Tag Archives: authenticity

1975_Laundry

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We don’t have chores in our house. We do what we’re told when we’re told to do it.  If we don’t do what we’re told, we get the paddle. No amount of whining and complaining can make a difference, although we all try it.

We are lucky though because most of the time Momma does everything and this is how I think she feels like she is taking good care of us, although we would be glad to help if it made her less anxious. She’s always worried, worried, worried – about everything.

Laundry

 ~August 1975~

“Gaaddamn it, get the degreaser.  Hurry up, put the Gaaddamn degreaser in.”

I don’t know what degreaser is and I’m not sure why I should put the damn stuff in. I do know it comes in a yellow bottle.  It’s tall with ridges on the outside.  I can’t always open it quick enough and I hope Momma didn’t tighten it with her grip of steel, because if she did I’ll never get it open before she yells it again. “Put the Gaaddamn degreaser in!”

Laundry is a science to Momma and she’s always rushing around as fast, as fast as she can. With ten kids the laundry takes up the whole day and she doesn’t mind reminding us every time she does it.  She starts while the sun is still light and bright without heat and takes the sheets right out from under me while I sleep.  She does the same thing to all ten of us. Sometimes it wakes me up, but sometimes not. The older kids complain about it and fight with Momma over being woken up, but I don’t care much about getting up early, because I get to help Momma if I get up early. She doesn’t like help and I have to do things just so, because laundry is important. She says, “We might not have money, but you kids aren’t walking around dirty.” There something about being poor that makes most people dirty, but not us.

“Amy Beth, where’s the damn degreaser, quit fooling around and get over here.”

I step up on a rickety old stool and grab the cool metal cup from the shelf that is hung half-crooked, the cup slides if you don’t put in the right place, it perfectly covers a ring on the shelf from the rust on the bottom of the cup.  I’m careful while pouring.  For something named degreaser, it’s very greasy.

“Just half full not all the way full, or you’ll have to start over, don’t waste it.”

We have an old-time washing machine, a wringer washer. It’s white with a red ring painted around the middle, smooth on the outside and cool to the touch.  There are two rubber rollers on top and if you don’t watch out, your hands will get the hell pinched out of them when the rollers are rolling and squeezing the water out of the clothes. That’s what Momma says.  There is a rusty stain on the underside. I’ve tried to wash it off, but it doesn’t work, it’s stuck on there, forever and ever.  The washer stays in the back room over the basement door in the floor.  I’m glad that it hides the basement door, I think bad things are down there and all the other kids tell me so too. I will not go down there unless I am forced, that has only happened once and that time I saw a man’s butt crack, Peggy said – “See! I told you – plumber’s smile!” Staring at the backside of some guy working on our water pump.  I don’t understand what that means, but I laugh and laugh so I can get the heck out of there.

Momma and I boil water on the stove for the load of whites. Sometimes we have hot water on the tap and sometimes we don’t, because we can’t always pay our bills and even if we have hot water, she yells, “That water isn’t hot enough, boil it some more, I like my whites white! And don’t touch that pot, it will burn the hell out of you.”  It takes three giant pots of water to wash the whites.  We make one pot of hot for the colored clothes, mixed with cold water.  For dark colors or when we are lazy and don’t care if we stink and our whites are dingy, we can wash in cold, which is never.

The cold water comes from the hose, which tastes like the metal ring at the end of the hose. The hose runs from around the side of the house and we prop open the screen door to keep it from pinching the water off.  This lets the flies in, but there isn’t any other way to get the hose into the back room.  Then we spend the afternoon killing flies with the pink and white flyswatter that has a long wire handle and is covered in guts. Sometimes in a pinch Momma will swat us with the flyswatter, if the paddle isn’t close enough.

I fill the washer with hose water, turn off the water and unhook the hose from the faucet and leave it lying on the ground, but far away from the house so when the water we drain from the washer comes out, it doesn’t run back on the house and rot the foundation.  I learn a lot from Momma, she explains things as she goes along and I might not understand it all, but I am good at remembering.  I have to know everything or else someone yells about something, so it’s easier to remember everything and do what I need to do right, the first time.

Momma let’s everything soak for at least 30 minutes because we are all so Gaadamn dirty.

