"Life is Compost"

Have you ever maintained a compost pile?

 This is mine - a yucky looking mess of coffee grounds, filters, banana peels, apple peels, crushed eggshells, a branch the dogs broke off in their antics, discarded lettuce, carrot peels, and other such stuff that will decompose. The trick is keeping the wet/dry balance correct. If it is too wet, add newspaper, straw, or other dry materials. If it is too dry (which we deal with here in our arid climate), add more greenery or veggie materials. I go heavy on the coffee grounds and kitchen waste because they add a lot of good, wet matter. Any material that will decompose will eventually turn into compost. Could be years. If you want to speed up the process, a correct balance of wet/dry makes a big difference in the time the pile takes to decompose and become use-able compost.

The result, over time, is this:
a rich, dark colored loamy soil to spread around plants as a mulch, or mix into the soil that will offer minerals and a healthy dose of food and encouragement the plants need.

There are different methods of keeping a compost pile. Mine is in a big plastic bin. Others use an open, fenced in enclosure, or make one out of old pallets. Some use several piles, at different stages of completion. As I keep one pile, adding to it every few days, I have to dig into the pile to get to the good stuff, and sometimes I need to screen out the in-process compost from the completed product.

It is really not complicated. You don't need fancy equipment or chemical additives or a compost starter. Compost will happen.

I loved reading this quote, from Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale. Her character, Vida Winter (an author), is speaking. Puts a thoughtful spin on compost.

"Life is compost.
You think that a strange thing to say, but it's true. All my life and all my experience, the events that have befallen me, the people I have known, all my memories, dreams, fantasies, everything I have ever read, all of that has been chucked onto the compost heap, where over time, it has rotted down to a dark, rich, organic mulch. The process of cellular breakdown makes it unrecognizable. Other people call it the imagination. I think of it as a compost heap. Every so often I take an idea, plant it in the compost, and wait. It feeds on that black stuff that used to be a life, takes its energy for its own. It germinates. Takes root. Produces shoots. And so on and so forth, until one fine day I have a story or a novel."

Change the World

We don't think about it. As we slide our feet over the edge of the bed, touch the floor and lean our weight on them to stand up, we don't think about changing the world. Maybe not even thinking at that point. I'm not. By the time we pick up the day's clothes and walk toward the bathroom, thoughts begin to surface. The day begins: all that has to be done, should be done, or we want to do, clamoring for our attention. But, is Change the World on our list? Probably not.

Lee Silber, the author of a book that changed the way I function in my little world, Time Management for the Creative Person, writes a newsletter. Last month, he tossed out an invitation to write and submit a short story. I like to write short-short stories at 500 words. He asked the short stories to be 200 words. A challenge. How to convey the idea that if we get ourselves out of bed and do the work that is that day's gift, we will have an impact? How to convey the idea that even the smallest effort, the smallest steps do create an impact, your imprint on the world? I am grateful he included my story in his newsletter this month.

When you feel like you are just a drop in a bucket, remember, even small drops create ripples that can  change the world.

www.leesilber.com

I can't figure out how to link to the email which is his newsletter. So, here is my story.

CHANGE THE WORLD

“Jimmy, get up now, you are late.”

“So what?”

“So, the team is counting on you to make that perfect play. So, in two weeks when the sport scouts are at the finals, you won’t be chosen.”

Jim sat up, yawned and scratched his head. “What?”

“Because you aren’t in position, the other team will break through the line and your team won’t score.”

“Mom, you are making this up.” He swung his feet over the bed and dug through the mess on the floor for his shirt.

Mom set the clean, folded laundry she carried on his dresser. “Your shirt is here. What you do affects everyone around you, one way or another.”

“Isn’t that a bit far-fetched? You are exaggerating. Just because I run a bit late this morning, the world is not going to change. You could never prove what might have happened.”

“No, but be sure irresponsibility has negative effects.”

Jimmy shrugged, “Like ripples in a pond.” He grabbed his shirt and walked to the bathroom.

“Hey Jim.”

“What now?”

“We just had a serious conversation and it is five minutes before seven. It’s going to be a good day.”

Your Top Ten?

"The more that you read,

the more things you will know.

The more that you learn,

the more places you'll go."

-Dr. Seuss

My Ideal Bookshelf, edited by Thessaly La Force with art by Jane Mount holds over a hundred interviews with creative people from a variety of disciplines around the world. Each of the contributors interviewed  listed the books they would have on one small bookshelf.

The suggested categories:

• My Favorite Book
• the Book that Changed My Life
• the Book I Read Again and Again
• the Book I Love the Most
• the Book that Made Me Who I Am
• the Best Book I Ever Read
• the Book that Makes Me Cry Every Time

A sample page, sort of randomly chosen

The artist designed and drew the spines of each book, creating a variety of displays, books stacked different directions, sometimes with decorative props or bookends, each shelf a colorful, interesting display in itself. 

Some of the lists are predictable: the chefs are cookbook fans, the designers hold biographies of famous designers, the professors stack up the classics in their genre. Favorite children's books are lined up with difficult philosophical works. Fiction and non-fiction, practical and fantastical, science fiction, textbooks, political and spiritual - the variety was amazing. Many of the books were not familiar to me.

I did not make a list of to-reads. Mostly, I was fascinated with their lists, looking for a glimpse into the character, the loves, the interests, the education of each person. Each facing page includes an interview. I didn't have the chance to read them all. Some couldn't define why a certain book was on their list, why they loved that book so much. Some just liked the design of the cover. Others had life-changing, life-determining events inspired by the books. 

The last page is for the reader to fill in. With pencil, because your list today may be different from next month or next year.

Okay. This is the hard part. A challenge.

Make your own list. Your ten books to put on your one small shelf.

"Your favorite favorites. A snapshot of you in a moment of time."

Here is my attempt. If you know me at all, limiting the list to just ten is tough.

• the Bible
• My Daily Meditation, John Henry Jowett
• Lord, Teach Me to Pray, Kay Arthur
• L'Abri, Edith Schaeffer
• Winter Solstice, Rosamunde Pilcher
• The View from Saturday, E.L. Konigsburg
• Walking on Water, Madeleine L'Engle
• One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp
• Square Foot Gardening, Mel Bartholomew
• Passionate Gardening, Lauren Springer and Rob Proctor

Okay. I did it, edited it to ten. Phew. Would be easier if I could do it by categories. Ten of each category. And this list is not written in concrete, but in pencil. These books stand the test of time, have been read many times, have made a difference in my life. Yes, there are more, but for today, this is my top ten.

