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They say she looks like me, down to her knobby knees.
I’ve long held out a hope that this would not be true.
But when I look at us from another’s vantage point,
I’m forced to plainly see the truth there is in that.
The camera does not lie.
It merely focuses its eye on what is really there.
And if I accept that fact, then I must face the rest.
This gentle little soul is much too much like me.
One of my goals lately has been to establish a writing routine and produce a certain number of words each day. In attempting to meet this goal, I joined a writing site that requires me to log in and do just that. This site faithfully keeps a word tally and tracks who is fully participating.
Every day I get an email reminding me to write my words. Unfortunately that email goes to an account I consistently forget to check. Every so often I remember, and then I feel a little guilty when I go in and delete several weeks’ worth of reminders. For a few minutes I feel bad that I am not letting the site count my words.
This exercise is supposed to be done first thing in the morning, to clear your head and get you ready to seize the day, to accept open-minded the onslaught of words that this process unleashes. If you keep at it, the theory goes, you will soon have a manuscript of sorts in your hot little hand. The idea is sound, if you can get yourself to follow a linear thought for 300 pages, or 60,000 to 90,000 words.
I don’t know if it’s that I don’t have the discipline, or maybe the tenacity, to stick with one work in progress, or that I am stretching myself too thin having more than one WIP. I know which one I want to finish editing and polishing; I just can’t make myself do it. The subject matter is still a little raw for me perhaps. Or maybe I’ve been letting it stew a little too long in my consciousness.
But, I know I will get to it, when the time is right because write, I do. Every day. And since I gave myself the assignment of posting daily on this blog for the month of December, I find a myriad of ideas suffusing my brain. The list of topics or situations I want to write about keeps getting longer.
I don’t know if I will be able to develop them all during this month; it is going by faster than I expected. But, I will keep jotting them down and expanding on them on my trusty index cards for future essays, blog posts, fiction and nonfiction pieces.
And I think I will relieve that particular website from its daily email duties to me. It’s a good idea, but obviously not for this writer, or at least not yet.
I did ten miles on my stationary bike today. I decided, while I was pedaling, that I would keep track of mileage as well as time. That way I could take an imaginary trip around the world while I engage in this endeavor. Though I do hope I don’t have to go all the way around the world to lose the extra pounds I have on board.
To document my origination point, I weighed myself this morning. It kind of hurt, but I’m a big girl (!) I can take it. Once the numbers stopped fluctuating on the scale readout, it settled at 149. According to my BMI, I should weigh no more than 136 for my height of 5’ 2”. But, I felt fine and looked fine, so I was told, when I was at 138. So that is where I’m headed.
And since ten miles is the distance I used to travel taking my youngest to school and that was south of me, I guess my “circumnavigation” will commence in that direction. Hopefully, I’ll hit my target weight before I “reach” the South Pole.
If I were truly headed down there, my gear would be a top concern. But since I will only be biking and walking in South Florida weather, I don’t need a parka, et al, just good shoes. After spending almost 30 years on my feet during my nursing career, I am especially conscious of good, supportive footwear.
SAS were my shoes of choice; they cushioned my feet and were worth every penny. I had my last pair for over five years, but then I began working out in earnest and wore them out within eighteen months. I meant to replace them, but then I found these.
Bought them at Macy’s. They are Clarks shoes.
Love these shoes! They feel like I’m walking on air. Hope they hold up to the workouts I’ll be putting them through. Hope I hold up!
And of course, my vehicle. It’s a little dusty and rusty. But then, so am I.
If I can still get into my size 8 jeans that stretch up to a full size, am I still a size 8?
They are snug, but I don’t have to hold my breath to zip them up or anything. And once on, they don’t bind; I forget I have them on even.
There’s just no forgetting one fact. I’m fatter than I was when I bought them. They were loose on me back then. My husband would stick his hand in the gap that swelled at my lower back and exclaim, “You need a smaller size!” And he was right, I was constantly having to pull them up; actually I still do though not as much, or as often.