Once the clothes have soaked, Momma plugs the electric cord into the light bulb on the ceiling and then she lets me flip the switch that turns it on.  The washer makes a loud grinding noise and the whole backroom shakes. We let it agitate, that’s Momma’s word for swirling the clothes around, for 10 or 15 minutes; standing there not hearing another sound in the world except the grind of the washer.  After agitating, I take the end of the hose and screw it to a spout that comes out of the bottom of the washer, the spout is old and needs to be cleaned with “C Cleaner” which Momma says gets the calcium off.  We open the spout on the bottom and drain the dirty water outside through the hose.

I run outside to watch the water come out and make sure there are no hair or other clogs that back it up.  I hope with everything that there is no clod of hair that gets stuck. I almost throw up thinking about it having to touch it. The water flows dark and murky, making a trail down the dirt driveway.

Once the water has drained, we taking the sopping wet clothes and run them one by one through the wringer to squeeze out all the water.  I am not allowed to put them through the wringer. I am not old enough yet.  My job is to catch the clothes as they come out.  Momma doesn’t like them slapping onto the dirty floor when they come out all squished flat.

Then we rinse the flattened clothes by adding cold water from the hose into the washer and firing it up again.  One more time through the wringer and they are ready to hang on the line in the yard.  There are two lines, one short and one long, both run from the house to the barn, which doesn’t work like a barn anymore, it’s now just an old building full of junk and wasps.  It does have an outhouse on the side of it, but you can’t go to the bathroom in there anymore, it’s been sealed up tight.

Momma doesn’t talk much during laundry, she explains what she’s doing so I know how to do it on my own one day and she yells out things to do “Degreaser!” “Turn the hose on!”  “Now turn it off Gaaddamn it!”

Before we start hanging the clothes, we start another load to soak.

I’m not allowed to hang the clothes, because Momma says “You don’t hang things right, they’ll come out all wrinkled if you hang them, and I’m not spending the whole day ironing.  You’ve got to hang them so the breeze can get through them.”  I don’t even hang socks right, which are supposed to be easy.  My job is to hand things to Momma real fast so they don’t get too wrinkled sitting in the basket and then I take a metal pole and raise up the laundry on the wire.  It’s heavy to lift, but I can do it even when Mom yells at me not to.  I just laugh when she yells when we are in the yard, because she is too far away to smack me.  While she’s hanging the laundry I look for wasps and bugs that bite because I’m afraid of them.  If I see a wasp or a bee, I run in the house until it goes away.

“Get your ass back out here” Mom says, but I just pretend I can’t hear her.  I’d rather hear Momma yell than get stung by a wasp.

~

I had no idea that there is any other way to do laundry, in the winter we do go to the Laundromat sometimes, so I know that there are indoor washers and dryers, but I have no clue that someone could actually buy one and have it in their house.  I also have no idea that all my other friends are having their clothes washed inside their own house.  I assumed that everyone washes clothes like it’s 1950.

I’m sure it seems that Momma was mean to me, but I never saw it as mean, she had no patience for misunderstanding and if you did something wrong or ruined the load of wash, it could cost her hours of time.  I learned to cook the same way, trial by fire, get it right or get the hell out of the kitchen!  If you put too much salt or milk in something you were helping Momma make, it could mean none of us ate that day.  I understand why she felt like doing it herself was faster.  She was doing the best she could and for that I’m thankful.

Write YOUR OWN MANIFESTO

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Knowing who you are and communicating that to the world is essential to being in the world.

How you communicate it defines who people think you are and how people respond to you. It can even shape how you think about yourself.

Right after I was fired from my job, I wrote a manifesto and it was empowering for me to see myself on the page in TRUTH and not apologize for it. To see in myself things that maybe no one else could see, to hear from myself instead of someone else what I was worth.

How does one go about writing a Manifesto?  Take the answers to the ten good things about yourself from my be your own patriot post and put them into action.  Write about those ten good things – BE BOLD about it, although a manifesto is usually a public declaration, no one ever has to read it if you don’t want that. BE BOLD. 

Start your sentences with CONFIDENCE – I AM, I WILL, I DO, don’t use I think or I feel. A manifesto is not about thought or surface-level feeling, it’s about getting down into your gut, that visceral reaction. The thing you want to shout, or maybe at this stage just say into the mirror in your bathroom and believe just for you.

It’s about inspiration, what would you say to yourself to inspire yourself if you could actually form the words to encourage yourself.  For some it might be words you’d like to hear come from someone else’s mouth about you. However you get there doesn’t matter, but getting the words on the page in honor of yourself is a a step toward freedom, knowing yourself, putting yourself out there, believing.

It’s not about writing pages about yourself, it’s not your story, it’s short powerful sentences. Yours may end up taking a different direction form eventually. Be creative.

