Forced Off The Path

It’s happened to all of us. 

We’re walking along, oblivious, perhaps whistling, thinking that tomorrow will be relatively the same as yesterday, and suddenly, inexplicably, there’s this huge rock blocking our path.

We have choices, of course.  We can stand and look at it, curse it, wish it away, refuse to believe it’s there, even go back the way we came -– but ultimately, if we want to find the path again, we have only two choices.  We either climb over it or go around it.

I’ve realized that in life, I’m a “go around it” kind of person.  I know plenty of “climb over it” people -– “high-energy, love-a-challenge, bring-it-on” sorts of people, but that’s not really me. 

First I stand open-mouthed in some naïve disbelief, then I sit down and have a long think.  Sometimes it requires a good cry, some bruised fists, yelling, or even a fitful sleep right there in the road.  But sooner or later, I know I have to move.

Your rocks might look like mine –- broken heart, dear one’s death, paralyzing disappointment, lost job, failed test, missed opportunity, disappeared friend, hasty word -– rocks take so many forms, but they all behave the same. They stop you in your tracks for a time.

But I’ve realized there’s a whole undiscovered world in that soft earth to the left and the right of the hard-packed, well-worn thoroughfare.  In fact, some people spend their whole lives out there. They got pushed off the path, and liked it so much that they never went back.  Imagine!

When I was in high school, I was on the drill team.  I spent my first years moving up the ranks and fully expected to take my Captain’s test, pass it, and wear that extremely cute uniform at football games and pep rallies for my senior year.

During my test, we were given the command to turn right, and I turned left instead. 

It was a boneheaded mistake, brought on by unexpected nervousness and the size of the gallery watching –- but the result was that I had committed to the move and had to finish it.  So the group of girls I was testing with all went one way in the huge gym, and I went the other, alone.

HUGE rock.

Needless to say, I wasn’t chosen as one of the Captains.  I spent the first part of my senior year watching the girls who knew left from right, marching in their cute uniforms and feeling my life was essentially never going to be really good again.  (Admittedly, I was a bit of a dramatic teenager.)

But a strange thing happened.  Once I reconciled myself to the fact that what was done was done, I began to encounter that world that lay outside my expectations.  I spent Saturdays driving up the coast to Malibu with friends instead of sweating through marching practice in the hot sun.  Football games could now be enjoyed full-view from the stands instead of from the flat expanse of the field.  With more time at my disposal, I joined Girl’s League and discovered a life-long love of volunteering.

I’ll try not to get carried away with the metaphor (though I fear I already may have) and say that the spongy, sweet-smelling ground off the path has unique and fragrantly colorful flowers -- but I will say that in my life since then, every rock, no matter how terrible it initally seemed, has come with gifts.

I wonder sometimes –- if I had I turned right that day, would I be different now?  Probably. Would my life be better? Worse?  Who knows?  I only know that I don’t regret that missed turn anymore.  I was stepping off into who I am today.