But, the mirror and the scale do not lie. This year, I have added ten pounds to my physical repertoire. And the extra weight has two favorite places to settle on my body, my tummy and my caboose. My jeans, being low-rise, are not much affected by my fuller waistline, but the other side, well; let’s just say a certain hand doesn’t fit in there anymore. Though I have to admit to not hearing any complaints.
Regardless, I have one. A complaint, that is. Or maybe I should say I have ten, one for each pound of added weight. The view might have improved from his perspective, but not from mine. As much as I dislike what I see, I have to remember that the mirror is my friend. And it’s telling me it’s time to get serious about some deletion. Would that losing weight could be as easy as hitting clear-alt-delete. I’d be hitting those keys ten times in quick succession.
Since that’s not gonna happen any time soon, I am left with only one alternative. Hit the exercise bike. It’s been sad and lonely out in my patio waiting for me. My exercise gear is stowed away somewhere in this house; I’ll have to see about digging it up while it still fits. It doesn’t come cheap. Another motivator.
And it’s not that I eat a lot or eat the wrong things. It’s that I listened too intently to my writing professor. She suggested we buy lots of chair glue. You know, to keep us in that chair, writing. I spent all summer doing that, reading about writing and writing about writing. As a result, my knowledge has improved tremendously. I just don’t want to measure my progress as a writer by the size of my ass.
Besides, I read that each extra pound of weight puts ten pounds of stress on your joints. And with my RA that is not good, not good at all. So, the amount of chair glue will have to be counterbalanced by an amount of bicycle seat glue. I will try an eight to one ratio for starters.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not fixated on weight so much as my health. I have never been and will never be the size of those emaciated runway models. It seems the fashion industry considers anyone who isn’t a size zero, a plus-sized woman. Well, I’m proud to be on the positive end of the number line. As long those size 8 jeans fit like they use to.
As the days go by and my birthday approaches, I can’t help but think of what my life has been. The ripples my almost six decades on this earth have produced. I find it hard to believe I have been alive this long. And yet it seems like such a short time has passed. I don’t feel it. If I don’t feel old does that mean I’m not?
Some days I do feel ancient, but it only means I need more rest, more sleep. Like today, I feel very sloth-like. But, I was up till 3 am. Just wasn’t sleepy, I busied myself with my crochet project. One of them anyway. And today it’s done; that blue and white blanket will soon be making its way to California, to cause another ripple in the fabric of time. My time. And the time of my loved ones.
I have much to be thankful for in this life, many blessings. My children and now my granddaughters. Ripples that extend way into the future. The future that one day will not include me. And yet it will, because I will live on in them.
My lovely Carmen
And my beautiful Alyssa
Today’s daily prompt says to write our obituary.
My first reaction was eww!
I prefer to write about living,
the joy, the sadness,
the longing, the hope
that makes us go from one day into another.
Because no matter what happens today,
whether it’s good or bad,
uplifting or devastating,
we go to bed knowing
there’s always tomorrow.
“You have very pretty hands,” she says.
I am busy signing a stack of papers. We are finally doing the deed, filing last year’s taxes.
“I have Rheumatoid Arthritis hands,” I say, taken aback by this unexpected comment. “RA loves your hands.”
“They are pretty,” the tax lady continues. “Women pay for nails like that.”
“She’s always had pretty hands,” my husband pipes in, stopping me in mid “thank you”. Now I’m really stunned; compliments I hear, but never about my hands.
I become self-conscious as I maneuver my fingers to keep the sheaf of papers flipped to one side so I can sign and date the various documents. I’m just glad to finally get this chore done. I’m exhausted from having spent hours over the previous days adding up dollars and cents gleaned from the ton of medical and pharmacy receipts accumulated. Truthfully to no avail, or to very little avail.
I’d put this off all year, filing for an extension. An extension that was rejected, the tax lady now informs us, making the day chock-full of surprises. My pen still, I stare at her in concern, what exactly does that mean? No matter, she says with a shrug. I mimic her shrug and go back to my signing.
“Did you have a problem? Were you not able to file before?”