Someone asked me after reading my manifesto, “I’m wondering why you think you can say these things about yourself?” I replied with confidence “I believe them and I am that good.” And that was the truth. There is sometimes a small part of me that says, that’s not true and I just allow that in too. We all have doubt, it’s what we do with it that matters. TRUTH.

BE BOLD, no one else is going to be bold for you.

No PLAN but a Path

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If you can see your path laid out in front of you step by step, you know it’s not your path. Your own path you make with every step you take. That’s why it’s your path. ~ Joseph Campbell

I’ve talked about enVISIONing the future, not planning and following the energy. There is one more thing that can set you up for disappointment.  The outcome – The how you get where you are going – The way things come together.

If you are tied to how you get THERE, I can almost guarantee you’ll be disappointed.  The path almost never looks the way we imagined.

I’ll quote myself here too – I can’t ask the universe to deliver what deep down I want for my future and at the same time say, I didn’t expect it to look like this!

No back pedaling – keep going – the path is almost always unclear – everyone else may be saying – that’s not for you, don’t go that way!  And all you’ve got to do is trust that you know the way, you know the path, go with it, don’t fight it.

I don’t know what’s on the other side – I’m not sure what comes next – what I know is I’m right where I need to be right now and so are you.  David Whyte says ~ Everything is waiting for you.

And it is – Are you ready?

DEEPression

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I’ve been in a funk.

It’s definitely a funk.

The whirlwind of the last three months, trying to figure out what I was going to do next – were stressful, fretting – a lot. I was patient with myself and with the process, but it impacted me in surprising ways.

First, I had to let go of the idea of my old job and the camaraderie, my pals in BTV and NYC. Getting fired makes you feel like – crap – and in this case, it ripped people out of my life that I held in high regard. It was instantaneous. Like death. There’s no way around it – you doubt yourself and you wonder what other people think of you. Some people call or email and some people don’t and you wonder, is it their discomfort with the situation or did they never have any respect for you at all? So, I spent the time crying and grieving all that I needed and that dropped me down into the first part of the funk.

Signing up for unemployment feels like – crap – too. The process is antiquated, the usability of their website is challenging and then you submit and have to wait for approval – for weeks. It doesn’t take as long if you weren’t fired, but if you were fired – they have to make sure you didn’t do anything that “caused you to be fired” – like punch someone in the face. Then, every week you have to claim a week of benefits, which reminds you that you don’t have a job and that you are receiving unemployment benefits. I understand why you have to do it, but it still feels like – crap. DEEPer funk.

Sunday nights and Monday mornings are difficult for the first 8 weeks. You know that everyone else is getting ready for the week to come and you are not. Monday mornings were 100% depressing. Lonely.  DEEPer funk.

Finally, sending out resumes, talking to people, networking, figuring things out – takes time and energy and it creates self-loathing.  I’m all for promoting myself in a genuine way, but you find yourself wanting people to look at you and affirm that you are good enough, which is weird. You know you are good enough, but for some reason, having someone else think that, especially after you’ve been fired, means something.  This was the DEEPest funk – relying on other people to validate me. Sad.

I felt terrible many days, but worked on being positive. I knew it would all work out, but that trust, in and of itself, was a challenge. But a good one.

What came through for me was this – I know that I sometimes want people to validate me, but it’s not really what I want. I want validation from myself and when I could get to the place where I could give it to myself and believe it. The funk – it lifted.

It’s going to be a great weekend. Get out in it. GO.

What puts you in a funk? What lifted the funk for you?

Synchronicity and a New Job

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Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen ~
Ralph Waldo Emerson

If you are looking for signs of what you should be doing in your life, they will appear. It CAN BE that simple.

I was fired on the same date my brother died 21 years ago. Given the number of days in a year and the number of days in the last 21 years when something significant like this could happen on

February 16th, I’m going to say it means something. I’m not exactly sure what, but…here’s where I went with it.

My brother was an artist, a handsome devil of a man, who died too early, at 34.  I believe that he died because he didn’t follow his dream. His dream of being an artist.  I’m taking this event as a sign that I must follow my creativity and follow what I want in the world, don’t hold back, hold myself to my own standards and thinking. Don’t kill myself doing something I don’t want to do. GO.

I don’t know how it will end but I do know how it begins.

On February 22nd, I posted about being fired and what I would be doing next. Something with writing – intention set – check.

I promised myself to take the time to grieve, not stress too much, not fret, to have courage – it would all work out in the way things always do and then I watched it all unfold, from the past to the now.