So I try to bless the rocks and put on my hiking shoes a little faster than I used to.  And I try to remember that sometimes the way off the path is the path itself.

~~~~~

TED Talk: Sculpting Waves

Reuben Margolin is a kinetic sculptor, and his works evoke nature and the feel of meditation.


This video will only take nine minutes to watch, but you'll be amazed at how calming it is.  I wish I could stand under one of these sculptures and watch for much longer.  I can almost hear the soft movement of water and air and leaves.


Enjoy...

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The Golden Times

When I was in college, a group of close friends and I spent a weekend at a cabin in the mountains.  Before you ask -- yes, alcohol was involved, but not an inordinate amount.  There was an old jeep in the shed, and we all piled in and took a slow drive down a long country road canopied with trees.  I can still remember leaning back with the sun dappling my face through the leaves, a soft warm wind blowing, looking up at the blue sky, listening to stories being told and the answering laughter of friends.

That was one of what I like to call the “Golden Times.”   Those moments -- or if we’re lucky, longer – that somehow attain a sort of perfection.   I knew it was special, but I had no idea that over thirty years later, I would still remember exactly how it felt. 

Sometimes they’re happy accidents.  For our wedding day, barefoot on the beach, Robert and I hoped to be in some privacy with our small group of family and friends at the water’s edge at sunset.  But at the last minute our pastor said it would be too difficult for some elderly relatives to make it down the long stretch of sand. 

Robert turned to me and smiled, and said he would marry me anywhere.  So we stood on Venice Beach (not in Italy, sadly, but it’s lovely in Los Angeles, too) in full view of all the balconies of a busy hotel, and within earshot of the many people enjoying the last of the spring sunshine by biking, rollerblading, jogging or strolling on the walkway. 

What we hadn’t counted on was the respectful silence of the crowd drawn to the ceremony – and after being in our own world until we kissed and turned around, we’d had no idea that the hotel balconies had gradually filled, and the walkway was nearly choked with people who had stopped to watch.  They now raised glasses, waved, smiled broadly, and gave us a smattering of applause.

When we went to get in our car after the reception, two women stopped us enthusiastically. “You’re the bride and groom! We watched you get married!!” 

Strangers being touched by strangers.  A Golden Time.

At a Rick Springfield concert a few years ago, the man himself walked down the middle of the seats in the audience and ended up standing on my chair to finish the song, giving Robert the opportunity to play air guitar only inches away from him, and as for me… well, what would you do if you were that close and had listened to “Jessie’s Girl” about a million times? 

Golden.

Other times sparkle in my memory.  Holding Thomas as a baby.  Watching the first snow fall on Thanksgiving Day.  Reaching out to take Robert’s hand in a peaceful silence on a long drive from Idaho to Los Angeles.  Kicking chunks of ice at twilight on a frozen lake with friends, watching the irridescence skitter along as the moon rose.  Listening to Andrea Bocelli sing arias from “La Boheme” with my mother, tears glistening in her eyes and mine.

By definition, a Golden Time has an end.  It can’t be sustained.  Otherwise it becomes day-to-day life, which can be very, very good, but simply isn’t that diamond that stands out among the lesser stones.

How do we know when it’s over?  I’m afraid the answer is that most of the time, we don’t.  When is the last hug, the last kiss, the last time of making love, the last goodbye when we hang up the phone, never to hear that person’s voice again?

After 9/11, there were so many stories about husbands and wives pecking each other on the cheek in the morning, casually saying, “See you tonight,” or “Pick up some milk on your way home,” or similar banalities.  If they’d only known.

I never say goodbye to Robert without telling him I love him.  I try to leave places and people without “if onlys”…”if only I’d hugged him”, ”if only I’d told her how pretty she looked”, ”if only I’d said what he means to me…”

And now, why is this all on my mind today?

Two and a half years ago, I started on Twitter in a unique way, centered around creativity and play with a group of people that came together organically and naturally, acting out characters from a television show.  We made ourselves and lots of other people laugh, and created relationships across oceans and time zones that could never have happened otherwise.  There were misunderstandings and dramas, fallings out and comings together, and some friendships forged that I hope will never end.

My world opened up in wonderful ways, and remains open.  I still love Twitter, but I’m myself now, a writer reading other writers, enjoying the postings of artists, a few celebrities, and plenty of quirky individualists.

So today, I say goodbye, mindfully, and acknowledge that it was, indeed, a Golden Time, but it’s over.  It was one of the diamonds that stands out among the stones. 

~~~~~

TED Talk: Half a Million Secrets

Frank Warren, the creator of PostSecret.com got the idea to have people send him something they'd never told anyone on a postcard.  Half a million secrets later, he looks at some of the lessons that can be learned from the things people wanted to share. 


This entertaining and fascinating talk is funny, emotional, and a couple of times, left me wide-mouthed with wonder.


