An Exercise In Writing

“And it occurred to me that there is no such thing as blogging. There is no such thing as a blogger. Blogging is just writing — writing using a particularly efficient type of publishing technology.” (Simon Dumenco)

I have heard some discussion about the validity of blogging.  Is it really “writing”  My answer is simple.  “Of course it is writing.”  The beauty of a blog is that you decide what to write without any advice from an editor, publisher, or agent.    As with all “art” forms, some are better than others.  Anyone can write and the act of writing makes you a writer.  It doesn’t make you a good writer, just a writer.

My friend told me about Blogathon only a few days before it began this year. I was excited to try it.  I have been blogging a couple of years but not on a consistent basis.  Last year I participated in NaNoWriMo or National Novel Writing Month.  You commit to write 50,000 words in a month. It was much more difficult than I imagined.  But Blogathon was relatively easy.    When I look back at my blog posts, I am sure I came close to 50,000 words if not more.

I learned so much about myself as a writer during this month.  I shared things in writing I had never publicly shared.  I shared personal blogs, fiction, and photo blogs.  I even did a Wordle Cloud.  I did some free association writing, although I did go back and edit a bit.  I opened up on subjects that had been taboo in my mind.  I took some risks and I am so glad I did.  I watched my friend Jan, take some of the same risks in her writing.

My blog followers went from about five to 154.  I have almost 160 blog followers on Twitter.  I have just started using Tumbir and Pinterest for sharing blogs.  I went from an average of ten to twelve readers to an average of over one hundred for each post.  My highest number of reads in one day was 196.  I have 135 likes for my blog.  I have been overwhelmed at the numbers.

The most important thing I gained in this experience was confidence in my voice.  I may not be the most technically proficient writer.  I still use  passive verbs from time to time and I still struggle with commas and semi colons.  I do not use long flowery descriptions in my writing.  I write from my heart, my experience, and my truth.

The comments and emails from readers was amazing.  I had emails sharing very emotional details about life experiences from readers.  They felt safe sharing them with me.  They could relate to my experiences.  I had comments from readers who used words like inspired, touched, understood, appreciate, and moved.  People have complimented my writing and my stories.  There were a couple of posts that I was sure would change the world that didn’t receive the response I anticipated, while others I thought were just “OK” received overwhelming response.

My children shared comments of encouragement.  After sharing some thoughts about old family issues that I was sure would cause God to open the sky, point his lightening rod and strike me, nothing happened.  One brother made a comment that was actually supportive, at least I think it was.  I heard from some old friends and I met new blogging/writing friends.

Today on the last day of Blogathon, I know I am a writer.  I love writing.  I love being part of the blogging community. Every minute of stressing over a topic, checking and rechecking grammar and spelling, and constantly checking to see if anyone read my blog has been amazing.   Tomorrow I start Camp NaNoWriMo and will write 50,000 in a month.  I am excited and ready to begin.  I look forward to meeting some of you here again next year.

Buried Deep

The house looked the same as it did when I was seven years old.  There had been a few changes.  The carport turned screened in porch was now an addition to the house.  There was a single strong Live Oak tree in the yard where we played for many years. The backyard still had the old clothesline and the water well house in the back.  From the yard, you can see the bigger than life  Live Oak with limbs that reached down and hugged the ground.  That tree was “our” tree. My best friend and I rode its limbs like a horse and climbed high into its arms to hide from the world.  We pretended it was our fortress and in many ways, it was.  Now the house stood empty.

I woke that morning knowing that I must visit that house today.  There was a sense of urgency about it.  I didn’t know why but I knew I must go.  I opened the screen door and found the front door unlocked as if it was waiting for me.  I cautiously walked in and stood in the threshold for a moment.  I could hear the sounds of my childhood pouring through the house.  Memories rushed in as never before. Why was I here today?

A painting hung on the wall and drew me towards it.   I moved and stood directly in front of it.  I knew it was directing to me something.  It was a painting of boat at a dock.  I wasn’t sure I recognized the spot, but I sensed that I needed to go there and go quickly.  I turned and walked out the door pausing for a moment to look back and smile.  I then moved on with deliberateness to find the boat dock from the picture.