In 2005, when I left the job I was working, I was given a copy of a book that is published by an agency that specializes in writing and strategic communications.  The book is personal creative writing of the people who work at this firm.  They publish it annually to keep their own creativity moving.  The person giving it, knowing I was a writer thought I would enjoy reading it. I read it and put it in a drawer somewhere.  When I moved in 2008, I got rid of nearly everything I owned, so I no longer have it.

Fast forward seven years.

I’m sitting across the table at a Thai restaurant from a recruiter and she says “Have you ever heard of this strategic communications firm?”
“I’ve seen them, but they are in Vancouver.  Who wants to work in Vancouver?”
“Have you seen their building, because if you see it, you’ll know that if you HAVE to be in Vancouver, this is the place to be.”
This was only two weeks after losing my job, so I wasn’t quite ready to REALLY talk to people yet. So, I replied “Let’s wait and see how things go.”

I emailed her about a week or so later and asked to be introduced, because I kept thinking about it.

She said “I’ll introduce you, but let’s wait a little longer.”

A few weeks go by and at the end of March I get an email, from said agency, that says “Our CEO, received your resume from someone on the Agency Roundtable that she attends.” They attached a job description and asked if I wanted to come talk to them.

Synchronicity. I called and said yes!

Who gets a job interview like this?  Maybe a lot of people, I don’t know.  I also don’t know who gave her my resume, it wasn’t the recruiter, that I do know. Whoever it was, thank you.

When I got to the interview I sat down on the sofa and saw the same book, I was given in 2005 when I left that job, which I had forgotten until that day.  Synchronicity!

I spent the next couple of weeks interviewing. There were multiple other shining moments of synchronicity, in addition to sweeping views of the Columbia River, but I was still questioning it, it was almost too good to be true. It was like I was in a movie and everything in the world was saying this is the next step – follow me, but I wasn’t convinced and I kept thinking what is going on? – and then something magical happened, they sent me a job offer.

There have been other options in the last few weeks, other dangling carrots, but I’m trusting that all the signs are pointing me in the right direction. If there is this much energy flowing here, I’m going with it.

I accepted that offer today. It surprises me to say that, but it’s how it all came together.

To be clear, I didn’t sit back and think about what I wanted and wish it would come to me. I set a clear intention – acted – I wrote a manifesto from my heart, that represents me and how I am in the world – I knew that people who didn’t like it wouldn’t like me – and I used it as a cover letter – you can see the latest version of it here – I sent that out to a few key people and then I networked some, and in return I received.

And the next chapter – BEGINS.

The universe delivers.  intention – action – reception.

What are your intentions? You are powerful.

ON_Reading

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More memoir soon – this is just more musing on life.

One writing coach I worked with read my work and said, a seven year old would not use the words you are using in this piece, Torment and Metallic are not words a seven year old would use. She obviously didn’t know me very well.  She could have asked – why are you using this word here?  Did you know that word at seven? Instead she told me not to use them.

What that did for me is lead me to explain why I use the words I do in my writing. So thank you writing coach for pointing this out to me.

I had NINE older brothers and sisters and they are all VERY smart and yes they used the word TORMENT and METALLIC, so at seven, I had a big vocabulary thanks to my brothers and sisters.  And my last statement of explanation from my seven-year-old self – I’M NOT A BABY!

I like to read and sometimes I choose a book that is daunting, one that I know I will not understand for the pure pleasure of being okay with not understanding.

I’ve always loved reading and as a child in Michigan, I would go to the library as often as I was allowed, which was pretty much whenever I wanted, because no one was really paying THAT much attention.  I was on first name basis with the librarian – Sandy Sherba.  I don’t think she really like me though, I was after all the little girl with the rotten teeth.

I tired of reading children’s books and had read most all the books in the children’s/young adult section anyway – it was a small town, and a small library.

I browsed the adult literature section of the library, Sandy Sherba would shoo me out of there saying, “These books are for grown ups.”  When I tried to check out Beowulf, she said “No, how about you read something in your age group.” I then tried to check out The Yearling, which in fact is a Young Adult book, but it was categorized in the adult section because of the content.  “Find something in your age group, you are not old enough to understand this.”

How she knew what I would understand, I do not know.  Because I couldn’t check out the books I wanted, I’d steal a book out of the adult section and go hide somewhere in the library and read and read and read. I read, Tolstoy, Faulkner, Woolf, Sexton, Shakespeare. Most anything I could get my hands on.  I developed a secret love of poetry and would read page after page after page. Reading made me feel alive. I didn’t understand most of what I read, but I am certain it influenced me in some way. I knew I would understand it someday.