“No,” I tell her, “I was angry and didn’t want to do it.”
My husband laughs. “There you go,” he says to her.
I ignore him.
“I was angry about my identity being stolen,” I say. “I wanted to wait.”
“Yes,” she commiserates and goes on to tell us horror stories of how hackers are able to capture your private information. It’s a terrible thing to have your identity stolen and it’s left to you to prove who you are when you’ve done nothing wrong.
During the year-long process it took to resolve this, I couldn’t help but wonder, Who am I? And who in the world wants to be me?
But the one question that burned through my mind was this: If you went through the trouble of stealing my identity, why didn’t you also steal my RA? You can have that for free, whoever you are. No questions asked, ever. You can rest assured I will never try to get that back.
The prolonged process of filing over, I stick my copies in my briefcase and stand up.
“Thank you for everything,” I say, “now I’m going to go have a drink.”
She stands up as well. “Where are you going to go have a drink?”
“I’m taking her to this steak place,” my husband tells her, as I start walking toward the exit.
I feel her eyes follow me out, perhaps because it’s only noon.
(Written Oct 12, 2012)
Is it to fill the void?
Or is it to empty ourselves of what we can no longer hold within?
Sometimes I think the reason I write is the same reason I get up in the morning. Because I have to. But in truth, I don’t really know why I write. Maybe it is to share the joy, or maybe I do it to ease the pain. Perhaps it is to use the new words I just learned and sound so delicious that I must see them and hear them. For I always read aloud what I write, to hear the flow, the rhythm, the melody that words can at times produce. Even without our assistance.
I write many things, short pieces and long pieces. Fiction, nonfiction and sometimes a cross between. I suppose I write what is next in the pipeline, waiting its turn to burst out. I go from one genre to another; I don’t know why that is either. I would love to sit and work on a book from start to finish. But, which one?
They say write the book you want to read. That is sound advice, except for me it doesn’t quite work. I read so many genres; there is no specific one I want to read. I want to read all of them.
Sometimes writing is therapy for me. Normally you pay for therapy, but in this instance I am going to see if I can make this “therapy” pay me. In the coming days I plan to share some pieces I have written. Some are funny, some are sad, some are just silly. But, they are all a collection of my words.
And I will continue to write, as that is an incurable condition with me, while I concentrate on the other projects I assigned myself for this month. Did I think I was Wonder Woman?
I’d love to know why you write.
Sewing this Christmas tree skirt for my daughter-in-law. She wanted blue. The ruffle still needs to be made and attached. And there’s four more projects pending. The suspense, will there be enough time before Christmas? I suppose time will tell! And why are my other captions not showing up as captions? What gives?
I am reading Anne Lamott’s book, Bird by Bird, and she has a chapter about index cards and their usefulness. Until I came to that chapter, I hadn’t realized what an addiction I have to those little 4 x 6 cards. Like a certain credit card, I never leave home without at least one. Usually, I keep a bunch in my purse to capture any stray thoughts I might have as I travel around town. But never fear, I don’t write and drive; I wait for the traffic light to turn red.
We all know that if we don’t jot something down as soon as possible after it hits our brain, most likely it will be gone forever. Only the thought doesn’t go away completely. Part of it stays in the back of your mind, on the tip of your tongue, a simulacrum of a thing that will neither fade away nor come back in full force. It remains there to torture you while you berate yourself. Why didn’t I write that brilliant thought down?
I’m reminded of how, for several days, I turned the house upside down looking for the left over index cards from my youngest daughter’s high school years. I knew I had them somewhere. I could literally visualize them, all that neat white space waiting to be filled. But they eluded me. It was like looking for that last bottle of liquor in the movie The Lost Weekend. Only I didn’t have to steal my cleaning lady’s money to go out and buy a fix. Mainly because I don’t have a cleaning lady.
This incident occurred a couple of years ago when I finally started writing seriously or seriously writing. After I bought a new packet of index cards, I found the lost ones lying neatly on a bookshelf. Now, I am never without those trusty little cards. Like reading glasses, I have some in practically every room of the house. Besides my purse, they live in my bedside drawer. As sometimes happens, I’ll come to in the middle of the night with passages going through my head. Quickly, I snap on the light, grab a pen and lash the thought down before it floats away. Or at the very least, the essence of it.