Hope you enjoy...

~~~~~

To Everything, There is a Season...

I woke up this morning with this song in my head:  "Turn, Turn, Turn".  

The Byrds, a 1960s California folk rock band, made the most well-known version of Pete Seeger's adaptation from The Book of Ecclesiastes.  It was taken almost word-for-word from the Bible, except for the last line:  "A time for peace, I swear it's not too late." 

I had the record in what we used to call "single" form, just two songs on either side of a small disc, which is selling today on eBay for $39.99.  When I bought it, it put me back all of 49¢.  

It's worth noting, although not really germane, that the song was released on my birthday, October 1, 1965, the day I turned twelve.

What has struck me this morning is how those lyrics have followed me since I was twelve – especially these, taken somewhat out of order:

To everything there is a season…

A time to be born, a time to die…

A time to build up, a time to break down…

A time to dance, a time to mourn….

A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together.

When I first heard it, the song was about world peace, as it was intended.  In my twenties and thirties it was truly about dancing and gathering experience, people, travels and money, and then casting some away and gathering more.  In my forties, I had a fair bit of mourning, of building up and breaking down. 

Hoping this won’t sound morbid or depressing (as it is most definitely NOT depressing to me), I can see that now, as I near sixty years old, my eye strays to “a time to be born, a time to die…”

I was raised in a generally non-religious way, for which I’m grateful – but I was given a very solid foundation by my grandmother and my mother of what comes after this life.  I won’t spell it out in full here, but to my mind, the best description appeared in Richard Bach’s “Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah.”  

Put simply, Bach says that life is like a movie.  We buy the ticket, go inside the theater, and suspend our disbelief for a while.  We become a part of the action, and get caught up.  We laugh, we cry, and hopefully, we learn something about ourselves and others.  Then the lights come on, we stand up, and we walk back out to our “real” life.

Many people think of this as our real life, and of what comes after as a sort of amorphous, cloudy, sometimes scary, sometimes comforting place.  I think of it as going home, and the peace in that is indescribable.

That’s not to say that I’m expecting to go there anytime soon, although when the times get hard, I think of it with just a smidge of longing.  But I don’t think I’ve ever walked out of a movie, no matter how bad it was.  I’m certainly not starting now, especially as I’ve managed to sit through this much of it, and there’s so much still to look forward to.

But I talked yesterday, as I do every Saturday, with my mother, who will be 91 in August.  She’s very aware that her movie is nearing the end, and if I may stretch the metaphor, she’s gathering up her things, and preparing to stand and leave the theater.  I suppose you could say that the credits are rolling.

She has so much to be proud of -- a life well-lived and well-loved, and happiness given to so many people.  But the vast majority of her contemporaries have packed up and gone home, and she’s buried two husbands and a son.  She’s tired, and wondering what use she is to anyone.  She spends more time remembering than she does looking forward, and the people she longs to talk to are no longer here.

So yesterday, without tears, and hopefully without selfishness, I began to wish her well on her journey.  I quoted, or possibly misquoted, the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, where Rinpoche says: “Die a little every day, and it won’t be such a shock.” (If I’m wrong about that quote, please don’t tell me, because I love it.)  Mom laughed at that, and said, “Honey, I’ve got that one covered…”

To everything, there is a season.  My movie is just a little longer than hers, but I’ll pack up and go home too, and she’ll be waiting there for me.  Probably with a pot roast simmering in the oven. 

Now that’s something to look forward to.

~~~~~

On My Bookshelf: “Benjamin Franklin: An American Life”

A simple Google search will quickly bring up multiple reviews of Walter Isaacson’s biography of Franklin, and certainly in more informative and insightful prose than I could offer.  But this book touched me, and because of that, I think I’d rather speak to how it made me feel as an American. 

And yes, that sounds a bit corny, which is, if the internet is to be believed, a word with its origins in America, like me.

Benjamin Franklin has been given the title “The First American,” but in fact, he was born to an American mother and a father whose roots were in Northamptonshire, England.  This duality would follow Franklin throughout his eighty-four years, as he traveled the Atlantic between the two, asking for peace, supporting one and then the other, and finally falling on the side of the Colonies in their desire for independence.

His ability to see all sides of an argument was often called “waffling,” and was cited as a sign that he had no convictions.  In truth, Franklin knew that if you had a room full of men who were unwilling to compromise -- those men would walk out of that room with little or nothing accomplished.  And Franklin was a man who liked to get things done.

Over 230 years later, it’s no secret that Americans aren’t the most popular people on the planet.  The internet has given me a much more international life than many of the neighbors, friends and co-workers in my town of 45,000 in Northern Idaho.  Among some here, there can be an insular nature to patriotism, in the vein of “Love It, Or Leave It.”

With friends in England, France, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, and Canada – and the many other countries represented on Twitter by people that I don’t know well but read often – I get a good cross-section of the world’s view of Americans.  Some of the harsher critics see us as arrogant, fat and irresponsible at the same time we have the hubris to call ourselves the leaders of the free world.  I can’t fully disagree with them.

Seeing my own country as I do, from two perspectives -- not only from inside it, but also through the eyes of my international friends – I can also hear, and believe, that we’re an adventurous and pioneering sort of people: innovative and bright, exploring the vast, wide open spaces this country has to offer.

My great-grandmother came across the plains of America in a covered wagon, and I’ve been told all my life that the women in our family are of strong, opinionated, hardy “pioneer stock.”  I’ve been proud of that label, and the philosophy behind it has helped me to steer my own sometimes rickety wagon through the upheaval of the 1960s and 1970s in California; the early 1980s in New York City; the financial downturn that started in the late 1990s and continues still; and the monumental social sea-change that allowed us, finally, miraculously, to elect a black President.

