Slow to Rise…

When there is sun, I rise with the dawn. Winking at it as tendrils of light as they weave their way into my room.  Mornings are a time of silent reflection.  No, that’s not right. Mornings are peaceful. They are quiet and time seems slower.

I can coax my brain into focusing which is why even with my love of mornings, it is hard to get myself up. If the snooze button wasn’t on my phone, it would broken by now. When  my feet finally hit the floor, there is usually only one other person awake.  We say morning because who knows if it is going to be good or not.  I get my coffee, maybe a spot of breakfast and listen to the radio.

NPR is my drug of choice. During the summer, I listen all morning and well into the afternoon.  The only break walking Luke.

Luke knows my routine well.  As I write, he has parked himself on my freshly made bed.  He will wait napping on and off until I get my shoes.   He is a most patient pup. img_0966

Often I see things comparing morning people to night owls.  My mornings help prepare me for the day.  I wasn’t always this way. More than a decade in education has transformed my relationship with the dawn.

According to a 1998 study, cognitively I am doing just about the same as my night owl friends. Although, they may indeed be wealthier.  Another study in 2012, pointed to them being more prolific lovers, but also having a tendency to have more bad habits like smoking and drinking.  You can read more about larks (morning people) vs owls here.

There are a lot of articles talking about the benefits and success of larks.  Contrary to the mythology of morning people, I don’t jump out of bed with a spring in my step.  I am not always chipper and coffee is my fuel of choice. I am not healthily, wealthier or wiser for my morning habits as Ben Franklin predicted.   It just works for me.

Good friends function quite well as night owls.  The early morning or late night depending on your point of view are perfect for them to work uninterrupted.

What works for you? Do you thinks larks are better than owls or vice-versa?

 

 

 

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The Not Quite So Lost Writer

Issues, I have them.

But, they aren’t as bad as I thought.  I made a mountain out of a foot hill.

I felt so lost because I didn’t know where I wanted to be.  My heart, my love was in New York and I wanted to be with him.  I also wanted to be in the mountains.   My last message to him didn’t go well.    Now,  I still don’t know where I want to be as I look around  but I know where I am going and things aren’t so bad. Don’t get me wrong my heart is broken.  Tears are pretty constant right now.  I wake up wanting to have another conversation and re-write my last messages to him.  I wanted him to see my intents were good and change the narrative he has about me.

These are things I have no control over.  The control I do have is where my focus is.

My narrative. What I tell myself about myself.  The way I see things.  I don’t see him as a villian or myself a victim.  I won’t paint him that way or myself for that matter.

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My life, my narrative. Not a victim or a villian.

I live with depression and anixety.  They are constant companions.  Sometimises they invite friends. A panic attack came to visit last night and ended ump staying for hours.  It pressed on chest while I was trying to sleep. Flashed images on my mind that forced my eyes open.  So I wrote for hours and got most of the way through today’s word count goal.

The moment where I felt so lost I couldn’t take it anymore happened twice.  Once for the things I could talk about and once for the things I couldn’t talk about which ironically I can talk about now.  Both moments were poured into writing.

Yes, I don’t love the fuck out of my job, anymore.  But, I know this and I know the reasons why.  I needed to admit how lost I was to be able to come up with a plan.  It is a ever evolving thing.

Quitting just because I am not in love with it or because I am stressed out isn’t an option. It goes against everything I was taught growing up.  And I have prided myself for my increased ability to take care of my own messes.

A year from now, I plan on quitting my job.  Why a year? Why not now? Well, I need to put some things in order before I quit and go on the the next chapter.  I have some serious life editing to do.  Not everything I want to do is going to get done.

Change is painful and taking a year to make this change isn’t going to make it any less painful.  What it will do with a little luck and a whole bunch of work is give me a few more things to deal with that pain.

 

The Writer and Her Papa

1926734_10204222512019405_7922414794304983180_nThis is my Papa. I met my Papa when I was thirteen years old. I was already taller than him. And he still had some color in his hair.  Since then we have both grown quite a crop of steely gray hair.

According to legend, he fell in love with Momma over homemade spaghetti.  She didn’t cook it mind you.  He did and he had forgotten to stock up on red pepper flakes.  When he mentioned it, Momma pulled a large container of them out of her purse. .

I am not sure how a large container of pepper flakes made it into her purse.  Maybe she was using them as a cheap version of pepper spray? Throwing the whole container at would be assailants and hoping that her aim was true to hit them in the eye or at least the shock of seeing a flying pepper flake container would slow them down.

A few weeks or months later, Momma came by to pick me up for an outing with Denny.  After Denny came into her life I saw Momma more and more.  If he did nothing else he brought my mother back into my life.  (But, he did do more)

You see a year earlier, we lost our house.  Momma went to stay with friends and I returned from my annual stay at my grandmothers house to live with my father. The separation would last nearly a year.  It wasn’t by choice on either of our parts.  In the meantime, life became a serious of events where I tried and failed to win the approval of my birth father and stepmother.  Every decision I made questioned and denounced as immature and lacking thought.   My interests were weird and I was disrespectful. I didn’t know how to please them and eventually just retreated to my books and imagination.