What does your list look like?

What's Your Story?

One way I am traveling lighter in January: few words, a photo each day.

A Messy Thanksgiving, Part Three

Part Three, A Three Part Short Story

Wednesday

By noon, she felt ready. Almost. A few more tasks on her list, but everything was under control. She had cleaned the bathrooms, made up the guest beds, and swept off the porch, trimming some of the chrysanthemums that still bloomed. The day was cold and cloudy. At least I don’t have to sweep and wash the floors, she thought. She wiped down the front of the refrigerator and the stove and ran a dust cloth over the glass table top next to the couch. She looked forward to seeing the six grandkiddos all together. They hadn’t seen Greg’s twins since June. David, Becky and their two boys lived ten minutes away and they visited often. Jack and Kendra, with their two, Jessica and Ken, lived an hour away, not too far. Greg would be arriving tonight, the others in the morning. A houseful of noisy fun. She liked that.

Three o’clock. One last check of the lists. All crossed off. One trip out. She would stop at the florist to pick up the white osteospermum spoon daisies she ordered. And run into the grocery store to pick up the large white napkins she forgot to buy on Monday. With twine, she would tie them into a roll. Easy and simple.

Later, as she stepped in the door, out of the pouring rain, arms full of flowers and a grocery bag, the phone rang. She set the things down on the table. Dropped her wet coat on a chair.

“Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Hi Greg. I thought you would be on the road by now.”

“Mom. I am sorry. We are not coming.”

Silence. “You are kidding, right?”

“No, Mom, we are not coming.”

Silence. “Do I get an explanation?”

Greg answered in short, nervous, quick bursts. “Janet decided she wanted to have her own Thanksgiving. You know, in her own home, now that we have moved to this house, she changed her mind, said she wouldn’t come, wanted to stay home, keep the kids here, with her, on her time off from work, for the holiday.”

“Well, that is reasonable, except last minute. What can I say? Is this about not getting along with Kendra?”

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe, you know how they are together. She just said she wanted her own Thanksgiving. Mom, try to understand. I know you will understand. Please don’t be upset at me, or her.”

“I will really miss seeing the twins. I’m sure they have grown since we saw them last.” Sandy sighed. She tried to smile, at least with her words, but it was hard. Seemed these conflicts, lately, made family gatherings like walking on egg shells, afraid to offend, afraid to say the wrong thing, afraid, just afraid. She had wanted this to be different. And she thought it would be. Filled with laughter and fun, relaxed. Oh well, what could she do? Holidays could be messy. “Greg,” she said, “Say hello to the twins from me, and Janet, too, and have a wonderful holiday.” She didn’t mean it to sound sarcastic, but it came out that way, a little bit.

“You, too, Mom. Say hi to Dad for me.”

Sandy hung up the phone. She sat in the chair at the head of the table, looked down the length at the plates, already set, the golden gourds, the pile of flowers she had dumped at the other end. Four empty places. Should she rearrange? Wallow in disappointment? No, she thought, I’ll get the flowers in vases and water. No point in letting this ruin it for her, or for anyone else. 

Outside, the rain pelted the windows and the wind whipped the tree limbs. Darkness fell early, the storm clouds wrapping a dark, thick blanket over the sky. Again, the phone rang. Sandy looked at it, not wanting to answer. She heard her own voice, the cheerful message on the machine. Then, Jim’s voice.

“Sandy. Guess you are out shopping or something last minute. Our flight has been delayed…”

She grabbed the phone, interrupting his message. “Jim, I am here, sorry.”

“Oh, good, glad you are home. This storm is interfering with flights. I hope Greg will be fine on the road.”

“They are not coming. I’ll tell you later. When do you think you will get in?”

“They said about a two hour delay. I will call you when we board.”

“Okay. I want to take you out to dinner, to the pizza restaurant. I will meet you there, after you land.”

“Sounds good. I’ll call you, soon, I hope.”

“Be careful.”

Someone knocked on the front door. Oh, now who could that be, thought Sandy. She opened the door and saw her neighbor, a older woman she rarely talked to. “Evelyn, come in.” She helped her take off her wet coat.

“I am so sorry to bother you. I know you are very busy.” Evelyn looked at the table. “That is, ah, interesting. Straw bales and peanuts?  Rustic. But the table is pretty. I am so sorry to bother you,” she said again.

“That’s okay. My husband just called to say he would be late. Come sit down.”

“Well, we just had a big tree branch fall on the back of our house. Broke through the patio cover, broke two windows on the back side.”

“Oh, I am sorry. Where is Fred, is he okay?”

“Yes, we were in the living room. I wondered if you have some tarp or something we can put up over the windows. Not too much rain is coming in, but the wind is bad. And the cold.”

“I think so, I will go look in the garage.” She stood up. “Evelyn. I just had a great idea. Our son and his family called to say they are not coming. We have extra beds, all made up, and room at the table, ready. Will you and Fred stay here tonight, and join us for Thanksgiving tomorrow?”

“We couldn’t impose on you like that, don’t be silly.”

“It is not silly at all. Like I said, I have the beds all made, the places for you at the table. It will be much warmer here until you can get the windows fixed. Jim can help you, but with the holiday weekend, it may be a few days before they get fixed. Please, stay with us. That is, if you don’t mind a casual meal. And our kids and grandchildren. I thought the straw bales and peanuts would be fun, for a change. Comfortable.”

“I noticed. Wondered why you were doing that. Most people get all fancy.”

“I will get the tarp, then we’ll go over and ask Fred to come. Please, I want you to. I know Jim won’t mind. He will help you fix the tarp when he gets home. Oh,” said Sandy.

“What is it?” asked Evelyn.

“Well, we were going to go out to dinner. I was going to meet him after his plane landed.”

“I have a chili in the crock pot at home. Fred and I could still eat that, and come here after you and Jim get home. We would appreciate it, being able to stay here. It will be cold at our house with that wind and the damp. You are very kind.”

“Actually, it helps me not feel so disappointed that our son isn’t coming. I am glad you can stay with us. Very glad. You can see we have plenty of room for you.” Sandy pointed at the table.

