Be patient. Good things come to those who wait. ~ Fortune cookie.
Really? How long do I have to wait?
I wonder about this saying. Is it really enough to wait for something good to happen? Surely something good will happen eventually.
I have to disagree. If I want something good to happen I need to take action to make sure it happens. If I want to finish my novel, it’s not enough just to wait. If I want a job one day, I’m not going to sit around and wait for one to drop into my lap. So where does this fortune cookie get off telling me to wait?
I suppose there are some things we simply have to wait for, however. Love, for instance. It seems the more I’ve looked for it in my life, the more elusive it is. Giving up looking for it, in my experience, has been the only way it’s found me.
Give it up, get it all. Have you heard that one? Maybe I made it up, because I can’t seem to find it anywhere on Google. It makes a lot of sense to me though. When I give up striving for one thing, other things present themselves as opportunities to get what I wanted in the first place. Tunnel vision doesn’t do anyone any good.
I still doubt patience has anything to do with it. Thoughts? Have you ever given up on something and then got it anyway?
When my son Christopher came home with it from school, I asked him if it was Mr. Potato Head. He looked at me as if I was crazy and said, “It’s a clown!”
I’ve had this … head sitting on my kitchen counter for about three months now. It goes from making me sad, to creeping me out and back again, sometimes within the space of minutes. This disembodied head is my companion when I cook, when I wash dishes, and whenever I go looking for a snack. Unfortunately it’s never distracted me enough from a midnight snack however, to prevent me from getting one.
So where am I going with this post?
It makes me think about the lives our kids lead when they’re not at home. They have this whole other world when they go to school where they probably never think of us, except in terms perhaps of whether or not we’re going to make their favourite dinner that night, or did we go pick up the thing they wanted at the store. The way they slowly separate themselves from us as the years go on is both scary and comforting. To know that they may just have enough interests that have nothing to do with us, enough to one day have lives of their own secures in my mind at least that they’ll be okay when we’re gone.
Even if their lives away from us consist of creepy disembodied heads. As long as they’re ceramic, I’m happy.
It’s true! A tuna has taken up residence under my front steps. What’s worse, there may be more than one!
Okay, by now you’re probably asking yourself what the hell I’m talking about. Let me tell you a story.
One fine evening when my eldest son was about a year old, my ex and I decided to go for a walk around the block, baby in carriage. It was spring, just like it is now, and the lilacs were blooming their fragrant heads off. The bumble bees were in heaven, and there were plenty of them. Their low pitched drones could be heard as they busily buzzed from blossom to blossom.
In the thick of it all, my ex decided that it might be the best idea for me to push the carriage. When I inquired why, he explained.
Now there are two things you need to know about my ex at this point. One, is that he is French. Quebecois. And two, that he is deathly afraid of bees.
His explanation for not wanting to push the carriage containing our child was as follows:
Because if I see a taon, I’m going to run.
Taon is the French word for horsefly, deer fly… but he meant bumble bee.
What I heard was thon, which is French for tuna.
Many minutes passed before I was able to get up off the ground from laughing so hard. When I could finally speak, with tears running down my face, I told him he could push the carriage because it didn’t matter – if I saw a tuna, I was going to run as well.
So there you have it. I have a tuna living under my steps. I won’t be telling my ex though – I won’t see him again until winter if I do.
That awkward moment when you’re concentrating really hard on making the bed until you realize that all three of you are sticking your tongues out but you’re the only one without ice cream.
I’m a generally cheerful person. I try not to let things get me down. No, the situation in which I live is not ideal, but it’s really as good as it’s ever going to get. I have enough people and things in my life to make me content. I do my best for those I love, and though I could probably use a little more time off, I manage quite well, given what I have.
Yet I’ve found myself complaining a lot of late. If I was to stand back and have a frank word with myself, I’d say, “If you don’t like the way things are, change them.” So that’s what I’m going to do.
Here’s a photo of three poppies.
I think the one on the right is playing peek-a-boo.