I drove as though something outside of myself was leading me.  I saw a road leading to the river and pulled off to the side.  I made my way through trees and weeds.  There it was-the boat dock from the picture.  There was a man standing on the dock and several people were already in the boat.  He beckoned me to hurry.  I made my way down the sandy slope to the landing.  Why am I going with these people?  I don’t know why I am here.  Yet, I knew I must go.  The man held my hand as I stepped down into the boat.

It wasn’t a big boat, but large enough for the ten us to sit comfortably.  It had only a small engine and some oars.  We smiled at each other in a rather polite way.  No one spoke.  I watched the beauty of the water and the sun spread its rays as if leading the way.  I felt the warm breeze as the boat moved along at a steady clip.

It seemed we had been riding for only a few minutes. The man who  helped us into the boat told us to get ready.  We pulled up to a boat landing.  He said he would be there waiting for our return.  Return from where?  Where were we going and why?  I got out of the boat and one at a time, he told us to follow the tree-lined  path that led into a deeply wooded area.   I should have been afraid but instead I was more curious.

After walking for a while, I arrived at an opening. I looked for the others but saw no one.  Ahead of me was a small village with houses all around.  Each house had many steps leading to the front door and each had a person standing at the door.  I finally saw others from my group. They were scattered up and down the street. The person from each house would in turn call a name.  I head my name called from a woman who was dressed in a brightly colored gypsy outfit. She was unremarkable otherwise, maybe in her thirties with intense green eyes.   I slowly walked towards the house.  I was hesitant, but she smiled and motioned me to come in.  I walked inside and noticed the same painting that had hung in the old house that morning.

The woman said we must hurry because the session was starting.  I was confused. I didn’t know anything about a session.  She didn’t speak again but led me through a passageway down some steps.  There were already eleven people in the room.  It was dark, the curtains were drawn, and candles provided the only light.  I sat as the woman approached the front of the room and joined an older man.  They called to a man who looked tired and aged beyond his years.

He walked to the front timidly and stood in front of the group looking out at us.  The couple asked him a question and suddenly he reached down and pulled what looked like a needle from his arm.  Then another question came; and another needle.  When he didn’t answer, the needle would appear and start to grow larger.  You could see he was in pain.

‘Please, Stop,” he begged.

“You can stop at any time, but there will be consequences.”

“I don’t care.  I am willing to take that chance.  I don’t want to do this.”

He stood and walked back into the group.  I didn’t know what to think?  What was this place?  Who are these people?

Then I heard my name.  I couldn’t move.  They called to me again.  I approached and faced the group.  The man whispered a question in my ear and I felt the first needle appear in my arm, then another and another.

“You must pull the needles out before they become swords.”  His words word firm but caring.

I pulled at one.  I felt a small stabbing pain as it came out.  I pulled another and then another.  I didn’t want to answer the questions.   I didn’t want to deal with this.  The longer I stood there, the bigger the needles became.   I knew I must take them out.  One by one, I started to pull.  The bigger they were, the more pain they caused.  As I looked out at the group, I noticed that the man who had gone before me was in anguish.  He now had swords in every part of his body.  I had to go on or become like him.

I didn’t know how much more I could take, and then I pulled the one last painful sword from my side.  I dropped to my knees.  At that moment, the curtains opened and sunlight poured into the room.  What had appeared to be almost a dungeon was now a charming and comfortable room.  I laughed aloud and started to cry tears of relief.   The group cheered and everyone gathered around.  There were hugs and laughter from all; all except the man who sat in the corner with his swords growing ever larger.  The man and women helped him move into another room.  We all looked at each other without a word.  In that moment, we realized it was something he must do for himself.  None of us could do it for him.

As the celebration ended, the woman led us to front door and said our boat would be waiting to take us back home.  I felt a sense of peace and understanding that I had never experienced before.   As I made my way back through the woods, I wondered about the man left behind.  Should I have done more to help him?  Maybe I should go back.  I turned and walked back towards the village.  I made my way to the house and walked up the steps.  The woman opened the door and she put her hand out to me.

“You do not want to return here.  Go and learn from your time here,” she said.

I made my way back to the path in the woods wondering exactly what I was to learn from my time here.   The boat ride back was more beautiful than before.  The sun was setting and the colors reflected the peace that I felt.  The water was smooth and calm.   I knew I must remember everything about this experience.

Morning came with a light breeze and warm sunshine.   I awoke from the dream.  It seemed so real. I could feel pain where I removed the needles and swords. I took pen and paper and recorded the experiences of the dream.  As I wrote, the meaning of the dream became clear.

