogs?”

Yep, and a few tumbling tumbleweeds to boot, cowgirlfriend.

So what am I trying to say here?

Go take a Thelma and Louise trip with someone who likes to drive. You may want to buy a verbal device that will technotell you in a soft female voice to ‘turn right at the next light’ so that you won’t land up in Nowheresville with a drooling companion who couldn’t continue at the wheel after the eleventh hour. Darn! Maybe a shorter trip would be a better idea, but life is short and long trips are waiting.

Go!!!

(c) nancy 7.16.2009

RAINY MORNINGS

Rainy mornings (or afternoons or evenings) are magical to me. My first thought when I hear thunder is actually a memory. I picture myself at an open window as a child, kneeling with my grandmother who is telling me not to be afraid, but to marvel instead in the beauty of the rain, the lightning, the thunder. I soak it all in and smile.

I love the smell of rain. If I am outside and I get a whiff of the possibility, it makes me happy. To hear it pounding on the roof is a delight. To open a window or a screen door is to breathe in life encased in wet drops from heaven. If you run outside and open your mouth and let the nectar of the sky fall in, then you feel one with the powers that be. You become drenched if it's a real downpour, the rain soaking your hair and glistening on your arms, and you feel baptized. All is new.

Right now it is so dark you would think it was dusk and all would be put to bed soon. But it is only 9:36 in the morning.

Rainy mornings now make me want to write. They have always made me want to read. I love to curl up in the corner of the couch and read a really good book that transports my mind so thoroughly that I forget about food. Of course, there's always the cuddling. But that needs its own page.

I think about Adam and Eve and that we were all meant to tend a garden and be outside. I must be very connected to that thought as I love dirt. I love to plant things in the dirt. I like to smell good dirt. I like to make it better than what it is in my own backyard by adding compost. I like to watch the things I have planted grow in front of my eyes.

I like to walk in the rain and sail in a thunderstorm. The louder, the better.

Once I was in Atlanta in a hotel room and the thunder and lightning were so loud because it bounced and reverberated off the tall buildings, zigzagging down from one side to the other, culminating by the pane I stood behind. How thrilling. I even think the hairs on my arms stood up.

Another place where the thunder and lightning were so loud was at the family farm I lived in for four years. Because the house had a tin roof may have made a difference in the resonance of the sounds of not only the rain pounding on it, but also how thunder drummed across its surface. But I think that also the low, flat fields that surrounded the house made an uninterrupted landscape for the noise to be thrown at full force at me standing in the frail protection of the uninsulated walls. I could feel the breeze across my face even as I sat on the couch due to the cracks here and there in the house. The floor was the floor and that was the only thing keeping me from the dirt below. No insulation anywhere.

To put it in the definitive words of Webster, rain is 'water that is condensed from the aqueous vapor in the atmosphere and falls to earth in drops'.

How lovely.

(c) nancy 7.13.2009