What I really need is a vacation away from here. I want to get away – to get out of my miniscule world and experience something different. Not exotically different, necessarily, just off the block, out of town, to see new faces and unfamiliar places.
I want to break free, damnit! Thank goodness the Queen concert is coming up.
As a child I was led to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. I don’t remember when I discovered the truth about the latter two, but I do recall feeling betrayed by my parents when I reached into my stocking one Christmas morning and pulled out a gift with a price tag on it. At first I refused to believe it – they couldn’t possibly tell me such a blatant lie, these two adults who were constantly stressing to me the importance of telling the truth. But alas, we all know how it turned out. I’ve been wary of humans ever since.
Even worse than this, in my opinion, is telling kids that they can grow up to be whatever they want to be. I’m sorry, but if you stop growing when you hit four feet, you will not be a Harlem Globetrotter, nor will you be a famous opera diva if you can’t carry a note in a bucket. You will never be President of the United States if you were born in another country, no matter how much you want it.
I don’t care who you are – everyone has limitations. As adults, we learn what these are, and yet I still hear adults lying to generation after generation, promising children who can’t possibly know any better that they can do ANYTHING and be ANYTHING they want to be when they grow up. It’s total, utter bullshit.
In my own case, this on top of being told that everyone is good at something, left me feeling woefully inadequate. I wasn’t about to believe people who would tell me that I was a brilliant singer – these were the same people who told me there was such a thing as Santa. Hindsight shows me that in most cases, it’s just as well. Just look how many end up on TV talent shows only to be laughed at? So if I couldn’t be good at doing something I loved, what could it be? I tried guitar, figure skating, horseback riding … and ended up a bookkeeper. I couldn’t even type that fast. It’s only in the last fifteen years that I’ve discovered my passion for writing.
But I digress. The incident that brought this whole topic up was a conversation I had with Chris, my Autistic eighteen year old, in the car on Sunday. He told me he wants to be a radio announcer. I know for a fact that he’s been told he can do anything he wants. Radio announcer isn’t one of them, nor will it ever be. He can barely get more than two coherent sentences out of his mouth on the best of days. So I get to be the bad guy. I have to tell him he can’t do it. I tried to explain to him that he needs to get hired in order to talk on the radio, but he can’t understand why anyone won’t just hire him.
I can say with all honesty that I was reluctant to let my kids to believe in Santa. It came down to the question of whether or not to allow them that wonder I remember feeling when I did believe. But I can also say I never really tried to convince them he existed.
I’ve always maintained a realistic outlook for their lives. I’ve been truthful in telling my eldest that he can do almost anything. There are many things Chris will never do and I’ve always tried to steer him towards what is feasible. Alex as well. He will certainly never sing opera – and none of them will ever be President.
I’m sure there are people out there who have become exactly what they wanted to be – we all knew someone who was incredibly gifted and knew what they were cut out for at an early age – but few of them actually turned out to be the superhero they always dreamed they’d be (yes, that was one of my dreams too).
If you were like me and Chris, and your aspirations were outside the realm of what is achievable, then perhaps you’ll agree with me. Or maybe you were more down-to-earth in your expectations. In either case, telling a child they can do or be absolutely anything is something I’ll never do and something I wish others would put a little more thought into. You never know whose dreams you’ll eventually be dashing.
At the ripe old age of 50, I’m seriously considering starting a career. At the moment I have no income whatsoever, apart from the $15 I bring in every week (I know, put your jaw back in place) from my paper route. The government supports my kids because of their disabilities and we all live off that. If I’m ever unable to physically care for them anymore, or if they by some miracle are able to look after themselves, I’ll have nothing. Even now, I’m living beyond my means.
So I’ve been looking into University level courses to get an Editing Certificate. I’ve enjoyed the proofreading/beta reading I’ve done so far, and it’s something I could do from home, on a freelance basis. There are no Universities in the area that offer the course, however, so I’d have to do it online. Even if there was a course available close by, I’d have a hard time getting there with the limited time I have free due to looking after the kids. Add to that the fact that I can’t always be reliable given a certain day and time, and the concept of going to University is pretty much a flushable one.