Benjamin Franklin was a man who saw serious issues, and dealt with them with humor.  He was highly intelligent, but wanted to speak and write in a manner that allowed everyone to be able to hear him and understand.  He was very much loved as a “man of the people” of the Colonies, at the same time he was celebrated as one of the higher echelon of the New World, and was present at the signing of every critically important document that shaped the United States of America.

So the theme emerges – duality.  And as a textbook Libra, I can relate.

Like Franklin, I love the spirit of the people of this country.   But as he did, I dislike a lot of its politics.  For him, that was typified by people who so refused to move off of their positions that they essentially threatened to freeze the government.  I worry, in 2012, about the same thing.

I’ve loved the culture, literature and rich history of Britain for as long as I can remember, even back to the age of eleven, reading Jane Eyre in the attic, out loud in what I hoped was Julie Andrews’ voice.

So I suppose in addition to helping me feel an affinity with someone who lived so long ago, Isaacson’s book left me asking questions about my own duality: with my love for foreign lands, people and sensibilities; and my pride and connection to America.

Which is something Benjamin Franklin, I suspect, would appreciate.

~~~~~

TED Talks: Simple Ideas That Changed the World

Another wonderful TED talk, only seven and a half minutes long…


We sometimes discount the unanswered questions that wander around in our thoughts, forgetting that every brilliant idea started that way.  


Adam Savage of “Mythbusters” shares three simple ideas that changed the world.

~~~~~

Ripples

I tend to think and speak in metaphors. 

Perhaps it’s a way to connect all the disparate random thoughts that fly through my head – to bring some order to them, categorize them, in the same way that spreadsheets and flow charts can make a seemingly impossible project seem manageable.

Friends and family are kindly indulgent.  They listen to me struggle to express a thought, and then smile as I say, “You know, it’s like that scene in Casablanca…,” “it’s like when you let a balloon go…,” “it’s like watching your child grow up…,” “it’s like…”

Well, this morning I was looking at the statistics on this blog.  Not only the US, but the UK, India, France, Indonesia, Austria, Canada, Russia, Singapore, Hungary, Ukraine, Germany, Ireland, New Zealand, and Australia. 

I turn to Robert, and say, “You know, it’s like donating blood…”  Possibly your eyebrows, like his, are raising in puzzlement.

But the other day, as I was lying in the bus that comes to our office every eight weeks or so, I wondered again about the idea of something that lives inside my body going out into the world and into another human being’s life, without my even knowing about it.

It’s a very personal exchange, but also a very anonymous one.  I have no idea what the path of those red blood cells, those little pieces of me, will take, and how they will affect others. 

“You know, it’s like writing…”

~~~~~

TED Talks: Why Videos Go Viral on YouTube

There are over 48 hours of video uploaded to YouTube every minute. 

Who among us hasn’t gone there to see one video, and ended up spending far longer than we thought we would, just watching people be people?

This TEDTalk is only seven-and-a-half minutes long, but in it, Kevin Allocca, YouTube’s trends manager, gets to the bottom of how we connect to each other in what has become our video community.

~~~~~

Disappointing Others With Our Need to Write

I’ve seldom wanted to, but I know I’ve disappointed others.  I’m disappointing some right this very minute.  Sometimes, it’s unavoidable. 

I need to write. This has been a fact of my life that’s run as an undercurrent since I was very little, and perhaps the strangest part about it is that it doesn’t hinge on whether anyone actually reads what I write. 

Here’s the thing:  It’s the way I make sense of the world.  It tells me clearly how I feel.  It’s like breathing:  Constant, sometimes refreshing, sometimes labored and difficult, but apart from very short breaks, always necessary.

But writing takes time, and quiet rooms, and reading, and reflection.  This makes me unavailable.  My response time to emails lengthens.  At times, I turn off my phone and don’t answer my front door.  I’ve been called occasionally –- and teasingly, I hope -- a “recluse,”  “antisocial,” or even “obsessed.”  (If you don’t mind terribly, I’d prefer “committed,” “dedicated,” or if you absolutely must, “literarily eccentric.”)

Pardon me if I sound just a smidge strident here.  I’m generally a “pleaser,” and often will put my own needs in second place if only to avoid confrontation.  But I’m afraid this is as close to “non-negotiable” as I get.