I still do this to this day, I read a lot, and sometimes I choose a book from a topic that I’m interested in that I know will be a challenge for me – like James Hillman, or James Joyce – mind melting works.  The first time I read Marion Woodman, I thought to myself what in the hell is she even talking about here? Years/months later when I pick up the book again, I realize I gained something because when I begin to re-read, I understand it, or at least some of it.  I love how that works.

Maybe this too increased my vocabulary.

What about you? What do you read? Does what I’m saying make any sense?

July_1974_EATING_PLASTER

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As promised last month – here is an excerpt from my memoir.  Feel free to comment. I’d love to hear from you.  

LIFE is about connection

Follow the threads, follow the connection – what led you to here? And to hear? And what do YOU hear?

For a few short moments before posting this, I had to relax my breathing, remember, that this too is part of the story, my story.  I then went to Twitter, you know – to distract myself and a message from the universe appeared – I’m headed in the right direction.

From Anne Lamott – You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories.  If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.      

~July 1974~

I am lying in Momma’s bed, which is my bed too. I am four and wearing my pink nightgown. I don’t like pink, but since I’m a girl I have to wear it. My blond hair is ratty and laying on the pillow.  I don’t like to comb it, ever.  My mouth is crusty on the side from drooling through the night. I have one of my stick legs kicked out of the covers because I get hot sometimes.

The queen-sized bed is parked in the left corner of the room against the wall.  I sleep closest to the wall so I won’t fall out of the bed.  I never thought I would fall out of bed, but Momma says “Gaaddamn it, move over or you’ll fall right out.”  One of Momma’s favorite words is “Gaaddamn it”, with an A drawn out right in the beginning, she strings it on to the front or end of most any sentence.  Her favorite is when she’s trying to yell at one of us and can’t get to the right name fast enough, “Billy, Jenny, Patrick, Michael, Peggy….Gaaddamn it, Amy Beth!”

I stay in the middle as best I can. Momma sleeps near the window and I’m glad because if anyone ever breaks in, she’ll get them before they get me. She’s tough.  She had me when she was 46. She says “No one has a normal baby at 46, most of them come out retarded.”  She can also knock you into next week with one backhand and that means strong.

Momma has a few things on the top of the brown wooden headboard.  A bobby pin, which she uses to clean her ears in the morning, a jelly jar full of water that is mine that I drink out of when I get thirsty at night and her reading glasses which are smeared and greasy on the front. I don’t know how she sees out of them.  She once let me try them.  They made me blind. If I touch the bobby pin or glasses, she gets so mad at me and yells loud. “Gaaddamn it Amy Beth – if I told you once, I told you a hundred times. Don’t touch my Gaaddamn glasses.”

I am the last of Momma’s ten babies, and the last always sleeps with Momma, there isn’t room anywhere else.  There is only one real bedroom in our house.  It is at the top of the stairs, that Momma can’t climb because she is too fat.  If we’re trying to get away from Momma that’s where we go – right up those stairs.  Outside of that room is a landing where there are 3 more beds.  Downstairs behind the kitchen is a pantry that we use as a bedroom.  The pantry, the bathroom and the room upstairs have doors on them. None of the other rooms do. Momma’s room is big and wide with 3 windows, but it is not really a bedroom, it is more like a living room or something else, but we use it as a bedroom.  There is a walk-in closet sized room off of Momma’s room that my oldest brother Mark sleeps in.

When I wake up and am scared at night I twirl a ringlet of Momma’s hair between two fingers.  It is smooth and silky.  I want to put my whole face in her hair to be close to her.   I never get very much time alone with her, except here – in the bed, in the middle of the night, she is all mine. Sometimes, I twirl her hair too tight and she wakes up and yells “Gaaddamn it, what are you doing!?” and then falls right back asleep.

In bed, short rays of sun dance in through the windows, shining spots onto my blanket. I stare at the wall where there is plaster missing. Chunks of plaster are missing from the walls in spots all over the house. Some are small, like my hand, others are as big as my whole body.  In the places where the plaster is missing I can see thin boards that are rough and splintery, in between them there is gray rocky plaster. I am not supposed to pick at it.

