Reality Check 

Posted on by
1

I’m a horse’s ass. 

Well, not exactly. Actually, worse. 

Whilst scrolling through Facebook the other morning, I noticed that a friend had posted the result of a quiz that supposedly analyzed her profile to determine what percentage was a-hole. She was 14%. I’d taken quizzes from this analytical site quite a few times in the past and always marveled at how right-on the results seemed to be. I clicked “analyze me” without a second thought.

 
Moments later I sat in disbelief. I couldn’t believe it was saying 74%!

Internally, I went ballistic. How could that be right? Denial. Shock. Anger. From 0 – 100 in a few seconds. I quickly realized that I hadn’t blown a gasket like this in a long, long time, and it actually scared me. Thank God the emotion didn’t last too long. Almost as quickly came the antidote: divine intervention in the form of acceptance. It was like a bolt of lightning. 

I had to be honest with myself and admit that I could be an a-hole. Hard as it was to admit at first, it turned out to be the first step toward freedom. The floodgates opened. The blinders were off. I saw more instances than I cared to admit of me acting in the same negative ways as my mother did. Even though she’s been long deceased, I still have resentments. All the things I hated about about her and swore I’d never be, I had become. I finally understood that what we dislike in others are the very things we dislike in ourselves. 

I couldn’t swear to it, but I think I had a catharsis last week. I surprised myself when I thought, “I need to change. I don’t want to be like this anymore.” 

This all happened in the days between Christmas and New Years. 1/1. What better time to turn over a new leaf! One day at a time I can choose to use any one of a number of spiritual tools–prayer, meditation, service, gratitude, boundaries–to help get me through each 24-hour-chunk. I’m powerless over everything except how I’ll react in any given situation. I can pro-act instead of re-act. 

Now I know why I had always liked the results of personality quizzes in the past: they were usually positive. Unexpected negative results can be so painful! Seeing the honest truth about our self takes guts, but that’s what it takes to catapult some of us into action that ultimately makes for a better human being. 

Somewhere along this unmarked journey lies our purpose. “Be renewed in the spirit of your minds,” the disciple Paul told the Ephesians (4:23.) What better time than today to make changes for the better? This is, after all, the first day of the rest of our lives. 

Timing 

Posted on by
Reply

It’s been a couple of months since my last post, and I’ve felt somewhat guilty about that. I could offer any one of a number of excuses, but the truth is that things weren’t really going “my way,” and therefore I felt as if I had nothing to write about. What a myopic and immature view I sheepishly discovered that to be! But isn’t it quite natural—albeit selfish and self-seeking –to want what we want when we want it? 
It took flipping the calendar page to November for me to come to my senses and stop me from falling further into the unrewarding abyss of self-pity. You see, I love November because my favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. It reminds me to look at the big picture and, in doing so, notice the little things that I take for granted. 
Some time ago I began to privately journal my gratitude daily, starting with a Pinterest board I called ” Epic Gratitude: 365 Days, One Day At a Time,” onto which I posted a photo of something for which I was grateful. I love looking at it from time to time; I often find things that warm my heart and sometimes make me chuckle, like funny text messages from my daughter about the kids. While it could be construed as somewhat masochistic, I sometimes discipline myself with long-term challenges just to see if I have the stamina to finish what I’ve started, which has never been easy. But so far I’ve not missed a day in nearly three years; I’m on a roll.





My relationship with Facebook is one of love/hate. In fact, I quit it for more than a year and probably would have stayed gone forever if not for my kids saying that I’d see more pictures of my grandkids if I reactivated my account. Very well. This time around though, I’m “friends” with people I actually have a connection with…not just random acquaintances. Most of my friends are in some form of recovery or have a loved one who is, and some of us participate in a group called “5 G’s a Day,” where each day we post five things for which we’re grateful. 
Word has spread and more and more people—friends of friends whom I don’t even know—have joined the practice of daily gratitude. Reading each post makes me smile and warms my heart, and watching the steady growth of the group gives me the feeling that an emotional tsunami is about to hit. 
There’ve been numerous studies on the benefits of practicing gratitude, so I won’t go into that specifically; but an outstanding one is http://happierhuman.com/benefits-of-gratitude/. The researcher in me wants to interview people in our 5G’s-group and ask questions like, “How has practicing gratitude helped you? Are you happier? Less stressed? Have your relationships with family/friends/co-workers improved? Do you sleep better? Are you beginning to notice the little things in life? Do you find yourself to be less materialistic? Less self-centered? More spiritual?” Of course, I won’t. All I know is that it benefits me in these and so many other ways, I’d be foolish to stop.
I thank God for the month of November, the one that reminds me of just how blessed I really and truly am. And concurrently this month—as if on cue—my Christmas cactus that is so old it’s pot-bound and is just a big, green plant for most of the year, magically bursts forth with a huge mass of brilliant, pink flowers! The timing couldn’t be better. It wrests me from focusing on what (I don’t think) is right and instead on what IS. And that’s something to be grateful for!