The etymology of the word disappointment, from the late 15^th century is, quite literally, “to fail to keep an appointment.”  And so often, this is an appointment of the heart, led on by the expectation of another that we’ll be, or say, or do more than we’re able.

That look in my son’s eyes at five or six years old comes back as clearly as if his little self is right here next to me.  “But you said…” he says softly, as his tears start welling up. 

“I know I said I would TRY, but it didn’t turn out that way. I’m sorry.”

That was a moment when I wanted to say, “Oh, okay.  Never mind.  I won’t… go to work / finish that poem / visit a friend who needs me on Saturday / take a much-needed mental health day alone / accommodate your father’s schedule….We’ll go to the movies instead...”

But I would weigh the consequences -- holding a little boy’s disappointment in one hand, and my responsibility in the other.  I could even hear a voice in my head at times, saying “Well, he’ll have to learn about disappointment someday. We can’t always get what we want.” And when the Rolling Stones’ voices followed, wailing, “But we get what we ne-eed!” I would turn away, and so would he, running his hand across his face and wiping the hot tear on his t-shirt.  And my heart would break a little.

I’d venture to say there’s not a person on the planet who hasn’t felt the clench of stomach and droop of shoulders that comes with disappointment. It’s certainly not a stranger to me.  We expect so much of each other, and of ourselves.

When I was younger, much younger, my home life was so out of control I remember thinking that when I could control it, it would be perfect.  I would be responsible only to myself, and disappoint no one.  As I said, I was much younger. 

But the slowly-dawning surprise of this life has been that it doesn’t stop, this necessity to sometimes hurt and disappoint people, even through the best intentions.  I won’t quote Abraham Lincoln here, but you really can’t please everyone.  If you try, you’ll end up pleasing no one, including yourself.

So, the door is closed, my phone is off, and I write.  And there are people who want me to do otherwise.

Our next lesson, class?  How to avoid the guilt that comes with meeting our own needs and as a result, disappointing others. 