“We will be honored. I wasn’t going to fix anything this year. Too much work for just us. Our kids are all busy, or too far away. We will enjoy being with you, being with your family. Much better than sitting by ourselves. Thank you.”

The scattered straw and peanut shells are evidence of my messy life, but even the messes are worth celebrating, and sharing, Sandy thought. I will accept this. An opportunity to help a neighbor, maybe gain a friend. I can enjoy what we have, use what we have, and share Thanksgiving, thankfully, with family and friends.

A Messy Thanksgiving, Part Two

Part Two, A Three Part Short Story

Tuesday

When Sandy walked down the hall into the living room Tuesday morning, she wondered what her husband, Jim would think of their house. He was away on a business trip until Wednesday afternoon. By the time he got home, she would have it all set up and messy beautiful. Her email invitations had said, “Boots and jeans.” But would they imagine just how casual she meant it to be?  The floor needed more peanut shells, just like at their favorite pizza restaurant. In fact, she thought, that is where they should go for dinner Wednesday night. She would take him out to dinner. Get a few more ideas. Her son and his wife and the grandkiddos wouldn’t get in until late. She and Jim would have plenty of time to relax over dinner, talk about his trip, and enjoy some time together before the long weekend.

After her coffee and oatmeal, she spread the three lists out on the island, leaned on her elbows, her shirt sleeves rolled up, chin cupped in her hands. One list for what would bake in the oven. One for food that would be prepared and stored in the refrigerator.  One for menus, with added ideas for meals the rest of the weekend using leftovers. The tasks were already in order, prioritized by length of prep time and use of the oven. Normally she wasn’t quite so OCD, but she wanted this Thanksgiving to be easy breezy.  Certain people conflicts in the family had lightened up over the past year and she wanted, desperately, to be sure they stayed that way. But, not to worry. For now, start the pie crusts and mix the pumpkin bread. Turn on the oven.

Between tasks, waiting for the timer to ding, Sandy worked on the table. At each place setting she set out white plates. For place cards, she marked peanuts with a dark brown Sharpie, the letters of each person’s name. If the letters didn’t come out quite right, she smashed the shells and threw them on the floor. It wasn’t easy. She tried to make them fancy, ornate with swirly lines and flourishes. The bumpy shells were not a good writing surface, but she wanted to keep the theme. She decided that messy looked just as good, and it was better to fit each name on one peanut if she could. She experimented. Greg. Kendra. David. The longest name was Jessica. That took two peanuts. As she practiced and improved, the crunched, empty peanut shells deepened on the floor.

All day, the dishes rotated from island to sink full of soapy water and back again. Pie crusts baked. Pumpkin and cranberry breads ready to go in next. Sweet potatoes cooked, mixed, plopped into the baking pan, refrigerated until Thursday. Broccoli steamed, cheese sauce mixed, refrigerated in its glass baking pan. Water boiled, jello mixed with fruit, half of it chilled, then the other layer added and chilled. One by one, the items were checked off her list. She wiped up flour and spills and splatters, then made more messes as she worked.

For a late lunch, she made a sandwich and sat in the big chair tucked into the corner to admire her decorations, absorb the yummy smells. Bake the pies, almost done. She relaxed, imagined the room full of happy, comfortable people. To her, this work, this weekend was about reaching across the distance that was measured in more than miles.

As she was sliding the last pie shell full of liquid pumpkin on to the rack, her hand slipped, the pie tilted and splashed on the hot oven floor. It sizzled and smoked. Quickly, she set the pie on the counter and reached over to shut off the oven. That would have to cool before she could clean it out, then reheat it. She didn’t want the smell of burned pie overpowering the other wonderful aromas and interfere with baking the turkey Thanksgiving morning. She left the oven door open to cool faster. Well, it won’t take that long, she thought. She checked over her lists again. Almost done.  Not too bad, only one major mess to repair, then finish cleaning up the kitchen.

The cat came down the hall and stepped into the living room. She stopped and sat, looking around at the changes, unsure. She decided it was safe, took a few steps into the room. A peanut shell crunched under her foot. With the foot held in mid-air, she froze, like a dog at point, then turned and ran back to the bedroom. Sandy laughed at her. We won’t have to worry about her coming out here, she thought.

A Messy Thanksgiving

A Three Part Short Story

Monday

Sandy finished the Thanksgiving grocery shopping in the pet department, piling two ten pound bags of peanuts on the already overloaded grocery cart. She smiled. No one would be able to guess what I am going to do with these, she thought.

At home, she organized the food, checked off her lists. This Thanksgiving dinner for eighteen would appear effortless. But, of course, it wasn’t. The work happened now, before. She had separate lists, all organized and thought out, what preparations needed to be made in what order. Some of the family would be arriving late Wednesday night and she wanted to be ready, then.

With the wood floors swept, the furniture moved back against the walls, she turned her dining room table at an angle, assembled the two folding tables and pushed them end to end at an angle across her dining room and living room.

At three o’clock the stake bed truck pulled up out front. She met the two delivery guys at the door.

“Where do you want these bales, ma’am?”

“In here, by these tables.”

“Inside the house, ma’am?” His eyebrows disappeared under the hair hanging over his forehead.

“Yes, they will be the seats for our Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Inside. Really? You know these straw bales are dusty, dirty, messy, right?”

Sandy laughed. “Of course. Yes, bring them in here, please, four on this side, four on the other side. Thank you.”

“Okay, whatever you say. It’s your house.” The tough delivery guys looked at each other and shrugged.

As the bales were moved, wisps of straw floated around.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“No problem, that’s exactly what I want. Messy.”

“My wife would have a fit.”

Sandy laughed again. She wanted an unusual, a casual atmosphere. Unique. A memory. And they didn’t know about the peanut shells, broken open, scattered around. She felt like a giddy girl planning a surprise party for a special friend. A party where everyone has a good time and laughter echoes off the walls accompanied by the music of happy talk. Okay, she thought, maybe I am dreaming and being unrealistic. We haven’t had a peaceful family get together in quite awhile. Someone takes offense, someone irritates someone else, criticism flares. But, it is worth a try. I will do my part, and hope.

