Friday, July 31, 2015

This Will Only Take a Moment

Here I marinate in my miasma, on the slimy cusp of a six week long work induced brain numbing frenzy - in those doldrums before the excrement commences again....As much as I'm grateful to be employed and respectful of my cobeleaguered  office mates I'm beyond ready for a change....

Ever since I said "I do", signed a mortgage, and committed to parenthood I've attempted to be responsible, but I've reached the realization that all work and no play makes Tam a sad panda. I've naught to show for all my "sit stay, good dog" mindset but a dancing plethora of situational chaos. While I'm certainly not planning to strip naked and finger paint unicorns on my sidewalk in a furor of self expression, I am beginning the excruciating process of "personal boundary enforcement" My attempt to be all things to all those in authority has only served to nullify the me in me.  It stops now. 

I've heard wise counsel admonish that no one is as passionate about your dreams as you. Truth is, if you aren't focused on your own dreams - you'll be enlisted to assist someone else with his or hers. I am so weary of promoting the visions of others to the extent that there is no room left for the whispered longings of my own little soul. I am a wife, a mother, a worker, a worshiper, but I am also a writer. If saying yes to who I am means saying now to the whims of someone else then so be it. We only get one go round on this cobalt orb and my clock is ticking. I still love you. Even if I must say "NO" to you. If you love me, you will attempt to understand. 

I took a stroll by a site called "livejournal" this morning. I've had an account there since the days of y360. My plan was to purge it since I hadn't posted anything since 2012. I started reading a few entries and while no one else would find the words meaningful, the posts reminded me how much I used to enjoy blogging and writing about nothing in particular. I remember a few years back when I was fearless about speaking my mind regarding the topic of the day. When I wouldn't have hesitated to pose a query to the masses along the lines of  "we brandish a noose and cry foul over the demise of a collared alpha predator but butcherers of our own human offspring are so quickly forgotten, why?" I find the slaughter of any of "God's creatures" horrific but it is even more disturbing to me that we humans would commence to destroying the life of one of our own over a lion, and monsters like Kermit Gosnell and Synthia Varela-Casaus still breathe...Yes. I used to speak out for little humans, and the big stupid humans at times as well. 

I don't mean to minimize the death of Cecil the lion, but I do hope those pitchfork weildin' types would target the source instead of the symptom. Social media outrage possibly closed a dental practice, cost peeps jobs and wrecked a man's life but poaching in Zimbabwe is alive and well and will remain so long after the little stuffed animals and flowers have been removed from Palmer's office doorstep. Directed rage is a powerful thing. Directed love, even more so. 

I am a writer. I love writing - and I am returning to it. Peace. 



Friday, May 22, 2015

The Secret Life of Banhees

The day broke early with the plaintive bleating of the neighbors goats as I disentangled myself from the nest of perpetually untucked sheets. I found the younger spawn already engaged in an epic online battle, headset cocked, cat on lap and the world on ignore. If only it were that easy to shut this life out.
I’ve already showered, started the laundry, cursed the incessant squawking parrot and fought back tears. (and it’s only 7:00 am) If I allow myself the luxury of thinking about all that has happened in the past few weeks….my son married (didn’t see that coming) my husband needs ten thousand dollars worth of dental work, and we lost a beloved family dog. Her surviving offspring grieves in the backyard, unmoved even by the neighbors kibble stealing feline. Last weekend we shampooed, ointment lined and powdered the poor canine and still he lays, tick studded and miserable in his dilapidated dog house. Perhaps we’ve done more harm than good. Ticks are marauding bastards and this is just one more battle lost.
I have sufficient reason for refraining from blathering on line like I used to. Since 2009 the days have bled into one another with few moments of relief. While I’m stoked for my elder child, I find myself treading the spider silk line between absolute, gushing adoration for my new daughter in law and the corrective mental jerk in my cranium that screams “keep a polite distance”. Tensile as that line may be, awkward Tam is awkward and at any given moment my flat feet will fail and I will take a header in the middle of my carefully planned day.
And so I spend my minimal spare time and perhaps a few stolen moments sifting through the shaky leaves at Ancestry. I have about 2000 hints to click and seeing the number decline gives me a sense of completion and control. When I am weary I can simply push my chair back and walk away. The dead simply cannot wreak the havoc on your life that the living bring. My memories are mine. My future it would seem, isn’t.
Truth is, I’m tired of getting through the next day, the next audit, the next assignment, the next batch of dirty towels or spiked weeds to pull. I can’t escape the whispered admonition of my spirit telling me I am on the downhill side of time on this planet and perhaps I am past whatever bit was prime. My heart aches from running on autopilot. Survival isn’t living and since 2009 – I’ve been in terminal fight or flight – with only a butter knife and tissue paper wings. I’m scarred and broken and sad and dark chocolate won’t fix me. I run on momentum, too stubborn to stop.  
And so it goes, I have myriad productive things to accomplish today because my family deserves a peaceful home and to those whom I’ve given my word, they deserve it kept. There is beauty in a soul that is satisfied by the simple comfort of a safe home and a job well done at the end of a day. Perhaps one day this aging bone cage will house a beautiful simple soul instead of the railing banshee at the back of my throat. Perhaps tomorrow. Or next week. A girl can dream.