There will be a test after.  Multiple choice.  Unfortunately, none of them perfect.

~~~~~

TED Talk: Opening the Door To Connection

Dr. Brene Brown, researcher and storyteller, embarked on a six-year journey of asking people about connection.  Of course, she found herself at the end of it, and began to understand the power of vulnerability.

Watching this video, I learned so much about how being vulnerable opens the door to finding joy.  Yes, when the door is open, the pain has a way in as well, but the rewards far outweigh the risk.

So many of us are looking for love....and trying to do it with that door closed.

♥   To be loved, we must connect

♥   In order for connection to happen, we have to allow ourselves to be seen

♥   To be seen, we must be vulnerable

I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.

You can also find Dr. Brown on Twitter @BreneBrown and on the web at www.ordinarycourage.com

*♥*♥*

The Bitter and the Sweet of Valentine's Day

I’ll start by saying that this might be surprising to those who know me, but here goes.  Valentine’s Day is not always my favorite day of the year. 

The reason friends and family may be raising eyebrows right now is that I’m the resident incurable romantic.  My best-loved books, films and poems tell stories of love unrequited, then discovered, then fulfilled.  I tend to sigh a lot, even through a tenth watching of Toby Stephens as the brooding Mr. Rochester, telling Jane Eyre about the thread connected from his heart to hers.  I sometimes accomplish the impossible and bore even my newly-in-love friends by asking them again to tell me how they feel about it.

However, because I’m also somewhat of a pragmatist, on the other side of all that is this: if I had to find one word to sum up my own life and the lives of nearly everyone I’ve known, it would be “bittersweet.”  The dark and the light, yin and yang, blissful happiness combined with the pull of something not yet grasped. 

You may have love, but not enough (choose one or more):   1) money, 2) freedom, 3) health, 4) proximity, 5) ability to express it, or 6) *enter your own particular hurdle here*

As I said, bittersweet.

So, Valentine’s Day.  If you’re vulnerable to the need to fit in, as I was when I was younger -- it can be, quite literally, the most painful day of the year.   I suppose I still think of it as a holiday that tries just a little too hard.

I have a vivid memory of twenty little baskets lined up against the wall in fifth grade.  We walked along those baskets, each emblazoned with a name, and dropped our Valentines in.  Some were full, some weren’t, and everyone knew why.  I’ll let you guess how much wicker was showing in mine.  I can still remember that feeling.

As I got older, and was “without significant other,” February 14^th would shine a light on that fact like nothing else.  It always seemed as if there was a world premiere of a long-awaited movie happening at my house, lights criss-crossing in the sky, while inside, I acted out the worst kind of stereotype:  watching Roman Holiday, While You Were Sleeping, When Harry Met Sally, You’ve Got Mail, or the aforementioned Jane Eyre in any of its adaptations, in sweatpants and fleece, making myself a special dinner and finishing off with Häagen-Dazs.  Sometimes, a lot of Häagen-Dazs. 

Granted, I’m fairly sure I’ve moved past all that, but it’s hard to know.  For the last fifteen years, I’ve had a dear love to spend the day with, so the hypothesis of my maturity hasn’t been tested.  Robert buys me sweet cards, and then goes above and beyond, writing even sweeter things inside them.  I buy him balloons, and make funny cards on the computer.  We go out to dinner a couple of days before or after the 14^th, to avoid the crowds and the impossible-to-get reservations.

But I still see the looks in the office when one of us (not me, for precisely this reason) gets flowers delivered on the Day of Hearts.  The recipient beams, but there’s always at least one who stands back and wears a look that lies somewhere between pleasure and pain.  A bittersweet look.

Working with people living with AIDS for five years in San Francisco taught me an important lesson:  say what you feel now rather than later.  So Robert and I hardly let a day go by without saying I love you -- on Valentine’s Day, and every other day of the year.

But of course, because I’m a Libra, here’s where I take a deep breath and even out the scale.  Having said all of the above, I’m currently watching a friend and co-worker experience a first Valentine’s Day of a new love as it blossoms, and I find myself sighing again (this is where the incurable part comes in).

It’s their day.  I want to set my curmudgeonly thoughts aside,  and wish them a lovely one together.

Happy Valentine’s Day, you two.

*♥*♥*

On Jealousy, Envy, and the Color of the Other’s Grass

Although it’s getting close to Valentine’s Day, this is not about romantic jealousy -- although I could, of course, write at length about my history with the green-eyed monster.  Another day, perhaps.

This burst of thought was actually brought on by watching my Twitter timeline roll merrily by, and the hundreds of writers I follow.  I read their cheerful postings of brilliant blog entries, novels available on Amazon, kudos from their fellow writers, and the ubiquitous hastag of #amwriting, with a mixture of emotions. 

The first, I’m glad to say, is respect for their work.  Then, there’s a general feeling of pride in the writing process.  But creeping in hard on the heels of those noble reactions are jealousy, envy, and wishing I were living in what I perceive to be their much more disciplined and verdant pastures.  (Random observation: Isn’t it interesting that jealousy is characterized as “green,” which is also the color of the other person’s grass?)

I don’t suffer from writer’s block.  Far from it, actually.  At any given time, my brain is buzzing with at least ten things I’d like to write about, not to mention the unfinished novel that has left all the characters in truly dire straits and in desperate need of rescue.

Lately, I’m afraid it’s as simple as writer’s laziness.  I can hear my childish voice saying:” I want to play…”

What I should do is:

1) Write this blog entry

2) Write another chapter of “Grace’s Heart” and save those poor people

3) Get further on the transcription of my two grandmothers’ journals before the fragile little books  disintegrate

4) If “none of the above,” then at least give a much-needed vacuum to the living room.

What I want to do is:

1) Watch another endlessly “Quite Interesting” and gloriously funny episode of Stephen Fry’s “QI” television series

2) Play a game of “Risk” on pogo.com, and subsequently take over the world

3) Click every link that Twitter has to offer, which always leads me on a lovely, labyrinthine path through quirky news items, New Yorker cartoons, and YouTube videos

4) If “none of the above,” then get my car washed, stop off at the store to buy the Fritos I’ve promised to bring to the Super Bowl Party we’re attending later, and breathe in one of the sparkling, icy mornings I love so much.  

We have a phrase in this family, and I would be told right now that I’m “shoulding all over myself.”  The words “I should write” run through my head more often than I care to admit.  The truth of the matter is that “I love to write” is a sentiment that's always there.

So, I forgive myself the desire to loll aimlessly on a Sunday.  I try to remember that I give fifty hours a week to commuting and working, a few hours more than that to sleeping, and from the rest must be found time for a dear husband and busy family, chats on the phone or in emails with precious friends, a little learning and growing, a lot of laughing, a scratch behind the ear and change of water bowl for the cats, and the various minutiae of daily life.

And yes, also to taking over the world in a game of “Risk,” and breathing in the beauty of an Idaho morning…

…and writing.

~~~~~