 Everything would be white or canvas or gold. Enough color, just in the food. And the people. The gold colored straw looked pretty scattered across the wood floor. She pulled more pieces off the bales and scattered them around. Then, she covered the bales with canvas drop cloths, their edges tucked in underneath. They would be heavy enough to prevent straw poking seated bottoms. Another couple of longer drop cloths covered the tables, hanging down the sides. Gourds she had spray painted gold were placed randomly on the table.

Oh, napkins. She forgot to buy white cloth napkins. Well, on Wednesday, when she picked up the flowers, she could go to the store and get the nicer, heavy, white paper ones. They would do. She added them to the list.

Day Thirty-One

Thirty-One, A Novel

Day One
Day Two  
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day Twenty-One
Day Twenty-Two
Day Twenty-Three
Day Twenty-Four
Day Twenty-Five
Day Twenty-Six
Day Twenty-Seven
Day Twenty-Eight
Day Twenty-Nine
Day Thirty
Each short chapter is posted in daily order on wordsbymo.blogspot.com

Day Thirty-One, Wednesday

Morgan stood at the front window, her afternoon coffee cup wrapped snugly in her hands. October thirty-first.  The house across the street was quiet, empty, closed. It would have been a bustle of activity tonight. But they were gone, the house, deserted. Joey nuzzled at her feet.

Thirty-one days ago she stood here, wondered what it would take to make life different, full, rather than quiet and empty. Nothing earth-shattering had happened. No cataclysmic events. But she was different. 

Her pretty journal sat on the coffee table. She sat down on the couch, picked it up with the pen next to it. Joey leaned against her knee, looked up at her. “Hey girl,” she said as she scratched her forehead. She wrote.

I am different.

Thirty-one days ago I wondered how I would survive this month. The discouragement, the alone, the quiet was overwhelming.

I have survived. I have changed. I have stepped out, and I am alive.

Never, would I have suspected that my new friends would be in their nineties, in an old folk’s home, and that I don’t even think of it as an old folk’s home. I think of it as their home, because they are there.

Never would I have suspected that a neighbor family would draw me in so closely. And leave me such a gift, this puppy at my feet.

Surprising, how my home, my life, has filled with life. Fresh foods, flowers, and now a puppy.

Amazing to me, my days are full and happy (Well, not today. Missing Nancy and her busy household terribly).

I have a future.

I am not alone.

What I thought was the end, a period, an exclamation point of finality, was a pause, a deep breath, a page turned, a big step into a new chapter of my on-going story. 

You know how you strike a match, and there is a pause, a waiting, a moment before it flickers and sparks? You wonder if it took, or if you need to strike it again. Then, it flames up and catches you by surprise. I feel the flicker, the spark. Surprised by the warmth of the flame.

Morgan set down the pen. She was busy, she thought, but not for the sake of being busy. Busy because life was full and exciting. Her life had more than a spark. It had light.

“Joey,” she said, “Let’s go for a walk.”

Day Thirty

Thirty-One, A Novel

Day One
Day Two  
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day Twenty-One
Day Twenty-Two
Day Twenty-Three
Day Twenty-Four
Day Twenty-Five
Day Twenty-Six
Day Twenty-Seven
Day Twenty-Eight
Day Twenty-Nine


Day Thirty, Tuesday

The key twisted in the lock with a click. Joey, at her feet, pranced and panted, excited to be going home. As Morgan opened the door, Joey bolted inside and skidded on the empty floor. She spun to turn down the hall, heading for Jimmy’s room. No one there. She snuffled along the floor, smelling, searching. Each bedroom, empty. Confused, she ran the loop through the kitchen and dining room. Barely making the corner, she bounced off the door frame.

Morgan called her over and squatted down to talk to her. “They are gone, girl. I know it is strange, but it is just you and me now.” She ruffled her ears, digging her fingers deep into the fur behind them. Joey leaned into the scratch. “We’ll be okay, you and me, once we get used to this. Today, I have to clean this place. The owner is coming at three to inspect and pick up the key. Let’s go out back for a little bit, then I’ll get started.” She walked through the kitchen, opened the back door. Joey ran out, made a circuit around the yard, checking, smelling, still searching. No one, nothing. She walked over to the patio and sat, staring out toward the yard, waiting.

The cleaning supplies were in the pantry cupboard. Morgan picked them up, left the back door open so Joey could come in when she wanted, and went to work. Through the morning, Joey would come to check on her. She would always stop, talk to her, pet her, reassure her, ache with her. But they would be okay. She kept telling Joey that, more to reassure herself. She needed someone to tell her that, too.

The work went quickly. Cleaning an empty house is a breeze, she thought. “C’mon Joey, let’s go get some lunch. I have some treats for you, and I imagine you are thirsty.” They stood on the front porch a moment. Morgan looked across the street to her own house. My home, she thought. “That is your home now, too,” she said to Joey.  The puppy looked up at her and wagged her tail. “So, let’s go settle in together, what do you say?” She locked the door behind her, trying not to look back, but to look forward. Ahead.

The afternoon was quiet. Even the town seemed more still than usual today. It all felt so empty. They sat out on the patio, Joey sprawled on her side in a patch of sunlight, Morgan with her feet up on another chair, reading Winter Solstice. She hoped for a happy ending. She could use a happy ending today.

Day Twenty-Nine

Thirty-One, A Novel
Two quick reminders, these daily chapters are posted consecutively at wordsbymo.blogspot.com.
And, the other 31 Day bloggers are finishing up their posts at The Nester.

Day One
Day Two  
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day Twenty-One
Day Twenty-Two
Day Twenty-Three
Day Twenty-Four
Day Twenty-Five
Day Twenty-Six
Day Twenty-Seven
Day Twenty-Eight


Day Twenty-Nine, Monday

Nancy and the kids were leaving today. Joey, coming to stay. She wished, for the kids, that they could have kept Joey. But, for herself, she was glad the puppy was staying. It would give her a little bit of them to keep close.

The deep window-rattling rumble of the truck let her know it had arrived. The movers would load the truck, drive a few miles and unload it into a storage unit, stored until they knew where they would be next. Yesterday, a container had arrived for the stuff that was being shipped to Germany.  Their suitcases were stacked in a pile in the dining room. Morgan would take them to the airport at eight o’clock tonight, for an overnight flight. And tomorrow, they would be in Germany. Their house would be empty.