Posted on by
2

Recovery is…
To bring back. 
To make good. 
To recapture. 
To salvage. 
To rescue.
To restore.
September is National Recovery Month and all of these things—and more—come to mind when I think of my own recovery from alcohol addiction. 
Becoming an alcoholic is certainly something I never wanted to be, and yet that’s exactly what I became in spite of being raised in a good home by good people. It retrospect, I was well aware during my early teenage years that I was different, and I tried to think myself into becoming “normal” like everyone else. I tried so hard to fit in, but I was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. 
I even went to college and majored in the special ed areas of emotional disturbance and behavior disorders, thinking that, with any luck, somewhere in all those psychology classes I just might discover what MY own problem was. And what the heck, why not earn a degree while I was at it. Like a lot of alcoholics, I thought myself an over-achiever, and was proud of the fact that I worked hard to not only pay my own way to a private school and complete my studies in three years, not four. Over-achiever, maybe. Delusional, definitely. 
I went on to become a teacher, marry a great guy, raise a family, and have an incredibly blessed and adventurous life…all while in active addiction. Nothing too terrible ever happened (unless you take into account that pesky DUI) and for the longest time my family put up with my apologies and promises not to drink ‘that much,’ ever again. Even God Himself knows the sincerity in which I begged Him to just let me drink like a normal person. I never asked for His help to actually stop drinking. Instead, I went to a psychiatrist and asked what it would take for me to learn how to drink normally. He looked at me and said, “You just don’t get it, do you?” No, I really didn’t.
I was smart, or so I thought. I had a religious upbringing. I had morals. I knew the difference between right and wrong. I hadn’t lost my health (yet), my family (yet) or my job (yet.) 
What was wrong with me?!? 
My house of cards began to come down with a crash when blood tests revealed that my triglycerides (“bad” cholesterol) levels were off the chart (upwards of 800…130-159 is borderline.) Of course, when my doctor asked me if I drank I denied it, but eventually everything caught up with me and I could no longer keep up the double life I was living. It was suggested I go to AA (Alcoholics Anonymous), and while at first I did so to appease others and get them off my back, I soon realized that it was exactly where I needed to be. 
At my first meeting I was surprised to find people of all ages and from all walks of life. No one there fit my image of an alcoholic: a disheveled bum underneath a bridge, clutching a brown paper bag that concealed a pint of some cheap liquor. They were lawyers, and medical personnel, and business people, and educators, as well as factory workers, mechanics, and patients from the treatment facility nearby. They smiled at me. They kindly walked up to me and introduced themselves, and told me they were glad I was there. They seemed sincere and accepting of me, though I felt completely unworthy of their attention. I felt so low.
After a few readings were read and some announcements were made, a topic was brought up for discussion, and for a full hour I listened to people share feelings and experiences I could totally relate to. Before speaking, each one said, “My name is so-and-so, and I’m an alcoholic.” They weren’t at all ashamed of it, and that blew my mind. They were simply stating a fact: they had the disease of alcoholism. For the first time in my life I felt comfortable in a room full of people. I was just like them. 
Some of them gave me their phone numbers and encouraged me to ‘pick up that hundred pound phone’ and call them before I even thought picking up a drink. They said things like, “You never have to be alone,” and “Keep coming back,” and “You never have to drink again.” That last one I couldn’t even imagine since liquor was a part of my everyday existence.
That was five years ago. I haven’t drank since. And while that’s quite a milestone, I know that my sobriety is a one day at a time process. I know I am by no means “cured,” because alcoholism is an incurable disease. But as long as I don’t pick up a drink today, I have a daily reprieve. Working my AA program is my daily medicine.
Currently I’m in the process of repainting all the closet doors in my old house, and the process reminds me so much of my AA program, which has become a vital part of my life and one that I have embraced. Each door is covered with layers upon layers of oil-based paint. I could take the easy path of just slapping on a few coats of latex paint, and there’s a chance that they might look okay for a little while. But I know it wouldn’t take much for the latex to chip off, or possibly peel in long strips, revealing the ugly underneath. 
So even though it’s time-consuming, I’m taking the time to strip off all the oil-based paint and taking each door down to the wood. The multi-step process involves a lot of stripper and patience and scraping, and just when I think I have it all, I find that there’s more to be scraped. Scraping off all those layers is messy, and sometimes a little bit of stripper gets on my skin and it burns! But the process is so worthwhile, because eventually I begin to see beautiful wood grain. I’m inspired to just keep plugging along. While I’m doing it, I’m reminded of all the “layers” of me that had to be removed before my authentic self began to shine through.





