Secret Lessons from Grief and Books, and the Traditions You Pass On To Your Children

Strange.
Emotional spilling over.

While reading a book, I move from one scene to the next -- one sentence to the next -- and start to cry. With no hint of a reason why.

The Wind Has Wings With Feathers

In a lot of ways I feel like I'm being born again. I'm ready. Excited. Full of anticipation. Growth, Change. .... but also, the breathlessness of anxiety -- like a gust of wind that takes your breath away. Smack in the face.

I'm going to reactivate my inactive massage therapy license.

And I've challenged myself to a renewed mission of authenticity and self-honesty. And courage. Courage to say what's on my mind.

To live the way I feel inside.

To inhale life and breath out art.

Therapeutic Value of Rearranging Furniture

Permission to Unleash -- a memoir review

This book cover has a boob on it.
How could I miss a BOOB on my book?
I looked again, and the publisher had added a 'sleeve' tacked on to cover the nudity!
I immediately ripped it off and trashed it.
I liked the boob.
It's a nice boob.

I can't help it.
I'm not finished with this book, but I have to talk about it anyway.



I love this book because ... she writes like I think. Short, staccato sentences. Verbs. Blurting. Metaphors bleeding.

"Gonna Learn to Bend"

What came first? The melancholy nostalgia in-between ache, or the music of Amber Darland on a No Shame Eugene Theatre night amongst friends I used to have. Ones that smile and hug me when they see me tonight, but whom I've lost touch with because of my divorce.

With heart beating, my fingertips rubbing against themselves, I see hijab. I see art. I hear "I Am." I hear whispers and quiet footfalls and the warm chords of acoustical guitar. My favorite.

Struggling not to cry, I applaud instead.

I feel stupid in the skirt and tights I've worn tonight, and wish instead I could hide in jeans and the wool cap my friend crocheted for me.

No hiding for me tonight though -- I'm performing. Reading a monologue. Something different. Jump into the fire, no toes in the water.

Exhaustion Times Four

The number four has no relevance in the title. I'm just damn tired. (I was going to put an exclamation point, but it would've taken too much energy to yell that, so I just left it a period.)

Yesterday morning=boot camp class
Yesterday day=work, writing group
Yesterday night=foam rolled and watched Bosom Buddies episodes until 12:30a.m.
Today morning=yoga
Today day=work
Tonight=work and  then crash in bed asap

Super short post today. It's a little after 4pm. I'm going to look for airline tickets to NJ and then nap for a short while. Then back to the bank, and back to work.

I hope I can talk to N sometime today. His phone died this morning in mid-conversation.

Can't wait to visit him at the end of this month. :)

Bikram Boot Camp?

I'm embarking on another round of Let's See How Long it Takes to Pass Out From Doing Exercise.

I've started a beginning boot camp class. Again. I'm still a beginner because the last time I started, I technically wasn't IN the beginner's class. I was just tagging along. I wasn't on the google boards, I didn't have a manual, I wasn't getting the mentoring. I was just ... you know... getting my ass kicked from bear crawls. (I hate bear crawls.)

My Oldest is Thirteen ... well, we had the party for it at least.

This weekend is all about THE KIDS. 

And I'm glad of that. 

Sometimes it's awesome to be selfless.

Between

This post will just highlight my ever changing moods and frames of mind. I actually wrote this in my journal last night, but woke feeling different. Not totally, but you know, much-less-dramatic-than-at-night-when-you're-tired different.

~

I want to write a little about inspiration and -- NaBlPoMo. Which is strangely fun to say. I feel like I'm in sore need of some artistic influence -- enter NapBloPoMo. NaBloPoMo's (National Blog Posting Month's) theme this month is "Between." When I read that I knew I needed to play along. For realsies.