Nancy asked Morgan to help with the kitchen. The cupboards still needed to be emptied. The dishes were packed, but not all the food stuff. Because they couldn’t take any food with them, Morgan boxed it up to take to a church that had a soup kitchen. Tomorrow, not today. Today was busy enough. Loose ends. No matter how organized and efficient and planned, there were always loose ends.

The kids were excited to go see their dad, to go to Europe, to fly in a plane, to wonder and talk and imagine what it would be like. But they were sad, too, and the tensions stretched all of their limits. At lunchtime, they all trooped over to Morgan’s. All of Joey’s bedding and leash and collar and bowls and food went, too. Joey was excited, a part of all the activity. They were all back and forth across the street often, carrying the food stuff over, keeping Jimmy busy and out of the way.

By four, the moving van was ready to pull out. Nancy gave them directions to the storage unit. Sarah, Johnny, Jimmy, Nancy, Morgan and Joey stood on the sidewalk and watched it drive away, lumbering slowly down the street, shifting gears as it swung around the corner. It disappeared. They could still hear it, but it was out of sight. Gone. All their stuff, for an unknown time.

“Well, it will be better than Christmas when you get to unpack all that, somewhere,” said Morgan, attempting to sound cheerful.

"No, I am going to have Christmas in Germany," said Jimmy.

Nancy sighed. They were all exhausted. “I want to make one more pass through the house, checking cupboards and closets. Then, Morgan, may we put our suitcases in your car and come to your house? I would like to lock our door for good, and try not to think about it again.”

“Of course. I’ll go start dinner, come over whenever you are ready.”

Day Twenty-Eight

Thirty-One, A Novel

Day One
Day Two  
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day Twenty-One
Day Twenty-Two
Day Twenty-Three
Day Twenty-Four
Day Twenty-Five
Day Twenty-Six
Day Twenty-Seven


Day Twenty-Eight, Sunday

Sunday. Spend the afternoon at Sunnyside. Still can’t believe how much I enjoy those gals, Gertrude and Marie. I almost missed them, by not going. Wonder how much else in life I miss by not even trying, figuring it would be too hard or too uncomfortable or too much work. Or I am afraid.

These thoughts floated in her mind as she washed up the dishes and clipped a scraggly sunflower. She fluffed up the arrangement, admiring it. Sunflowers. She never got tired of them. Her favorite flower. Other gals could have their bouquet of roses. She would take sunflowers any day.

At Sunnyside, Morgan told Marie about the hike yesterday, about Jimmy insisting it was the ocean. Marie laughed, listening, but she seemed distracted. “What’s wrong?” Morgan asked her.

“I am tired, discouraged. Here, day after day, I sit in the chair, I lie in the bed, I walk twenty-one steps to the dining room and sit at the table. Morgan, you have no idea how much I enjoy you coming. Without you, here, to tell me about life out there, I would feel lost. Useless.”

“Useless,” repeated Morgan. “That is how I have felt, as if all I used to do, what was my world, who I used to be, is gone, lost. What do I do now? I take care of my house, my plants, but shouldn’t there be more than that?”

Marie said, “When you have a house full of little ones, your days are full. You are busy. When they get older, your days get emptier and you have to find a new measure of value. The connections you make, not just being busy, that is what is important. Now, I have a different challenge to find worth. Seems to be part of growing oIder. I guess we both, in our own ways, find it hard to feel useful.”

Morgan shared her idea from yesterday, of the two-sided coin, the vastness and the smallness. How the perspective made such a difference.  “ Marie, you have a large heart. You do connect with those around you. And that is what matters. You still have so much to share, so much love to give. You have given me more than you can know. My little, narrow world has become much bigger, and that is because of you, and Gertrude, too. Don’t be discouraged. Your life is valuable, to me, and others. You are still useful.”

“And Morgan, I can say the same for you. You are valuable, too, to me.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Morgan saw a gal walk by in the hall with a big Golden Retriever. She told Marie, “There is a dog out in the hall.”

“Oh yes, she brings her dog in to visit us. The dog is Brandy. She lets us pet her, talk to her. I can’t see her wag her tail, but I can feel it in her body, her sides wagging back and forth.”

“Really? I wouldn’t think the health department would allow dogs in a place like this.”

“They are certified, or something, part of an organization that goes to visit at homes, hospitals, schools, even jails, I think.”

“Interesting. Maybe I’ll get a chance to meet her.”

“Meet who?” said the gal as she walked in with Brandy.

“Meet Brandy. Marie was just telling me about her.”

Brandy did wag her whole body. The red vest she wore said, “Pets As Partners.” She greeted Morgan, then walked over to Marie. She put her chin on Marie’s knee, looking up at her with big brown eyes. Marie stroked her head, talking softly to her.

“Marie said you go to other places, too, to visit. Brandy must like to get out and go places.”

“Yes. She has been trained, knows how to behave, what to expect, what to do. She is a good girl.” Brandy wagged her tail. “Dogs make an easy connection with people. They seem to have an innate understanding of just how much attention each person needs.”

“Connection. Marie and I were just talking about that. What kind of training did she have?” asked Morgan.

“Basic obedience, polite behavior, good manners, simple stuff. Health certifications. Some of the dogs become much more advanced to be service dogs, do specific tasks. I just wanted to go visiting with Brandy, so we just did the basic stuff. We go to reminder classes once in awhile with other dogs in the group.”

Morgan said, “I am getting a puppy tomorrow, a lab. What would it take to train her, like Brandy?”

“Bring her to our next meeting. They are starting a new series of training classes on Monday evenings, they start the fifth of November. The first one is just information, getting to know what is expected, meeting some of the others. Here. I have a card, you can call that number to reserve a spot. How old is the puppy?”

“Five months, I think.”

“That is perfect. And labs are good dogs. They love to socialize. Happy dogs. Then you could bring her along when you visit.”

“That sounds really good. I wouldn’t have to leave her at home. It would give us both something to do, something more to think about. I like that idea. I had no idea this was possible, it is amazing.”

“Call the office tomorrow. They will set you up. Maybe I’ll see you there. I am Sandy, by the way.”