Originally I was looking into the idea of taking a copy editing course, or even some more creative writing courses. I recognize though that it’s not recommended that one does one’s own final edit. And so no matter how good I am at writing, or how much I think my writing is perfect, I know it won’t be. If, on the other hand, I learn to edit other people’s work and get some money coming in from that, I’ll be able to afford to pay an editor to edit mine. It’s kind of like the old adage, “Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for one night, but teach a man to fish and he’ll eat his entire life” … except this fisherwoman will still be asking other people to fish for her. And THEN, maybe I’ll be able to do something about the little red line that goes under “fisherwoman” but not “fisherman.” First the Certificate, next, the world! Or at least the world of spell check.
Anyway, that’s what’s been going through my little brain of late. I’ve always wanted to go to University. About time I did, if I’m going to. Never too late to start, right? I don’t want to be sitting around in two years thinking to myself, “If only I’d started two years ago, I’d be finished now,” after all.
Is there anything you’ve wanted to start and thought it was too late? Has this made you want to get off your butt and do it?
It doesn’t take me long to run out of resources. Energy, both physical and emotional – hell, even spiritual – seem to dry up when I get to a certain level of stress wherein I’m running around like a daddy longlegs with half of its legs pulled off by a willful child.
When I reach that limit I go blank. Nothing works. I must stop moving, I must force myself to try to stop thinking of everything at once. I have, at these times, so many thoughts in my head that I feel as though I will explode. And then I am without.
Without anything to draw from. My brain fires on the remnants of the sparks of what energy is beginning to build up again but I have no control over which way they shoot. Sometimes it’s anger, seeping from my pores like lava, and sometimes there are tears that threaten never to cease. Rarely, it’s laughter. When it is, I know I’ll be okay again soon.
Without resources I feel useless. I exist on a plane apart from the rest of society. I float (yes, I am even without gravity) an inch above the ground, always in danger of taking off. Not up, but away. If I do, I’m afraid nothing will stop me until I’m lost.
Eventually I can once again focus. But only by focusing on myself, and not all of the people who demand my attention all of the time, can I come back to me. To regain my energy, my emotions, and the spirituality that centers me and keeps me in the moment.
Since my fall on the ice just before Christmas when I received a concussion, I’ve been having pain in my right shoulder. It wakes me up at night, has caused weakness in my right arm, and is generally a pain in the ass upper body.
So about three weeks ago I finally decided to take it to the doctor. He ordered an x-ray and an ultrasound and two weeks later I called him back because I hadn’t heard anything. His secretary said the tests showed there was nothing wrong.
But it still hurt. I made an appointment to see him.
As it turns out, I have a slight case of arthritis between my collarbone and my shoulder blade. (There’s another one of those rocket scientists at work here – not sure if it’s the secretary or the doctor, but I suspect it’s the doctor. He’s always been a bit of a twit.)
The point is, since I found out what the problem really is with my shoulder, it’s been feeling better. Is it possible to be given information that there’s nothing wrong and believe it so much that the symptoms go away? I think it is. But in my case, I’m sticking with the belief that now I know it’s not the joint, I’m no longer afraid of doing more damage. Muscle pain I can live with. I can stretch through it and I can work through it. I know now that if I use my arm more and re-build the muscle, my condition will improve.
I also know I am susceptible to psychosomatic disorders. When I get stressed it affects my skin. I itch. And no matter how much I know this to be a fact, and that there is really nothing wrong with my skin, it happens.
I posed the question above, is it psychosomatic or real, but is a psychosomatic illness any different than a real illness? They say attitude can help with the symptoms of sickness – it works both ways. It’s not all in your head. But some of it is. The mind is a powerful thing.
Have you ever suffered with something you knew was psychosomatic, and yet it persisted?
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