Things happen in our lives that cause pain, confusion, anger, bitterness, and doubt.    We don’t always know how to deal with them, so we bury them.  We bury some so deeply that we sometimes forget they are there.  They are like the needles. They sit dormant until the day they make their way to the surface.  If we don’t pull them out, look at them, and learn from them, they will become huge, sharp swords.  Once that happens, they can become almost unbearable to remove.  If we choose not to remove them, they will destroy us.  We will sit alone in a room with our pain just as the man in the dream.

Pain is like a vampire, bury it and it rises again. Unknown Author

Defying the Odds -Diary of My Body Post

Here is the link to my post on Diary of My Body:

http://diaryofmybody.wordpress.com/2012/05/28/defying-the-odds/

I love to read other blogs, especially blogs that inspire me.  I can across Diary of My Body site a short time ago.  It is a writing collective that provides a platform for women to connect, share, and exchange stories about life, love, and the struggles and challenges of living in our body.  The site says the goal is to create a book of prose by women, for women, about the many battles, blessings, lessons, triumphs, and failures of loving our body in a society with such ridged standards of beauty.

I read more about the mission and then continued to read some of the stories women shared on the site.   The stories were funny, courageous, sometimes sad, but always real.  When I read a post “What is Diary of My Body-A Mission Statement”, I knew I wanted to be a part of this.

I wrote my story and submitted it to the site and yesterday they posted my story.  I wanted to share this site and my story with you here today. I would encourage everyone to take a moment and check out the site. If you are a woman writer, you might consider submitting your own story.  Just click on the “Our Mission” link at the top for instructions.

Wordle Blog Day

The challenge was to take your blog posts and create a Wordle Cloud from it.  I pulled the words from my tags and blog post titles as well as letting the program choose words.   It was pretty complicated to get it here so I hope you enjoy!!   Only three days left in Blogathon!

HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY EVERYONE!

Scavenger Hunt Challenge–Something Different

I have to admit, I stole this blog idea from my friend, Jan.  One day when she is ready to share her blog with the world, I will link you to her.     The idea is to take 5 new pictures interpreting the prompts.  There are new ones each week. The rules are easy and the hunt is fun. Click over to Ramblings and Photos to find out how to join in.   Here is my attempt at this new challenge.

1. BENEATH YOUR FEET

This is the bottom of my new Sketchers sandals.   They are the “Tone Up” sandal and as it says you get a work out while you walk.  I spend a lot of time at the gym or doing other types of exercise.  I  have had some foot and knee problems, so I always look for shoes that give me some support.  I also love Sketchers.  I first discovered them when my friend Sonia was wearing them.  She got them in England when she went back to her home to visit family.   I own Sketchers sandals, tennis shoes, casual shoes and dress shoes (called Something Else by Sketchers).

2.   Capturing Movement

I have to admit this was not taken this week.  I took it a couple of weeks ago when I was at a retreat in Montreat, NC.  The water was flowing from the rock above and continued to flow along the small creek.   It was such a small stream but the sound of the flowing water was magnified by the trees and woods in this mountain area.  It reminded me that while the water was gentle and calm, it also is capable of such tremendous power once it starts to flow.  I know I am capable of that same power if I am willing to let it flow.

3. TEXTURE

This is my favorite blanket.  It isn’t really a blanket but a Snuggie (a blanket with sleeves). It is made of the softest fleece I have ever felt.  It keeps me warm and comfortable when I get cold.  I love the way it feels against my skin.  And yes, it is mine and it has my friend Sponge Bob’s picture all over it.

4. Currently

This is my desk at home.  I spend a lot of time here.  You can see my Sonic cup on left.  I get a Sonic tea (unsweet to save calories) every day.    I have been spending more and more time here since I have been doing Blogathon and writing more in general.  This is a piece of my life I love most.  The small stuffed bear is the one my friend  gave me twenty five years ago on my first anniversary of getting sober.  I keep him there to remind me that she is still here in my heart even thought she gone.  The top of the desk is covered with my variety assortment of Tinkerbell’s.  People continue to give me Tinkerbell gifts and I am afraid I will run out of room for her.