When Momma is out of the bed and I am alone, I do pick at the plaster.  I hold my hands down as long as I can, but they just want to pull that plaster out. I try to see if I can pull out long pieces without breaking them. My finger is just the right size to fit in the space between the boards. The plaster is cool on my warm hands, rough, but falls apart easy.  I line up the pieces I pull out of the wall on the bed next to me, brushing the crumbs onto the floor.  Sometimes plaster falls back into the wall where no one will ever see it.

There are thin gray hairs in the plaster.  My brother, Bobby, who is next oldest to me, 5 years older, tells me “There is horse hair in that plaster.”  I don’t believe him, because he also tells me that a tiny little witch lives in the knot, which looks like a tiny little door, in the giant maple tree by the Arnold house, 3 houses down from ours.  I don’t walk past the front of that tiny little door by myself though, just in case he is right.

After lining the pieces up, I imagine they are rock candy.  I lift each one as soft as I can and bite the end of it. I like the longest pieces best, fully formed and taken from their home in the wall. Biting off the end of a long piece is the best feeling in the whole world.

They taste like what I think chalk might taste like.  I know not to eat chalk, but I can’t help from eating the plaster.  I try not to as hard as I can, but I love the gritty feel and the crunching it makes when I bite down on it with my small black teeth.  Most people have white teeth, but mine are white and black.  Rotten.

I am careful to hide the pieces behind the blanket because if I get caught I will get the paddle.  I don’t know why I get the paddle for eating plaster, I can’t help but eat it.

Bobby walks in the room. He is taller than me with sparkly blue eyes, a mop of blond hair that swoops down on the left side of his face and freckles on his nose.  I hurry and cover the pieces of plaster, my mouth is full of it though and he sees me.

“Mom, Amy’s eating the plaster again!” He yells behind him, flat, focused, as if he sees me doing this every day.

“It’s going to rot your teeth out you know?”

I don’t know that it’s going to rot my teeth out, they are already rotten and I hardly ever eat plaster.

Momma comes in the room marching her fat body over to the bed, snatches back the covers and looks at me with her serious sad face and saggy skin hanging down, her black and gray curls bouncing around.

She looks sad and then angry, “Gaaddamn it, quit picking at the plaster, you kids will ruin this Gaaddamn house one day. Amy Beth, I told you to stop eating that goddamn plaster. Now get out of that bed.”

Bobby sticks his tongue out at me.

Momma grabs my arm, her short fingernails biting into me through my nightgown and yanks me out of the bed and onto my feet on the floor in front of her.

I finish crunching my plaster.

“Momma, I don’t want to eat it, I have to.” I look up at her with the saddest eyes I know how to make.

“I’ll teach you to eat that plaster, I’ve warned you enough.”

I drag my feet as she keeps hold of my arm and pulls me into the living room, which is just outside our bedroom.

“No Momma, no Momma, please no Momma.” I cry before the paddle is even down off the hook.

The paddle is made of wood.  On one side it has a saying on it that I can’t read and some kids standing against a fence with their butts out like they are about to get spanked.  On the other side Momma has written the names of every person she has ever spanked with that paddle.  The list goes all the way down. Linda, Brian, Kloosie, Joey, Chrissy, Billy, Jon Jon, Heather, Kelly, Denise, Tom…so many I can’t keep count.

If Momma likes you, she hits you nice and soft.  If Momma’s mad, she hits you mean and hard.  She’s always hitting someone with something, whatever is closest, she’ll throw things too and she has a good aim. She’ll spank a neighbor kid as fast as she’ll spank any of us and then send them home saying “Go ahead and tell your Momma I spanked you and see if she doesn’t hit you too.”

I put my hands over my butt so she won’t swing the paddle.

“Move ‘em, or I’ll hit ‘em!”

“No Momma, I’ll be good I promise.” I cry

“I’ve warned you enough, now move ‘em.”

I hear the paddle swing back through the air and move my hands just as it reaches my butt.

I jump forward a little, but Momma still has my arm so I can’t get away.  Smack, it stings and I feel the heat of the stinging run out and down my legs, smack, smack, smack.

Five times.

She turns my arm loose and I fall on the ground crying as loud as I can.

Momma puts the paddle back on the hook and walks toward the kitchen.

Bobby stands over and whispers. “I told you not to eat the plaster.”

Momma hears him and yells back toward us “You’ll be next it if you don’t stop it Mister.” And I laugh through my tears. I laugh.

~

It was a different time, it was a different place, I can make all the excuses in the world for my Mother, but when it comes down to it, she didn’t know what else to do. I suppose, if I had lived her life, I may have been the same. A man who she kept getting pregnant with, and him never fully being responsible for us kids – he was married to someone else, little income, ten kids, a 9th grade education, depression, worry, worry.  She was a victim of her own circumstance, but she didn’t have the skills or the courage to do anything else. She had her reasons for being sad, miserable and for lashing out when she’d had enough.