Day Twenty-Seven

Thirty-One, A Novel

Day One
Day Two  
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day Twenty-One
Day Twenty-Two
Day Twenty-Three
Day Twenty-Four
Day Twenty-Five
Day Twenty-Six


Day Twenty-Seven, Saturday

Morgan was sore when she woke up. A long day yesterday. She and Shandra had worked all day. Sammy followed her to each room, getting underfoot, asking for a pat, wagging his tail whenever she talked to him. Guess dogs do like me, if I like them, she thought.

After the party rental truck arrived, she worked in the kitchen, arranging trays of cut vegetables, mixing dips, and making a new list for Shandra so in the morning, she could go straight down the list, setting up the food items. She made notes as to where she put things like the bags of chips, and she put the big bowls she found next to each item to make it extra easy. Shandra invited her to come help, but Morgan declined, saying she already had plans for the day. It made her think though, to add party organization to her possible business plan list. The extra money Shandra paid her would enable her to take Nancy and the kids out to a special restaurant for dinner after their hike.

At nine, Nancy and the kids loaded in to Nancy’s car, since Morgan’s car wasn’t big enough for all of them and Joey.  They drove across town, turned up highway twenty-four, a few turns, and left to Gold Road. A few miles down, a parking lot held about twenty cars, parked in a row. One family was distributing water bottles, putting the baby in the backpack carrier, and leashing their dog.

“Look, their dog has a red leash and collar just like Joey,” said Jimmy.

“So?” said Johnny. “Do you know how many dogs have red collars? Thousands.”

“Hey guys. Today is for fun. No teasing, no arguing. Okay?” said Nancy.

They all grunted. For a moment, Morgan doubted the wisdom of this hike. But once they were out of the car, packing up their water bottles and getting Joey ready, they were eager to go. It was an uphill climb, over rocky terrain, loose gravel and steep dirt paths. It didn’t take long to begin to see out across the open plains. As the long range views came into sight, they identified familiar landmarks, tried to figure where their house was located. Some of the trees still held their fall colors, though most of them were bare. The scent of winter was in the air, with the warmth of fall still hanging on.

At one turn, Jimmy stood, quiet and still. “Is that the ocean?” he asked.

“No, the ocean is two thousand miles away. Across a whole lot of states from here.”

“It looks like the ocean. I think it is the ocean. I can see the ocean from here! Wow!”

“Jimmy, it is not the ocean. It is Colorado and Kansas, and many states beyond that before you get to the Atlantic Ocean,” Nancy told him.

“I still think it is the ocean. I see it. It is blue and it goes on forever. Hey, I can see Germany!”

“Well, let’s keep hiking. The top is farther, still,” said Morgan to distract him. The kids complained about the climb. It was too steep, too hot, too dusty. Joey wasn’t complaining. Her tongue was hanging out of her mouth, a sign she was very, very happy. Several groups of mountain bikers rode past. The kids were impressed with that, saying it must be much harder than hiking the trail.

“I can’t believe they actually ride their bikes across these rocks,” said Johnny.

A track team ran by them. The gals had their shirt sleeves pulled up around their shoulders, most of the guys had their shirts off, tucked in their shorts, swinging behind them like tails. Sarah watched them go past. “It is hard to complain about walking this trail when others run by you, and they make it look easy. Even fun. Wonder how often they come up here and run this? Looks like they do it every day.”

At the top, they ate snacks, sipped their waters. They sat a long time on the rocks overlooking the valley below, the plains beyond. It was an amazing view. Morgan decided she would come back up here, with Joey, more often. The perspective, the distance, made it hard to view life as narrow or small. Or, the opposite, it made your life look small, compared to the vastness. She couldn’t decide which was accurate, settled on both of them, like two sides of a coin.

Day Twenty-Six

Thirty-One, A Novel

Day One
Day Two  
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day Twenty-One
Day Twenty-Two
Day Twenty-Three
Day Twenty-Four
Day Twenty-Five


Day Twenty-Six, Friday

Wow – three days in a row of journaling. Maybe this is a new habit. Hope so, the more I write in this pretty little book, the more I enjoy the process. Instead of talking to my plants or my quiet house, I can dialogue here, a pleasant conversation with a close friend, who surprisingly, is myself. If someone told me that, I would think they were strange. Reality, though, it is good. Healthy. 

Not much time to write this morning. I told the two new cleaning gals I couldn’t clean until November, but one of them begged and pleaded and offered to pay me a huge bonus if I came today. She’s having a party this weekend, desperately needs my help, not just cleaning, but preparing stuff for her big gathering. So, I’ll be working all day at her house. Will be exhausting, but kind of fun, organizing and making her place party-ready. Wonder what her house is like? Will find out in thirty minutes.

Morgan pulled up to the address. The streets in the development circled and looped around, with only one way in. It took her two tries to find the house. She was impressed. It looked immaculate. The yard, perfect.  If the inside looks as nice, this will be an easy job, she thought.

Her knock on the door was answered by raucous barking. Uh-oh. Hope this dog is as friendly as Joey. Sounds quite a bit bigger, thought Morgan.

From inside, a woman’s voice shouted, “Sammy, hush! Get back from the door, you brute.” The door opened. The woman held a huge German Shepherd by the collar. “Morgan? Hi. Come in, just step in here, let him sniff your hand, he won’t bite, that’s right, see, Sammy, she is okay, you don’t need to eat her.” The dog’s tail wagged, thumping against the wall. She let go of the collar, extended her hand. “I am Shandra, sorry about the welcome. So, so glad you could come today, Morgan, I love your name. I am going crazy. Could not have done this by myself.  I have a list pages long, and can’t seem to know where to start. Madness. What was I thinking when I agreed to do this at my house?” She rattled on, barely breathing between sentences. Maybe they weren’t even sentences, just ramblings.

Morgan took off her sweater, hung it on the row of hooks behind the door. “Well, how about you show me your list, we’ll decide where to start, and see what you want me to do.”

“That would be wonderful. Would you like a cup of coffee, I just brewed a new pot. I am on my third pot just by myself, felt like I needed the extra energy today.”

That would explain the rambling sentences, thought Morgan. She smiled. “Maybe you could give me a brief tour, first, and then we’ll look at the list?”