5. FACE YOUR FEARS

I wasn’t sure what I could take a picture of  for this one.  When I pulled up to my church this morning,  I knew this was the picture I would share.  I shared my church story in a blog recently.  I left the church many years ago.  I knew I wanted to go back but fear kept me away.  I was afraid that like before, I wouldn’t fit in,  I wouldn’t be accepted, I would feel unworthy, or that I would become “that person again” who hated herself because she just didn’t measure up.  This is the church where I made my comeback.  I have been taking baby steps in becoming a part of the church.  But my steps are getting bigger and stronger all the time.  The fear isn’t totally gone, but it isn’t nearly as powerful as  it was.   I have found a place where I can worship, learn, and grow.   I feel at home here and that is an amazing gift.   I also received another unexpected gift in finding an amazing new friendship with my pastor and her daughter.  The more I know them and spend time with them, the more I love them.   I believe God may have had a hand in directing me to this place.   Fear isn’t nearly as scary  as it seems when I face it.

Hope you enjoyed the Sunday Scavenger Hunt.  Thanks for coming along.

Thoughts about My Mother

I have been thinking about my mother the past few days.  The picture is my daughter, me, Claudia, and my grandson Austin.  There is no particular reason for remembering- no anniversary, birthday, etc.  She has just been on my mind.  Today my brother posted a comment about some things that happened to us growing up and it just seemed to spark my thoughts about her more.   I shared information about all my brothers and sisters in a blog last week.   My mother, Claudia, had three children.  I was the oldest.  My younger brother, Mike, is eighteen months younger than I am.  After she left us, she got pregnant and had a little girl, Jill, and gave her up for adoption at birth.  We didn’t find out about that until Jill was twenty-one.

Claudia had a very rough life.  Her mother and father met and married in Brooklyn, New York.   They were both practicing alcoholics, but according to Claudia, her father was a very kind and loving man.  She didn’t have those same feeling about her own mother, Dorothy.  Dorothy left her when she was six years to move to South Carolina with another man.

Claudia’s father was a Merchant Marine and when WWII started, he had to go back out to sea.  He sent nine-year-old Claudia to live with his Aunt and her family.  She was a very religious woman and her husband was Sheriff in the small town of Rossville, Ga.   The Aunt didn’t like having another child to raise.  Uncle began molesting her not long after she arrived. Claudia’s father died just a couple of years later in sanitarium from complication of cirrhosis of the liver.  She lived with the Aunt and Uncle until she was thirteen.    Her uncle was caught “in the act” and Claudia was sent to Charleston, SC to live with her mother.

Things weren’t great there either.  She met a young sailor when she was fifteen and they ran away and eloped.  By nineteen, she had two young children and was in an abusive marriage.  She did the only thing she thought she could do and left.    At the time, she felt it was the best thing to do to protect her and my brother and me.

Over the years, she learned to be a fighter.  She had to in order to survive. She was a strong determined woman.   She managed to find jobs and excel in them.  She worked her way of the ladder in the companies where she worked and was very successful.  All of this while hiding the fact that she had never graduated from high school.

Claudia was what many people considered a “hard” woman.  She didn’t take anything from anyone.  It was often embarrassing to be in a restaurant or store with her.  She was demanding and downright rude at times.  I believe it was her defense mechanism and a way of protection.   If you got to know her, you would find that she was a very caring person.  She would go out of her way to help a friend.  However, she kept her distance emotionally from almost everyone.

She left us when I was four years old.  She moved back in with my Grandparents and me when I was six. She stayed for a few months and then moved to Chicago and then to Los Angeles.  My Grandmother finally gave in and let me go to visit her for my 16^th birthday.  I stayed in LA with her for most of the summer.  It was one of the best times of my life.  She and her husband moved back to South Carolina shortly after that.  I was so excited.   Her husband was a union truck driver and had a very difficult time finding a job in this nonunion state.  They moved back to LA a few months later.  I was devastated.  It was the first time I remember being a serious depression.  I stayed in my room in bed for several days.  Carol and Mamma Pearl were able to get me to come out and start to function again.

Claudia was one of the only people in my family who was not an alcoholic.  She just married them.   She married a lot of them.   Her name was Claudia Manery, Altman, Keaton, Suits, Fairbanks, Sheldon, Haber.  The longest marriage was fifteen years.  The shortest was 364 days.  Her last husband was not an alcoholic.  They seemed to love each other very much.  He still emails from time to time to tell me how much he misses her.

She only saw my brother a few times after he moved out of his house and joined the Navy.  He was stationed in San Diego.  After getting married my husband and I moved to LA with my mother’s help. We were all able to spend a little bit of time together.  After Mike left the area, he didn’t see my mother again.