Peace.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

A Face For Radio

So I'm sitting here waiting for the dear head of household to return from his obligatory one Sunday at the warehouse a month purgatory. The Heir and the spare are draped across various pieces of furniture in the living room transfixed by the latest airing of game grumps or some inane video understood and appreciated only by young bachelor lions in small groups, and I am afforded a moment to think. It's probably not a good thing.
You see there is a reason I rarely blog anymore. Actually there are several reasons but the excuse du jour is simply - my face. Which may seem a bit odd since blogging doesn't require one's face, just one's fingers in whatever capacity said fingers are engaged to one's cortex - but for me the dots are all connected. It seems that for all my desire to bring beauty and light into the world - I am still attached to my face. And my face trumps me every time.
We're all passable as kids for the most part, and for most, God is merciful enough to limit the awkward years but some of us just get stuck in the land of bumps and lumps and jagged lines and we never smooth out. We develop a face for radio, and no amount of cool makeup and hair tricks seems to cover it.
For me this reality gelled when I was between my senior year of high school and my freshman year in college. I bit on some well coiffed, besuited male with nice teeth telling me "Wow, you should be a model. have you ever considered classes?"  Six weeks later and a few hundred dollars poorer I still remember seeing myself on camera, and the Sheena Easton clone of a teacher we had telling me, "You have a nice speaking voice.  You should consider radio broadcasting."
I've had a few bright moments. My senior picture, at least the one that landed in the year book. Ok, I was the pinkest person on the page (not white. PINK) but it was passable. A few wedding pictures. We had a competent photographer and the dress hid a lot of "eew" and a couple of 2011 face book head shots I keep circulating (laptops are forgiving. Iphones are not) but for the most part it is becoming too embarrassing to even try. Sometimes I blame my ample girth but still. The me in the mirror is who she is and I have to accept it.
I'm not divulging this in hopes that someone or two someones will attempt to pillar my flagging ego with platitudes. I can smell a lie faster than a mosquito can smell your hide on a summer evening by the bosque. I just want one person perhaps to register that those of us with faces for radio still have so much to offer. I am not who you see. I am capable of blessing you - but if you pass me off as just another awkward aging idiot or worse yet; you consign me to that place of  invisible because my teeth are crooked, and my chins are saggy, and I have crazy cat lady hair - you void the potential for both of us...and you make me sad.
I get it that God sees the inside of a soul, and that is where we should place our worth. Valid knowledge and real wisdom but in the day to day we're all walking this out in our skins. And we're putting each other in rank order based on the transience of what society calls beauty. I'm not pretty. I'm not even pleasantly forgettable. I'm fast approaching scary. Its better if you don't take that picture if I'm in frame, but I still have so much to offer. Please don't dismiss me. Flab and freckles and gray hair...they're not contagious. My hands and my heart work the same as yours. Perhaps if we all attempted to see one another through the eyes of God...
Peace.