It may be coincidental that I’ve decided to tackle this project as my five-year anniversary approaches, but I don’t think so. I believe it’s a God-thing. In my clear headedness and sobriety I’ve become more aware than ever before of how my Higher Power and how it works in my life. Like the closet doors, my recovery is a step-by-step process that takes time. One day at a time.

Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’…

Posted on by
Reply

imageSomething recently happened that convinced me that somehow without realizing it. I’ve assimilated into the area in which I’ve lived for the past eight years. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would ever live in Kentucky, but then again, I never thought I’d live in any of the places I lived until I actually moved there.

Over the past 35 years or so, I’ve lived in 11 places in 7 different states, plus Washington, DC*, in a variety of homes (conventional, floating, and on wheels.) From very rural, like Newton, Alabama (pop. 1,500) to alluring, like San Diego, California, to bizarre, like Key West, Florida, and everything in between. That’s where Hopkinsville lies: in between.

The population, roughly 32,000, is mostly natives and just about everybody knows everybody. Just yesterday, while waiting for a friend at the doctor’s office, I saw and had conversations with three people I knew…and I’m not from here. The downtown district, cow pastures, fishing holes, and corn, soybean, and tobacco fields and, believe it or not, a scuba diving resort, are all less than three miles from my home. This is, by no means, the “country,” but driving home last evening around 6:30, I saw a deer race across one of the town’s main roads, 9th Street, and into a field.

I guess some sort of assimilation was bound to happen, considering I’ve lived in the South most of my life. After all, I say “y’all” from time to time and have actually thought in Southern terms, like “over yonder” and “fixin” for years. And even though my ears perked up when I heard my granddaughter say that “it was fixin’ to rain” the other day, I resisted the urge to correct her. After all, doing as the Romans did has served me well over the years.

Lately, though, I’ve caught myself speaking like the natives, and it startles me when I do. Me, a self-described grammar nazi. I almost couldn’t believe it when I used ‘theirselves’ in conversation with my daughter yesterday. Somehow, articulating it–as opposed to just thinking it–made it seem more real. I stopped in mid-sentence and even said, “That didn’t sound right.” Kate, a chip off the old block, noticed it immediately and said, “I was wondering if you were going to pick up on that.” Regardless of whether it was correct or not, the word rolled so smoothly off my tongue, it sounded right.

It’s probably because I’m originally from Missouri, the “show me state,” that I couldn’t rest until I researched whether or not “theirselves” is a word and, believe it or not, it is…as is the singular masculine, ‘hisself.’ Both are considered regional, “non-standard” English versions of the grammatically correct “themselves” and “himself.” You learn something new every day.

The truth is, I’ll never be a dyed-in-the-wool Southerner. Or Northerner, for that matter, since Missouri is considered the Midwest, and a border state at that. Having chosen to live a transitory life for most of my life, I’m different. By moving around and traveling a lot, I’ve met the most interesting people and have had a lot of experiences and adventures, certainly more than I’d have if I’d chosen to stay where I was raised. Instead of me growing deep roots, a lot of places grew on me. I feel so blessed. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

* Alabama (Newton), Florida (Key West, Pensacola, Gulf Breeze, North Palm Beach, Jacksonville), California (San Diego), Texas (Port Aransas), Mississippi (Bay St. Louis), Kentucky (Hopkinsville), and my home state, Missouri (St. Louis–south city. GO CARDS!)