My father and mother had divorced when I was six.  He told my mother that he didn’t love her anymore.  And she told him to leave. I don’t know what it cost her to do it;  to go against everything that she had been taught about life and marriage. She came from the work it out generation. Her parents were married for over fifty years.  The only way out of marriage was death.  And she let my father go alive. She could have killed him for cheating on him.  She could have raged against him. She never did at least not in front of us kids. She told him to go.  Told him that he had to go that they weren’t just going to go through a divorce sleeping in the same bed or living in the same roof .  She told him to go and where the boundaries were.  I love her for that and everything she did that followed to do right by us. We never made it easy.

Sadly in the months following the divorce I blamed my mother and tried to fight her.  She rocked and held me close until I calmed down.  She didn’t understand that my father had just told me he was going on a business trip not that he was leaving permanently.

My father is not a man known for his sense of humor or love of literature. Actually, I don’t know why people like my father. I do know that he hated my nose was always in a book and wanted me to get out and do things.   I wanted to do things. The things in the books I was reading.  The characters had horrible lives to be sure (I was a huge VC Andrews fan), but their lives were filled with excitement and love.

Love is something  my father still has difficultly communicating to his nearly forty-year old daughter. He rarely says it and every time I hear it, I question whether he is sick or not.  Dying being the event that would induce an out pouring of emotion from his tight lips.

Papa has never had trouble communicating his love, frustration or anger with me.  It hasn’t always been smooth and he has been so angry at me that I am sure he was seeing cross eyed.   I was never the rebellious teen. No, I did all my stupid, worry the parents stuff in my mid to late twenties after I came home to live with them.  When I was a pain in the butt, he let me know.  And while we will never agree on politics completely (so far we both hate Trump), we always agree on the fact that I am his daughter.

Maybe he didn’t provide half my genetic sequence, but he did provide all the love and support a child could wish for. He showed me what it was like to have two loving and strong parents in the home.  He gave me what I missed as a child of divorce the feeling of a strong family unit.

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Father’s day is hard on a lot of people.  Some people like my Papa didn’t know their fathers or have fathers like mine who won’t accept them for who they are.  Papa doesn’t always understand me, but he loves and accepts me.  All of me. It is what a father does.

 

Home Sweet Home

The Day with Verbs

Up with the throbbing  head again

No wine to blame

stumbled out the door

into the world

locking myself out

meandered my way back in

set to work

putting things here and there

walked the dog

recycling to the bin

errands ran

dishes to the sink

clothes to the hamper

litter to the bin

walked the dog again

finished the dishes

three pills

then off to bed

little moments building a day

a life

Writer and the Cold

Writing was slow this weekend. Not because Captain A returned, but thanks to a lovely winter cold.

I spent most of Saturday in a hazy followed by a nap. Then another nap.  I did make it in to the land of the cognizant for a couple of hours to watch Deadpool with a friend.  (Great movie, but please don’t take your kids. Seriously, don’t do it!)  I thought about writing, even opened the notebook to begin writing.  It was a fail.  I ended up crawling into bed and staying there.

Sick Lu

Sunday wasn’t much better.  Although I did watch two more movies while I was at my sister’s house enjoying some homemade treats and doing pretty much nothing.  (Thanks, Zee-Mama)  I came home and went straight to bed.

This writer has been laying in bed all morning trying to summon the energy to get into gear.   And you know what it isn’t happening.

The dishes aren’t going to get done.  The laundry will stay slightly stinky and I will spend most of the day drifting in and out of napping.

And that’s alright. It is ok, to take care of myself and not to push myself.  It is ok to let my house get a little messy.

It isn’t a permanent state.

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What I can do right now is get some rest and take care of myself.  Burning the candle at both ends won’t help the next book get written or grade the student papers. All it will help do is give my cold a lease to stay longer.

Taking care of yourself isn’t a waste of time. It is necessary.

So, it is back to bed for me.

Love and Sneezes,

Lu

P.S. Check out my book, Blood Child, on Amazon.  It is only .99 cents for the month of February.

A Good Man Died

A good man died today, or maybe it was yesterday.

News of his passing just reached me today

A good man died

And in his honor I’m drinking some whiskey

Some sweet Jack that he would have liked

My heart weeps and my world quakes

But its foundations still hold firm

I may weep and I may wail

But my world has not been shattered.

My grief does sting , but it cannot, will not eclipse

That of those

Who held his heart their hands

Who lost their sun and moon today

To them and for them

I hold my glass up high

And weep still more tears

For grief, I cannot comprehend.

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I will miss you, Chris.  Be at peace, you are loved. You are remembered. 

The Good with the Bad

The day began with insomnia

drifted into lateness

and fell into despair

One found dead, the news feed reads

the reaper’s  prize

at last

sorrows grips friends

still other silent cheer the end of the road

two kids in a doctor’s office sick with the flu

 

two strangers cling to life

victims of happenstance

attended by the best

No news is good news or so the fellows say

No news is bad news worries the friends

beloved ones

Victory arrives late

lesson learned, acceptance obtained

a child born

new shoes,  credit extended ,

then end of an abusive relationship

 

No clever words need

or cliques expressed

Just another day

the good with the bad

the bad with good

perspective the only means of definition