We Survive, But What Will It Look Like?

We Survive, But What Will It Look Like?

I realized after the listening to several French citizens’ response shortly after the tragic concert bombing in November that what I felt some of us are missing here in the states. Love. One of the girls that came out of the concert stated it so clearly, not that she loved those that bombed them. No, but she felt love for those that she was with at the time and she was glad to have been with people she loved enjoying an evening of freedom. And her heart was filled with love even while she was searching for her boyfriend and friends. She wasn’t the only one that I heard say statements like that.
Their response to terror wasn’t to build a wall or blast the shit out of those evil bastards. It was, we are put on this earth to enjoy life. We will live. They want us to be afraid. The terrorist want us to fear because they hate our freedom, but we won’t let them take it away.

caught-the-happy-virus-last-night-hafiz

We become what we fear or we become what we love. We in the United States of America should not forget this. I want to live, not hide or pretend to be Rambo.

 

 

A Little Something More

A Little Something More

Contentment hasn’t been an easy topic for me. It’s a subject I’ve struggled with since I don’t understand it. I rarely feel it. There are moments when I lose myself in a movie or a good book and forget about contentment, and I might even feel bliss.

Don’t believe anything is dead until you’ve burned it, poked around in its ashes, and then waited a day or two to see if anything rises from them.  Jerricho Barrons in Bloodfever, by Karen Marie Moning Ch 10

IS IT DEAD?

I get angry when I hear the outrageous lies of quick schemes for getting rich told to simple people and that’s probably an expected reaction, but I’ll tell you the one that caught me off guard recently. It’s a simple, cute blog, it’s called, Cupcakes & Cashmere and I like it. BUT. I like fluffy and sweet, mostly. I hate my reaction because I wish I could be content with being the type of person that reads blogs about fashion, dating, and cupcakes. BE HAPPY, JANET! Then there’s the entry -> The Moment I Knew G Was the One. Oh dear! I swoon. I think that was probably my issue. It wasn’t her fault. I blame the darkness within. You did read the quote above by Jerricho Barrons, right? Darkness.

WHY IS THE FLUFF NOT ENOUGH?

Making assumptions is easy. I can frame or reframe any scene as scary, happy, cheerful or content based on the wording that I use. Music has the same power to change perception. Play a bit of sad music along with any reel of video and most women will feel the need to cry. The music will pull at our heart strings, loving creatures that we are. Watching little children playing on the beach seems innocent enough, but I dare you to play the music to Jaws while you’re watching.

THE GAME OF MORE

Is a person’s life all that it appears to be? A picture may be worth those thousand words claimed, but today’s gloss & splash advertising has trained us to polish ourselves as beautiful as the photo. And what if we don’t match up? Try harder. Buy more product. People will buy just about anything for the promise of perfection.  What does this have to do with contentment? Heck, if I know. For me, there is no ONE, of anything or anyone. Most of life is a game we all play. There are a lot of adventures in life and a lot of experiences.

Here’s an interesting blog – Calm Things, A Monday Morning Blog – To Carry Joy

“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.”

Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook

Thank the Goats for Coffee!

Thank the Goats for Coffee!

I love a good story, but goat herders, red berries, and smugglers. Craziness! This Tuesday, September 29 is National Coffee Day 2015.  So whether you prefer yours sweet, bitter or with a dash of cinnamon, go enjoy a cup of coffee.  My favorite is a strong cup of Columbia with milk.

And this is the legend of coffee –

It’s all because of a 9th-century Ethiopian goat-herder named Kaldi.

Allegedly, Kaldi observed his goats behaving erratically after eating the red berries from a nearby Coffea arabica tree. He tried some of them himself and was soon acting as hyper as his herd. He then brought a batch to a monastery where they were derided for their stimulating effects during long hours of prayer. The religious leaders there threw the tree’s beans onto a fire to destroy them, but the pleasing aroma of the roasted beans convinced them to give the coffee a second chance. Much like with tea, they put the roasted beans into warm water and the beverage was born.

Mental Floss – Who Discovered Coffee

Birthdays and Fried Egg Sandwiches

Birthdays and Fried Egg Sandwiches

Some phrases are forever linked in my mind. Some memories flash as bright as neon lights. Every single time someone makes the statement I’m not having a birthday, I think, I want to grab as many birthdays as I can. I just had another birthday and even though it was a big one I’m not depressed about it. I enjoyed the day talking with my family.

Several years back some friends I knew had a sudden tragedy. The week before the husband had seemed in good health. He’d celebrated his birthday with his wife and stepdaughter and even joked about not growing older. No more birthdays, he’d said. Of course it was all said in jest as he cut the cake and blew out the candles. We all say these things. We don’t mean to stop living. The next week after attending Sunday evening church services, this man and his family went home. He was hungry for a fried egg sandwich. While his wife got the pan and put it on the stove, the man stopped still, and he grabbed his chest. He said he didn’t feel so well. Before the ambulance got to the house, he was dead.