62.

Posted on by
Reply

imageI’ve been giving a lot of thought to the birthday I’m celebrating this month—62. In many ways, I can’t believe it. When I was a kid, 62 sounded SO OLD and I never thought I’d get there, especially since my lifestyle didn’t exactly promote health and well-being, at least it didn’t then. I certainly don’t feel old now, but I do realize that the end of the line is not nearly as far down the road as it used to be. So, not knowing what the future has in store, I’ve decided to start tying up loose ends…simply finishing projects I’ve started and starting projects I’ve put off. There are quite a few.

One project is plowing through two similar-type books my daughter gave me years ago. I don’t know why she gave me two; it’s almost passive/aggressive. imageBoth are compilations of my answers to questions that explore my childhood memories, family history and traditions, and recollections of special people and special times. Questions like:

Who among your childhood friends do you remember now? Are you still in contact with them?

How did you fill your childhood summertime days?

How did you learn to drive?

Who was your first crush?

 
Eventually very thought-provoking questions are posed, like:

What was the happiest time of my life? What was the saddest?

What was the most difficult choice you had to make?

What role does religion or spirituality play in your life?

Yow would you describe ‘success?’

If you could keep only one family photo, which would it be?

Even though the thought of writing about my own life doesn’t appeal to me personally, I can see how it could be beneficial and possibly entertaining to certain people someday. Come to think of it, I would be very grateful to find something written by any one of my four grandparents—none of whom I’d gotten a chance to know, unfortunately. I have a few memories of my maternal grandparents with whom we lived and to whom I’d been very close. Sadly, both died by the time I was eight. My dad, who was orphaned by the age of four, didn’t even know his parents, and so of course neither did I. I’ve always envied others—especially adults—whose grandparents were still alive…I can only imagine how rich some of those relationships must be!

I have a young granddaughter who’s almost 8, and she and I are like peas in a pod…much to my daughter’s disbelief. In fact, she’s commented on more than one occasion that, “the only thing worse that having a daughter just like you is having one just like your mother.” When I look at Maeby, I can easily see myself at her age, and writing about things that rocked my world then hits me hard, though it’s got to be therapeutic on some level.

It’s kind of weird being this age and writing about things that happened when I was very young (and not so very young)—things I hadn’t thought about for a while. Of course, memories best forgotten and latent emotions have been conjured up. But by writing my answers, I’m beginning to see how the puzzle pieces of my life fit together. Especially the dark pieces that seem to have neither rhyme nor reason. You know, those things in life that happen that never make sense at the time and leave you wondering, “Why did THAT (have to) happen?”

I feel as though I’ve been given the key to understanding so many things, and truthfully, I am amazed at what I’m learning, now that I’m looking at things in retrospect. They say that hindsight is 20/20 and the older I get, the more I find that to be true. Our past is always something we can learn from. Maybe insights on my hindsights will shorten Life’s learning curve for my children’s children’s children. I hope so anyway.

image

The future is now.

Posted on by
2

We just got back from four days of camping with two of our grandkids and, according to my fitbit, I logged way more than the daily recommended 10,000 steps just being active with them than I do when I go for my daily multi-mile walks. In a way, I find that amazing, but then again, it shouldn’t. It does make me wonder, though, just how many steps I must have taken each day when their mother was young. Funny…that doesn’t seem so long ago.

Time goes by so fast, and it’s really only lately that I’ve become aware of just how precious each day is. When I really think about it, I’m usually either thinking about things I have to do or things that already happened. The ‘now’ inconspicuously melds into the background, quickly becoming the past.

Perhaps that’s why I so wanted to plan a trip with Bobby and Maeby this summer. Ten and eight respectively, they are growing up much too fast. Pretty soon they will want to spend most of their time with their friends; I know I did. Already, Bobby’s two baseball schedules pretty much dictate our lives, so  even planning this short trip was challenging. That’s all the more reason to want to be as much a part of their lives now, while I’m able. After the past few days, though, I find my ‘ableness’ is limited.

 

This was to be  ‘their’ vacation, and we’d do whatever they wanted. Playing wiffle ball at 7 o’clock in the morning was not out of the question. After all, it was just for a few days. But boy, oh boy, did we play wiffle ball a lot! Whenever we weren’t swimming in the lake or the pool or jumping on the monster pillow or making S’mores, or fishing, we played wiffle ball.