“Good idea.” Shandra gave her a quick pass through the house and a large, covered patio off the back of the house, bordered with potted plants, two sets of patio tables and chairs, and an outdoor couch. “We will have drinks and some snacks set up out here, it is supposed to be a warm day, not too cold, but we may have to change plans if it gets too chilly or too windy. It is late in the year, but this is so pretty out here, and we have lights hung all around the edge of the roof, and there are still flowers blooming, and it is comfortable here.”

“Okay, let’s look at your list,” said Morgan. She could see this was going to take some organizing, but it would be fun, and she could use that cup of coffee.

For these daily chapters posted in consecutive order, go to wordsbymo.blogspot.com.

Day Twenty-Five

Thirty-One, A Novel

Day One
Day Two  
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day Twenty-One
Day Twenty-Two
Day Twenty-Three
Day Twenty-Four


Day Twenty-Five, Thursday

Morgan wrote in her journal.  Late evening. So many thoughts ranging around in my head. Will try to get some down on paper.

At Sunnyside today, Marie talked and talked. I held her hand, she held mine. The connection, perhaps because she is blind, seems extra important to her. I think, though, really, they all need it. A hand that isn’t doing something to them. A hand, just to hold, just to be there, to touch and talk about whatever. So much is on their minds. To look at them, on the surface, you’d think they are bored and boring. But they are not. They are deep wells.

Marie talked about why she had to come live there, at the Home. Funny word for the place, Home. An effort, I guess, at making it what it isn’t. Yet it is, to them.

 A neighbor came over one day, to bring her some fruit from her tree. When she put it in the frig, she was shocked to see the refriegerator empty.  She asked her what she ate. Marie told her she cooked rice, or opened a can of beans. The gal looked in her cupboards. They were almost empty, too, with nothing on the higher shelves. “I can’t reach those,” Marie had told her. Soon, she had to ask for help, often. Her children were too distant. The neighbor lady had been very helpful and willing, but one day she sat her down and told her it was too dangerous for Marie to live alone. She took her to Sunnyside, where she knew Clarisse. They talked and planned. Marie rented out her house, she couldn’t bear to sell it, and it gave her a little income to help each month. Two weeks later, here she was.  A strange turn of life.

Marie didn’t seem sad about it, she seemed grateful. It left me feeling sad, though, wondering about life. It also gave me an idea. Another business idea. For older people, ones who are mostly capable, but who have a hard time keeping up a house, cooking, gardening, the things that are hard on older bodies. I could run a service for them. Grocery shopping, errands that they need to run, cleaning, weeding, cooking. I couldn’t charge much, volunteer would be ideal, but maybe I should charge a little. I don’t know, will have to think about this. I am sure there are a lot of older people who need tasks done, and don’t have family or those who help them regularly. Even checking in with them each day to see how they are doing. How would I connect with them? Word of mouth is always best, I don’t want to advertise, just build up as I go.

Looking forward to Saturday. Taking Nancy and the kids and Joey on a hike in the mountains. They need a break from their packing and I (selfishly) want one more day to spend with them, a good memory. Funny, I didn’t even know their names just a few weeks ago. Now they are special friends, I love them all. Will miss them.

And, a few more for my thankful list: 
my health, 
strength, 
working in the garden, 
a bouquet of sunflowers, 
a warm mug of coffee, 
feeling loved – again.

Day Twenty-Four

Thirty-One, A Novel

A huge thank you to The Nester, for opening her heart and blog to all the 31 Dayers - it's like a noisy, bustling room humming with people talking and laughing. In a busy room like that, my tendency would be to go in a corner and hide, just watch. What would you do? It is a good chance to talk with a few, make some new connections.


Day One
Day Two  
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day Twenty-One
Day Twenty-Two
Day Twenty-Three


Day Twenty-Four, Wednesday

Picking up a pen and this journal seem a little easier now. Why was it so hard to get started?

Yesterday, Nancy left me a note with some references to friends of hers who wanted their houses cleaned. It is fairly easy work, I can set my own hours, still work by myself. I thought about it last night, late, lying in bed. My aunt’s money, the account that earns me interest and bought me this house, is solid, gives me some security. But an income would be a good idea, independence. Gives me strength, too, that type of work.

So I called the two gals this morning. They were both thrilled, enthusiastic, Nancy had given them an over-rated report of my work. But, maybe  it isn’t over-rated. Maybe I am under-rating myself. Maybe I do need to re-think this whole thing, do some research, come up with a business plan. Will have to learn about taxes, expense reports, record keeping, I don’t even know what all else. A trip to the library, later, to pick up some business type books. Exciting, scary, but a step that feels right. Encouraging. Forward looking. I told them both I would start in November. I want to be available to Nancy these last few days they are here, and it gives me time to research, set up more definite plans and thoughts and treat it like a real business, not a favor for a friend.

Actually, this has me thinking in a whole new line. Working for myself. Self-employed. There are several things I could be doing. Having kids come to the house after school, until their parents pick them up, like my friend in Washington does. Adding organization to my skills, helping people organize their homes, sort through the stuff, help them make the decisions they can’t get around to making on their own. Maybe even some painting. Or gardening. I like planting things, weeding, helping design a pretty yard, use potted plants to decorate porches. More ideas keep coming. I will start a page in this journal, put a paper clip on it, and jot down ideas as they come.

Getting excited about this. A purpose to my days. No more hiding at home, living in quiet non-existence, secluded from myself and from others. That gal at the Farmer’s Market was right. Journaling is amazing. Somehow, putting these random thoughts on paper does open surprising ideas. Like opening a gift, wondering what is in the package, pulling off the ribbon and tearing the paper, peeking inside, and seeing something you wanted, but hadn’t even realized what it was you wanted. A wonderful gift.  A thoughtful gift. Given by someone who loves you. Who might even turn out to be yourself.

Twenty-Three

Thirty-One, A Novel


Day One
Day Two  
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day Twenty-One
Day Twenty-Two


Day Twenty-Three, Tuesday
At Nancy's, Morgan found a note on the dining room table, tucked under the edge of a placemat.

“Morgan. Two friends asked who does my cleaning. They asked me to give you their names. If you don’t want to call them, that is fine. I am kind of embarrassed to ask you this, hope you are not offended. You are doing a great job, and since we are moving, I thought, maybe, you would like to work at someone else’s house? Here are their names and numbers. No worries if you don’t want to call them, or pursue this. Oh, and by the way, don’t be afraid to charge these gals a bundle – they will gladly pay it, and you are totally worth it (as Sarah would say).”