Index cards make my favorite bookmarks. Not only do they hold the place in the books I’m reading, but they afford me the space to write down any thoughts or ideas my reading conjures up. And when I come across something profound or motivational, or both, I copy it onto a card and tape it to my desk, so that it’s right in front of me as I work.
They serve me in my other work as well, as quilting aids. Once I decide what a quilt will look like, I record on separate cards how many pieces of each fabric I need to cut and in what dimensions. I then tape the cards to the wall alongside my sewing table, a ready reference as I construct a quilt puzzle comprised of hundreds of pieces.
Once while in the lab chair waiting for the vampire to strike, I noticed they had new wall art. It was a piece constructed of luminous metal squares in browns and greens. As my blood flowed into the lab tubes, the image of it as a quilt flowed into my brain. Holding my left arm bent at the elbow, I rushed out of the lab to my car where I sat sketching it out. It will make a great quilt. Someday.
One fun thing I use the cards for is to write my granddaughter’s name in great big letters. “I want paper,” she says to me when she sees me at my desk, “I want to make an A.” At three, she is ready to learn how to write her name and I pronounce each letter slowly as I write it all in caps across the top of a card, A-L-Y-S-S-A. Her face lights up as pen in hand she sits down to her task, forming the A with care. When she goes home she leaves me the gift of her scribbles. Maybe one day she’ll be a writer, too.
The cards are also handy to make myself notes about foods to try, their benefits and nutritional value, especially those with anti-inflammatory aspects. I am always on the lookout for foods that will help me combat RA and keep my weight at tolerable levels. I figure if I write them down, I might remember to buy these foods when I go grocery shopping. Because of course, making a grocery list is the one thing I don’t ever use my cards for!
I follow Kristen Lamb’s Blog and a while back, she wrote a post titled “Would Hemingway Blog?” When I went back to refer to it for this entry, I was surprised to learn it was written back in September. Which means I read it back in September. I swear it feels like it was just yesterday, but obviously her words had staying power because that post remains in my subconscious.
Her answer to the question was a resounding yes, followed by three exclamation points. I admit my first reaction to the question was, no, Papa would not waste his time pursuing such activities when he had earth-shattering novels waiting to burst from him. But, she went on to explain how he did, in a way, by using his journalistic muscles to write “clean, strong prose.”
It made sense to me, yet I still can’t imagine Papa tweeting. Maybe it’s because I’ve yet to join the tweet bandwagon. I wanted to get the blogging thing down first.
At first it seemed like I was reaching. Could I do it? Could I write something worth reading? By others, I mean. Would anyone care about what I had to say? And what exactly did I want to say?
I chose to focus on my health, mainly as a therapeutic practice exercise. I figured it couldn’t hurt, and the audience would be small. I wouldn’t make too big a fool of myself!
At first, I looked forward to posting and then life sort of got in the way and I let this blog languish for a long while. Which, ironically, defeated the therapeutic intent I meant it to have, at least on myself.
Now, the more I think about Kristen’s words, the more convinced I am she is right. Blogging is a good thing. If only to strengthen your writing muscles or to instill some writing discipline. And then, there is also the icing on the cake: the connections you make and the people you hear back from. Sometimes weeks after you’ve posted a piece. The fact that someone will take the time to hunt back into your archives is definitely priceless. (Thank you, Alice)
I gave myself the task of posting every day this month in honor of my upcoming birthday. But, I’m beginning to think it may turn out to be a far more valuable gift than I intended. As I relearned today, time waits for no man, or woman. If I want to be a better writer, I better get to it.
This is supposedly how Hemingway’s studio was when he lived in Key West, down to his Royal typewriter. I find it hard to believe he would leave it behind. I can’t imagine being without my laptop. Would Papa let go of his typewriter? Inquiring minds want to know.
Beating Rheumatoid Arthritis 