 


As it turned out, my husband and I took turns being with the kids so as to give the other a much needed break. I thanked God when I happened to meet another little boy who was camping nearby with his grandparents who was the same age as Bobby. Actually, our meeting didn’t just “happen”…I walked up to the kid and asked him if he liked to play wiffle ball. He was a temporary playmate for just one day. Kids are so great at being in the moment with whoever they’re with. Later on when he and I were in the pool, Bobby commented that, “playing wiffle ball with kids is harder than playing with you and Papa,” and he wondered why the difference. I knew what the difference was immediately: 50+ years!!!

Dave didn’t even attempt jumping on the giant inflatable pillow, but I did. I couldn’t resist. There was a time after all, back in the day, when I did a bit of jumping on the trampoline at my high school. So, I figured I was able. Ha! There is something to be said for ‘balance,’ and jumping with them on the pillow proved to be a lot more challenging than I imagined. The experience made me just more aware of just how precious my hips and knees are, and grateful for my good health, too. What fun!!! I laughed in a way I hadn’t in a while—hard and a lot!!


Being at Lake Barkley in the middle of the week was serene, and I was so thankful we hadn’t gone to the beach as originally planned. I take the Land Between the Lakes here in western Kentucky for granted because it’s close by, less than 30 miles, and sometimes I forget how grateful I am to live so near the water. There was a time in my life where the water was my life, having lived on a boat and all.


We rented one one afternoon, a pontoon, and took the kids tubing. I couldn’t resist that either. We took turns, two at a time on the tube, and had a blast. Kids’ bodies are so pliable; I’d forgotten how tubing bounces one around, and when my turn-on-the-tube ended, I was thankful.


Camping lasted only for a few days, but the number of memories each of us have are way more than that. Naturally, we took a gazillion pictures with our phones, and I’m going to have a few sets printed. Or made into one of those books that can be made in an hour. Already, our trip is in the past. See how fast time goes by?

R.I.P.

Posted on by
4

imageThose who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves to this simple program, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves…They are naturally incapable of grasping and developing a manner of living which demands rigorous honesty.

Alcoholics Anonymous, 4th ed., p. 58

An early morning phone call usually isn’t good. I had a hard time trying to make sense of the words my friend hysterically repeated. Something about a mutual friend seeing another friend’s obituary online…but hadn’t I told her yesterday that I’d seen him at the meeting that day, and had even talked with him? Like her, I wanted to deny the possibility that he was dead, but if it was true, I wouldn’t be surprised. He just couldn’t grasp our simple program.

Appearances are not always what they seem. A nice home, a successful business, more than enough toys and money to burn can mask a lot. But a person’s face, and particularly their eyes, can reveal an entirely different story. I noticed yesterday that my friend’s eyes were filled with pain and despair and emptiness, much like I noticed his wife’s were when we had coffee together only three days before. Each of them was desperately drowning in a sea of pure hell caused by alcohol. It was painful to watch.

Until this, I’d never had a friend commit suicide and my feelings are a jumbled lot, ranging from deep sorrow to anger to gratitude. That last one is absolutely not a natural reaction for me…I have to work at it. I’d rather know why something happened rather than be thankful for what the experience is teaching me. So it’s a matter of training my mind, and that isn’t always easy to do. But I’ve learned that it is essential if one is to have peace. My dear friend definitely was not peaceful.

His suicide is a blatant reminder of where alcoholism can lead. I have heard many people say that they’ve had loved ones die from this disease, but until now I’ve been spared of the ordeal. And it is an ordeal. An unexpected tragedy instantaneously throws many lives out of kilter and into a tizzy; I saw a bit of that yesterday when the attendance at the noon meeting was at least triple what it usually is. And this is just one scenario. There’s no telling how many lives are going to be affected by just one act.

My friend’s influence inside and outside the rooms of AA was apparent and his spirit was certainly in attendance at the meeting yesterday, particularly at the end when we gathered and said the Lord’s Prayer, holding hands. In the wake of this tragic loss, the connectedness of others with whom I share this path is what is enabling each of us, I think, to come to terms with my friend’s  decision. In the days to come, we will have the opportunity to share our feelings and gain strength from listening to others. There truly is strength in numbers, and the help I need–both with accepting my friend’s suicide as well as the disease we shared–is free and available to whomever wants it and is willing to do whatever it takes. Some will. Some won’t. 