I’m not saying that he caused his death. That’s superstition. People say silly things all of the time. I’m saying that the phrase “No more birthdays” is linked in my thoughts forever to fried egg sandwiches. Every time I cook an egg I remember to be grateful to be alive because on that night he didn’t get to enjoy kissing his stepdaughter goodnight. I remember. She looked lost and sad that night as I sat beside her. Birthdays are for the living, and I’ll take as many as I can get!

Recipe: Link Fried Egg Sandwiches Simply Scratch

PS yes we are a bit southern here, and it’s probably not a healthy recipe, but I do eat free-range eggs. 🙂

 

It’s Gonna Be Alright

One Love: The Very Best of Bob Marley & The Wa...
One Love: The Very Best of Bob Marley & The Wailers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Guesthouse

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

— Jelaluddin Rumi,
translation by Coleman Barks

Thanks to my fellow blogger at BeBeautifulandDance for letting me share the above poem. His original post is here, Rumi Moment of the Week — Meet Me At The Door Laughing by

Cause every little thing is gonna be all right?

There’s construction going on across the street. It sounds a little like the hitting of a heavy bell. It’s just a man hitting metal with a large hammer, but I hear the bell. Bam. Bam. Bam. That type of guest is the easier type to handle. The gentle swishing of traffic that moves like waves against the shore.

Compared to the week before of irritations and unpreventable arguments of everyday life, this is good. But I think Rumi may be talking about accepting and befriending even the irritations and bullies of the everyday, not just the sandy beaches of my barricaded relaxation time. Letting even the bad flow through, as well as the good. Yeah, I lock myself in. I close the door as much as I possibly can, because even the saints must get rid of rodents and bad fruit. Weekends are my cleaning moments. My coming to terms with this crazy world space. It’s me time.

Rumi is good thinking poetry. Let me know what you think in the comments. Here are some of my current interests.

  • #Beinggrateful – just that. Finding one thing to be thankful for. I’m so glad it’s not raining or whatever…you name it. Post it on twitter today. #Beinggrateful
  • Sam Harris – Mindfulness Meditation (no religion involved)
  • Waking Up by Sam Harris book a guide to spirituality without religion
  • Planning a summer vacation. I’m thinking of the beach. Maybe Louisiana. Browsing online is fun.
  • Bob Marley music. I’m listening to his music on Soundcloud.com. A friend at work, a co-conspirator in the beach dreaming, reminded me of his music and I can’t get it out of my head. “One love…”

The Creative Instinct

English: 10-months-old baby during winter stro...The New Year is usually pictured as a new baby. New babies and new projects bring new excitement. They take up your time and fill up your current moment like no other thing in life and then they’re gone. You’re left like Grampa, sitting in the rocker, re-telling war stories to the grandkids.

I told my oldest son recently, that there was nothing in this world that I enjoyed more than raising him and his brother. Watching them grow up and become adults was a dream come true for me. Just hours after my second son was born, I was holding him and thinking, if only there was a way I could slow the time, just some way to bottle the hours so that I could be alone with my babies and get to know them better. But the world kept intruding. Life kept its barrage of daily needs. Some days I resented life’s onward march. On other days, I became a child and played toy cars and built Lego towers. I know there are other mothers who have felt this. My own mom hasn’t admitted it, but I’ve seen it in her face. My former mother-in-law often cried after we left from visiting on the holidays. She told me. I know she missed her son.

I wonder, is it the oxytocin? Is it the bonding in the uterus before childbirth? I also wonder if fathers feel the same emotion. Of course, it’s also possible that I hang out with a bunch of sentimental junkies and we need to get a life. Now that my children are officially grown and I still have some creative instinct left, I think I’ll set my sights towards my writing even more than before. We are all creative. In one form or another, we create something in our lives. What we create in this next year is up to each of us.

To all of my younger friends who are mothers–and boy are there a lot of you, I’m green with jealousy of your smiling faces–I wish you well this next year. I wish health and happiness, with lots of fun and laughter. I hope you can bottle up a few hours of hugs for the future. You never know when you might want to revisit one.

To all of us, in whatever creative pursuit you do this coming year, do it for your own pleasure, not because someone else thinks you would be good at it. Find the time for that one thing you’ve put off, whether it would be just sitting in the coffee shop alone for an hour, or browsing through the antique store–do it.

I think that this could be a good year. And I choose to make it one.

Oxytocin-Psychology Today

Here’s a poem my mom always referenced, especially the last line.

“BABIES DON’T KEEP”

Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,
Lullabye, rockabye, lullabye loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo

The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo
Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullabye, rockaby lullabye loo.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow
But children grow up as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

Author: Ruth Hulburt Hamilton
Read more at http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/doc/28653.html#tZhJcBV2xEyC0gMd.99