I used to be afraid to talk about my story, other than making fun of myself and of how I grew up, not realizing that it was terrible to do that. My psyche suffered for years. I now have compassion and empathy for the me that was and for the work that I had to do as an adult to become less caught up in this old story.  I used to think if people FOUND OUT who I was, everything I was working toward and even my identity could be taken away.  I don’t think I even had an identity, I was just muddling along, muddling along, doing the things everyone does, job, home, tv, blah, blah, blah.  I was powerless. In time and through therapy, reading, and believing, I’ve realized that I am powerful and I make my own destiny, I do not have to go back and no one can take this away from me, ever, unless I choose to let them.

For those who say forget your past and move on, I believe there is something valuable at examining your past and figuring out why you do the things you do. Figuring out the why I do it in most everything, has become a passion for me. Sometimes when you find the answer to the why, you don’t need to do it anymore.

By examining the past, I can decide if the story makes me who I am or is just a story that is holding me back from being more alive, a story that creates anxiety. I can decide if I want to change it or keep it. The stories don’t have to keep hurting you forever; you can unravel the mystery.

In writing this particular story I did unravel a mystery, Gypsum, which is in horsehair plaster, reduces fever, according to Chinese medicine.  I always kicked my leg out of the bed, maybe I had a fever and my four-year-old body was craving what it needed to do to cool it.  Gypsum.  I now know to listen to my body – thankfully at the moment, it is not craving plaster.

My whole life has been pushing me to this moment – where I can say, I’m me and that’s all that matters and I know who I am and what I want in the world.

I am not a victim. I got out of there. I have the skills to figure it out.

I do believe my life’s experiences made me who I am today – and I kind-a like who I am today. My past is the reason today – I am fierce in my life, I LOVE fully, and I LIVE fully, without regret. Live.

For some reason, I got out of where I was, not everyone does, but hopefully I can help people see that you can change your life, even if it feels like it is too late, even if you had a wonderful childhood but life feels like it sucks right now, you can change it.  If you don’t like how your life is – Change IT.

And I know I’m constantly quoting Danielle LaPorte, but – You can’t face forward until you’ve processed your past.  

And then I shivered, I’m headed in the right direction.

What do you hear when you tell yourself some story from your past?  How does it make you feel? 

~

IT’S NEVER TOO LATE.

~

Two notes about this writing session and all future writing sessions that are memoir related, this is my memory of how things were. I have a big family and I’m sure they may remember some things differently or they may remember things that I don’t.  All names have been changed, other than mine, Bobby and Michael’s.  Bobby and Michael – didn’t get out. They died in 1996 and 1991 respectively – more on that in another session.

How I Chase THE DREAM

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For me life is about unraveling threads, unlocking secrets, seeking truth in mystery.

What does that mean?

This is how it looks for me, I’ve been meeting with people and talking to people about work and how I might work with them, on this, or that, or the other thing.

I’m not forcing any of it, I ask the question, or I put my information out there – do you want to meet?  Do you want to start the conversation?

Some things flow easily, people say yes or call me, other people stall, don’t get back to me. I’m can’t worry about any of it.  The right thing will come – there is no need to push.

Some might assume that I’m not worried because I have money in the bank, yada, yada – that’s not true – I do need to work – but I don’t just want WORK, I want something meaningful and if you want something meaningful, you have to be selective. Remember, it’s YOUR CHOICE.

I also have learned from years of experience that the next thing ALWAYS appears, not in the time you want it to, but exactly at the right time.

I also have a clear vision of my future and some things just don’t fit with that, so –sometimes you have to take one step back – to take FIVE steps forward.

Don’t get me wrong – if there something I really want and am really interested in, I’m tenacious about follow up and follow through, sometimes you have to try and try again to get someone’s attention, but I prefer to follow the things that want to be followed instead of chasing an elusive dream.

Chase the dream that has energy flowing right now, the elusive one will eventually come around.

But – what if you don’t know what your dream is?  What if you aren’t clear what you want?

Listen to yourself –

Think or write about what your ideal future looks like. Picture it, write it, draw it. In this moment what do you want?

The key is not to find images, but to find images that convey exactly what your ideal life looks like. Capture the emotion of it, make it concrete.  As Danielle Laporte says – how do you want to feel? This is a good start, but I’ll add that seeing it the way you want it to be is helpful as well.

