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Plop Off My High-Horse

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Clouds in View on Brevot Lake While driving back through Canada from visiting my daughter and her family last week, I discovered something about myself. The realization came from thoughts of Dad. I thought about summer and it’s inevitable ending. How much shorter it seems when the end days of August come along. I thought about my childhood summers raised by the water. We always had a sailboat and we all swam. We had summer jobs when we became an age to get one. After some reminiscing, I had thoughts of my dad’s summers, balancing work and play and realized I was picturing a story about him. My story. I watched him put much of his efforts and energies for nine or ten months of the year into planning for a few select days he and mom could sail in the summer. All the chart reading, knot tying and boat upkeep for the possibility of sailing in the short two months of summer (if that) up north. It might even be true sometimes to say two good days of sailing. Why was he so engrossed? He wasn’
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Success at a Mighty Glance

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Some negative talk I hear around me makes me cringe. Not the chatter about politics, weather, or the economy, which have their own brand of negativity, but individuals bashing their worth. They lament about how they don’t measure up. When I hear their thoughts aloud I wonder how this signals something in their head. Doesn’t our “Self” listen to this disapproval? It’s NOT possible to standardized ourselves. It would mean whatever collides with us— “life itself”— can’t possibly interfere. Comparisons waste time.   We live-that makes us worthy. Not because we have a certain face, body, job or living situation. It is tiring (and boring) to constantly modify our lives to obsolete and invisible standards we think others have for us. When really we’re the ones designing those standards. The wheel keeps spinning and we make it spin. Every time we measure ourselves by someone else.   Yeah, it’s true others can judge us. The real danger is when we care and take it to heart and adjust our true se
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A Teacher's Song

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  Ice Forming on Boardwalk in St. Ignace                                  Death of my husband forced me to go back to school. I wasn’t just a teacher in a first-grade classroom. My role was a student, too. A rookie. 1st -   I had to deal with pain and listlessness of my mind and body until I had strength. 2nd - I re-told my story over and over until I knew I couldn’t change one letter or punctuation mark. Which made me realize…I couldn’t redo or undo the past. 3rd - The language of life I spoke and listened to no longer made sense. It became gibberish. It felt like letter by letter, word by word I had to learn again.  4th - I was a solo student in a room of teachers. I had to sift through them. To figure out I could only listen to one at time. They are still in cahoots with each other, they have a shared theme…life and me in this life. Yesterday, on U of M's campus I sat in small memorial garden, during my long walk. The new baby-leaves were waving in the sunlight, I wanted to memo
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Life is a Therapist

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I keep a weekly chart in my Bullet Journal. And in the section for “Habits” I track my progress. For a couple of months I’ve had one of the boxes labeled “Write”. “A few sentences”, that’s all the comfort-center of my brain asks from me.   It encourages, “Just a bit,” With a small pat on my back. With frustration I look at the boxes, week after week, reminded. Reminded I’m limited, reminded I want, want, want more out of myself. I’ve injured my arm (from overuse). I have to restrict how I use the arm then gauge my progress and adjust, for now, with the help of an occupational therapist. When I write, click, press and slide on my computer to post for my blog, it takes hours of time. Write - revisit - revise - rethink ——-what and how I want to word something. Sometimes it’s trash and I start over. Three days ago I decided to write before the sun was up. I sat upright, shoulders back and relaxed my arms. “Just get the ideas in print”, I encourage myself.   A small amount a day. Just to be
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