I really do wish that R.I.P. meant “return if possible,” but it just doesn’t. Terry, you’ll be so missed. May your soul rest in peace, my friend.

Screw it.

Posted on by
2

If ever there was a metaphor for my life right now, it came by way of an expandable metal drying rack. Our RV has washer/dryer combo unit in which the unit automatically begins drying when the laundering is finished. Because I’ve had limited, sporadic success with the dryer-part of it, I usually hang my laundry on the expandable drying rack.

It’s often said that God works in mysterious ways and that He has a sense of humor, too. He sure made me laugh out loud the other day when I attempted to open said drying rack (which had been wobbly for quite some time) and it practically fell apart in my hands. Heretofore I’d ignored it, thinking it was just getting worn out and would need replacement. It never dawned on me to check the screws that were holding it together–and don’t ask me why. Turns out every single one–18 in all, nine on each side–was loose! It was a wonder that it hadn’t come apart much earlier. To further the irony, the screw that needed tightening the most required twelve full turns of the screwdriver. There just happen to be twelve steps in my recovery program.

I would like to think that I didn’t ignore the situation intentionally, but the truth of the matter is that I did. The rack had been shaky for quite some time and I hadn’t done a thing about it. Seeing the truth about this rather insignificant thing prompted me to look at my personal situation as it truly was. It became clear that it isn’t going to get better on its own; I need to do something now or it is destined to collapse like the drying rack.

Twelve Step support groups place a lot of emphasis on belief in a Higher Power and even though I wasn’t 100% convinced of it myself, when my life took a 180-degree turn recently, I chose to follow clear directives I’d been receiving by way of readings, conversations, and AA meetings. The messages were to live in the present moment. Trust God. And have gratitude for everything, even circumstances that I perceive as “bad,” since growth is promised to result. I hate learning a lesson the hard way, but I must admit, it usually only takes once.

It’s only by the grace of God that I am capable of making a better-than-average attempt at living a sane, purposeful life these days. Thanks to the spiritual tools I’ve collected along the way, I’m discovering that living life on life’s terms can be lived calmly and with amazing poise instead of irrationally and reactionary. I’m honest when I say that all things considered, I’m doing very well.

Time spent with my Higher Power first thing in the morning centers me like nothing else can and prepares me for whatever the day has in store. Since there’s no point in worrying (so I’ve been told) I purposely live in 24-hour chunks, passing the time just doing the next right thing, whatever that happens to be. Somebody in a meeting once said that doing that equates to doing God’s will, and that makes perfect sense to me because when I do this, I’m amazed at my productivity and effectiveness. Well, not mine. That’s my HP revealing His glory.

If you’re having a really tough time and feel like you’re coming undone like my drying rack, you’re welcome to try all or any part of my regimen. You won’t believe how liberated you’ll feel when you accept your situation just the way it is (you don’t have to like it) and trust that your Higher Power has everything under control. Most importantly, be grateful for your situation and everything you’re learning in the process–force yourself, if necessary. After all, this, too, shall pass…it didn’t come to stay.

Penmanship Porn

Posted on by
Reply

image

I can always count on my daughter to bring to light topics I would otherwise be oblivious to. Just the other night, while watching my grandson’s baseball game, she leaned back and murmured, “I was going to post this on your timeline (on Facebook), but I didn’t because I know how you are with links…half the time you say, ‘what the hell?’ and ask why I have time to look at stuff like that.” My daughter knows me well.

She knows me so well, she knew I’d take the bait. So yesterday morning she sent me the link to an article on something known in certain circles as ‘penmanship porn,’ a current online distraction, and I must say, I’m intrigued. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that handwriting, in and of itself, could land in a virtual centerfold of the worldwide web, but then again, most things found on the internet nowadays surprise me, so why should this be any different? I just might have to put the to-do list aside and allocate the day to writing. Both blogging AND for real because my penmanship is pretty darn good.

The article highlighted the entertainment and social news networking service, Reddit, and in particular a subreddit, Penmanship Porn, that features a seemingly unending train of images of handwriting samples, some so dazzling that they could be mistaken for computer fonts.