A vision. Create a vision of the future, not the kind that says, I want to feel wealthy, but envision what that looks like to you. It might be – I want to take four vacations a year to exotic places.

Things start to change when you start creating vision, don’t ask me how it works – it’s the mystery part.

Create your own path to where you want to be – easy – simple – clear. First step –Envision it.

Now join me AND GO! What’s your vision?

On_THEverge

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Ever feel like you are on the verge of something big – revolutionary?

I’ve felt it before and a few times have followed it and trusted it, but I’ve never felt like I really honored it and WENT for it.  I always held back a little, the what if was too much for me.

Now, I’m standing at the edge, right there at the edge. Options, choices, I’m flailing about a bit. But I know I’m on the verge.  THE verge of something fantastic. The question is – can I wait, can I hold out for what the next thing is, or will I fall back into a trap of grasping onto the next shiny thing, job, or idea that appears? 

On January 1, 2012, I posted on Facebook (which makes it true)

instead of a new year’s resolution, i’m starting a new year’s revolution. dream big, be big, believe everything will come true. 2012 you’re the start of a beautiful future.

So far this year, I lost my job and started a blog and found new freedom in just being me.

I started a 6 week fitness challenge that is kicking my ass and I am loving it. I want to feel better about me and I know this is one sure way to feel better.

I’ve recommitted to my personal projects and am putting high priority on what I WANT and believe.

I am happy in the present and looking forward to what comes next and that is a good feeling.

The revolution has started – But can I dream big and be big and believe everything can come true?  Can I pull it off?

Here’s how I’m trying it. I’m putting thoughtful and big dream intentions out there and then following where the energy goes.

If I send a query to 10 people and none call back – I’m not frustrated. I know – the energy is not there. If I send out 10 and one calls me back – the energy is there. I don’t go overboard and think this must be it, it’s the one.  What I do think, is let’s find out more.  The more information I have the better decision I can make. It’s MY decision to go or not. I’m not saying I don’t have moments where I freak out and worry and over-think things, but I don’t let myself get too consumed by it most days.

I use this simple tool in everything, writing my memoir, these writing sessions I post, contacting potential clients, relationships, friendships, all things, follow the energy. Write what feels right, connect with people who want to connect.  There is no need to force, pry or wiggle through anything.

If you don’t feel like doing something, why do it? If it doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t.

The things you don’t want to do will still be there tomorrow.

Where is your energy taking you?

What tools are you using to pull of your next big dreamy dream?

For_BeingBroken

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Sometimes something happens in life that breaks you wide open. It usually has to do with LOVE or a RELATIONSHIP. Cracked down the middle. Something beautiful happens on the other side of this breaking, but in the moment it’s a brick wall pushing you up against realization, your choice – break open or break down.

When we enter relationship with our work, another person, our family – we sell each other a message of who we are. When the other person, all of a sudden, doesn’t live up to that, or changes, we’re upset by it. What we’re not thinking about, is that it’s not only on them to communicate what’s going on, it’s on us to be paying attention. Sometimes we choose not to, because it might be painful, or we don’t want to change, but whether we want it or not, change is going to happen.

Relationships when they break or change, leave you – alone. One side goes away thinking, did I make the right choice? and the other one goes away rejected.

This is the place –  the point – where one, or both of you, can be broken open.

Breaking open – to be forever changed in a meaningful way. To learn something and integrate it into your life.

Breaking down – bitter, angry, vindictive, victimized.  While feeling those emotions is good, holding onto them doesn’t bring change.

Breaking open can transform those emotions into something more meaningful – love, compassion, understanding of yourself and maybe even the world.

When breaking open, you take part of the responsibility of coming to the table with an open mind and heart, not only about them, but about yourself. You are engaged and notice where they are changing and where you are changing and decide if you want to work together, to stay – to create a meaningful relationship, or not.

If you’re not in a relationship where this can happen or it’s already ended, it’s your opportunity to have this dialogue with yourself and decide what is right for you and to bring that to your own table.

The world is changing rapidly, in realtime, due to social media, and this change signals that it’s time for all of us to begin having more meaningful conversations and to stop waiting for the other person/people to join in or catch up or become the person you want them to be.

Whether you choose to stay or to go, quit or not, discuss or not – open your mind and heart to whatever you choose and live it, breathe it, feel it, let it transform you. It doesn’t matter if it ends, changes, stays the same, you have the power to make it more meaningful. 

Break open or break down?