She tucked the note in her pocket. Do I want to start a business? Wouldn’t be a bad way to earn money. Flexible. Independent. I will have to think about an income at some point, anyway. Interesting idea. Looks like I could start without advertising, too, just word of mouth.

In the afternoon, she heard car doors slam across the street, the usual noisy chaos when Nancy’s family arrived home from school. She could hear Joey yipping her “hellos,” and smiled to herself. The neighborhood will be quiet without them, she thought.

Her doorbell rang. At the door, stood Sarah, Johnny and Jimmy. Nancy, behind them, had Joey on a leash. All three kids had tear-stained faces, Jimmy was still crying. “Come in. What is wrong?” Fears for their father flashed through her mind. Oh no, please, no, she prayed.

All three kids walked over to her couch and slumped down, like a choreographed move. They looked so glum, like they were acting out a desperate scene in a play. It almost made Morgan smile.

“Please, tell me what is wrong.  Nancy, sit down. Come here, Joey, what is going on with your people, huh?” Joey scooted over to her, her tail swinging so wide it almost hit her in the face.  No answer, the kids just looked at the floor. Nancy looked uncomfortable. Morgan was afraid to ask, but she took a breath and said, “Is it your husband?”

“No, no he is fine. Well, sort of, they let me talk to him today. He is recovering, in therapy, a long haul, but he should be okay.”

“That sounds like good news. What makes all of you look so sad? Are you still able to go see him?”

“Yes, we are still leaving on the twenty-ninth.”

“But we can’t take Joey!” blurted out Johnny. Jimmy sobbed again.

“Oh, that is sad,” said Morgan.

Sarah, never at a loss for words, said, “Morgan, we want you to have her. She likes you, she knows you, she would be happy with you. We can’t stand the thought of taking her to the pound, or giving her to someone we don’t know, or…” and then her voice caught in a sob and she cried, too. Joey sat on the rug, looking from person to person.

Morgan looked at Nancy, not sure what to think. She said, “Well, this is sudden, but I could keep her while you are away, then you could take her back when you come home.”

Nancy said, “No. We talked about that. We don’t know when, or if we are coming back. Or what country John will be assigned to, or if we will be with him. There are too many unknowns. And it is crazy for you, too, to have her, then not have her. We agreed.” She paused, to look at the pained faces on the couch. “We agreed it would be best, if you are willing, for you to keep her. She would be your dog. And, as soon, as we can, if we ever settle somewhere again, we will find another dog. We know she would be happy and well cared for, with you.”

Silence, except for the sniffles from the couch, sank over the room. Morgan was not sure if she was the bad guy or the good guy in this scene. Take away the puppy from the kids? Bad Guy. A home they knew and were comfortable with? Good Guy. She wasn’t sure she wanted a part in this. But, if she didn’t take Joey, what then? Where would she end up? Joey came over to her, nuzzled at her knee, her deep brown eyes looking up at her. How could she say no? Was she crazy?

Morgan looked at the three on the couch. Jimmy still cried, his hands tight in his lap. Johnny looked right at her, his eyes, begging. Sarah looked at her too, pleading. She looked at Nancy, who looked down.

“Yes, I will take her.” She should probably have said she would think about it overnight, but she knew she would still say yes, so why prolong their agony.

Sarah came over and stood close to Morgan. “You know, Morgan, I thought of something. Oh, first, thank you. Really, really, really thank you. But what I thought of, your name, the nickname could be, “Mo,” short for Morgan. And Joey, she could be “Jo,” short for Joey, so together, you guys will be MoJo. You know, get your mojo on, find your mojo – you guys will have it all the time!”

“Sarah, that is ridiculous,” said Nancy, shaking her head.

“I kind of like it. I could use some mojo,” said Morgan.  “I won’t take her until you guys leave. Until then, she is totally yours. Enjoy her. I know you will miss her, but don’t worry about her, she’ll take care of me, keep me company when I am missing you. And we’ll have fun.”

Twenty-Two

Thirty-One, A Novel

Day One
Day Two  
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day Twenty-One


Day Twenty-Two, Monday

Morgan picked up her journal, took it out to the back patio, sat down at the little table and began to write.

I thought a lot last night, about what Gertrude told me about the voices in my head. Yeah, those voices that only crazy people hear! No, the voices from the life I had. The voices, angry and accusing and blaming, wishing shame on me. “Shame on you.” Words I refuse to say to anyone, ever. Does anyone really think about what that means? Are they really wishing that the horror of shame would fall on that person? Maybe not, but it is a curse to heap on someone.

Sidetracked, but maybe this is what journaling is about. Writing to see, writing to discover, writing to learn, writing to explore.

So these voices, are all from the past. They are not here, now, speaking to me. They are memories. Regrets. Makes me think of that old song. “Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention…” Okay, what regrets would I mention? I could make two lists: what I did, and what I did not do. She set the pen down, leaned back in the chair, looked out across the yard. Her yard. Her flowers. Her patio. Her house. Her life. Now. Today.

She wrote. Gertrude was right. I am accepting the blame, making choices based on what I think they would say. On what I think they would think. That does seem kind of silly. Instead of being afraid of what Shane would think, I need to write him letters. Maybe he feels forgotten, over there in Afghanistan. Maybe I have been blinded by my own little problems. He did help me move in to this house. Then, a week later he was gone, on the other side of the world. I let the stress-filled things he said to me, in the move, get to me. Maybe, just maybe, he was expressing his own fears, and I was too sensitive. Or was it insensitive? Took it all personally. Maybe?

Responsibility. Opens a whole new world of ideas. What can I do? Write newsy, friendly letters. Not ask anything or expect anything. Attempt to rebuild the washed out bridge. And Eli? Don’t know how to reach out to him. Will think about it, find some way.

What can I do? Be aware, be grateful, be thankful for all I do have, here, now. I will start a list, add to it each day. Today. 

#1 my house 

#2 this patio and yard 

#3 new friends 

#4 flowers 

#5 food in the cupboards 

#6 encouraging words 

#7 the mountains 

#8 clouds in the deep blue sky 

#9 books to read 

#10 creativity. 

Wow, makes me think in a different direction. Looking at all I do have, not at all I have lost. I like this. A lot.