There are even video clips of various writing instruments–calligraphy pens, flairs, and the like– held skillfully and masterfully by some writer, who then guides the instrument along the paper, sometimes spelling words that might be associated with sex and sometimes simply making the same letter–typically letters with ‘tails’ such as lower case j’s and p’s–over and over again, as if either action would or could make the viewer hungry for more. To satisfy those voyeurs, there are those repetitive clips of a different fountain pen tips, some pointed, others blunt, being dipped over and over into an ink well…after-drips included, as well.

I know it sounds weird, and I really think it is, but it’s precisely subjects like these that have me wondering–with all she has on her plate: homeschooling the kids, taking care of the house, overseeing much of the work being done on the brewery, Girl Scouts, teaching yoga, and God only knows what else–how she manages to find the time to read about stuff like this! I’m glad she does, though; she introduces me to things that would elseways escape my notice.

In my family, good penmanship was especially valued, especially by my father. His was uniquely beautiful, and he occasionally practiced the art of calligraphy, fountain pen, black ink, the works. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of my older brother, who was probably around 9 or 10 at the time, being made to practice his penmanship most Sunday mornings, after Mass and before being allowed to go out to play with his friends. How he must have hated it! I can still envision the lined paper with line upon line of loops…long ones (lower case l’s) and big, voluptuous ones (upper case o’s.) Even at 67 years old, my brother’s handwriting is stellar, and I’ve always thought it better than my mine, probably because I wasn’t made to practice like him.

These days cursive isn’t even taught in most schools anymore, which is precisely why such a subject could be contrived into something that would entice someone (and apparently many, many people) to watching it being done. Over and over. Again and again. Which is probably where the association with porn comes from.

At any rate, I’m going to dig through the attic and try to find my dad’s scripts. And if I do, I’ll be sure to post them on that site….they would be a fabulous addition. My daughter was right ; she knew I wouldn’t be able to let this one go. After all, she knows I’ll try anything once (and sometimes twice!)

Satisfaction Guaranteed.

Posted on by
2

image

I’ve got a peaceful, easy feeling, I know you won’t let me down. ‘Cause I’m already standing on the ground. – written by Jack Tempchin (and recorded by The Eagles)

They say you can never go home again, and maybe that’s true if one’s return is meant to be long-term. Home, now, is not the same place you left. Things–and people–are always changing, and we are, too. But it’s still possible to go back home for a visit and have a really good time just the same. I know; I just did.

We took our seven-year-old granddaughter to St. Louis for a few days. Rather than impose on my brother and sister-in-law and stay at their house (though they’d love for us to), we usually take our RV and have been doing so for the past ten years. St. Louis RV Park is only one of a handful of RV parks anywhere near a major metropolitan city, and it’s the only one I’m aware of that’s within walking distance of the downtown district. It’s been there for more than 30 years, and it’s hiding in plain sight. A lot of native St. Louisans don’t even know it’s there.

We visited relatives, did some touristy things, went to a Cardinals’ baseball game, shopped at the brand new Ikea, and ate out a lot. She loved it all and, as precocious as she is, she garnered a lot of attention from the relatives, especially the ones meeting her for the first time. And she got to be an ‘only child’ for awhile, since her older brother stayed home because of scheduled baseball games.

So when the trip was winding down and we were getting ready to head back home, I asked her what she liked most about the trip. Her answer blew my mind.

She said it was “hanging out with us in the mornings.”

Really??? Is it actually possible for a child to enjoy lazy mornings–cuddling and talking in bed, sipping Capri Suns, not being in a hurry to go out and do something? Apparently so.

I can’t stop thinking about her answer, and I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe “contentment” IS what the hokey pokey’s all about. After all, contentment is being satisfied with how things are. It’s being relaxed. It’s being grateful. It’s that peaceful, easy feeling.

Who wouldn’t love that?

It seems like a lot of people these days are searching for whatever it is they think will make them happy, and while I wouldn’t dare profess to know the ‘how’ of being content, after this trip I know one thing for certain: a big part of it is just being fully present and in the moment.

With so many distractions vying for our attention throughout the day like emails, texts, and social media, this isn’t easy. But I challenge you to unplug and try it. I think you’ll be quite pleased–and perhaps like me, downright amazed–at what happens when you do.