When my sister Jill found me while searching for her biological mother, we started a relationship.  She talked to Claudia on the phone one time and then Claudia sent her a letter but didn’t seem to want a relationship with her.  Jill contacted her by email a couple of times shortly before I got married in March 2007.  They were both at my wedding and neither of them spoke to each other.  They stayed as far away from each other as possible.  Someone took a picture and you can see my sister and mother across from each other in the buffet line.  They didn’t look at each or speak.  Pretty sad, don’t you think?

She had some very serious health issues. She started smoking at thirteen when she moved in with her Mother and Stepfather.  She told me they gave her cigarettes and booze and took her to the clubs with them.    Like me, she struggled with her weight most of her life.   By the time she was in her late fifties, she had emphysema and diabetes.   That is the reason I have been so serious about living a healthy lifestyle.   She had something called spinal stenosis and had two surgeries to correct it.  Neither of them really helped.  She asked for a third repair and the doctors advised against it because of her other health issues.  In August of 2008, she went into the hospital for the surgery.  She never recovered from the surgery and eventually developed pneumonia and died in late September.

I had planned to go and see her on her birthday in October.  She died before I was able to see her again.   We never had a close mother/daughter relationship.  She didn’t really have close relationships with anyone.  But, we had the best relationship we could.  I wish we could have had more time to work on changing that.

Many of you know that my best friend died in March of 2008.  My mother died in October of 2008.  I went into therapy with Rhonda just a few months before she died.  I am so grateful for her support and the support of family and friends.  It was a devastating time in my life.  My daughter and a friend drove to Florida and helped her husband handle everything.

I brought home a few of her things.  She loved frogs and collected hundreds of them.  I brought home just a few.  I also came home with her stuffed Willie Nelson doll and a beautiful painting showing her with the dog she loved, some Native American icons, and angels surrounding her.  She loved things like crystals, tarot card, psychics, etc.  Her nickname was WooWoo Lady because of her affinity for those New Age types of things.  She also had tattoos, several ear piercing, and white hair with a long rat tail. She was a character for sure.

I have been writing a lot this month.  I have been doing Blogathon and we are at 25 days now.  I have also been working on a memoir type of manuscript.  I have been writing about my life and some of what I have written here I took from that.  I imagine that is why she is on my mind so much.

For many years, I rarely used the word love except with my children.  I lavished it on them.  Honestly,  it was a word that scared me.  After getting clean and sober and being in therapy, I started to be able to use the word. My kids and grand kids hear it all the time.  I don’t use the word lightly or too freely.  I have friends who tell everyone, “I love you.”   If I tell my friends, “I love you”, I really do.    I didn’t tell my mother I loved her very often.  I wish I had told her more.

Coloring Outside The Lines

About three years ago, I went to therapy for the second time in my life. I was blessed to have Rhonda as my  therapist.  When I saw this picture, I emailed it to Rhonda.   During one of our early sessions, she asked a question about coloring books and crayons from my childhood.  Huge portions of my childhood are still buried deep in the caverns of my brain, but there are things I do remember.

“I didn’t like coloring books. I still don’t.  I remember getting in trouble one time over a coloring book and crayons.”

Rhonda gave me one of her raised eyebrow looks.  “Why don’t you like coloring books?  Do you ever get coloring books and color with your grand kids?”

“No, I don’t.  I still have the same thoughts that got me into trouble back then. It was so much work to stay inside the lines.  It seemed silly.  I told the teacher I didn’t want to finish filling in a picture someone else drew. I wanted to draw my own pony or tree or flower.  She said you couldn’t do that unless you were an artist and could draw well enough for people to know what you were drawing.  Seriously?  An artist drew the stupid pony?   So, I did what they wanted and colored the damn pony.  I colored it pink.  That made them mad, too. I finally decided to stop making people mad.”

Rhonda smiled.  “You have spent a lot of your life doing it the way ‘they’ wanted?”

It’s true.  I spent far too much of my life finishing other people’s pictures, coloring inside the lines, and being who I was expected to be.  I have been changing.  It is a slow process.  One day I colored the pony brown, next time, yellow, then orange, and eventually I got brave enough to color it pink.  Then I just went hog-wild and drew my own pony.

I started to think about the ways I have stayed “inside the lines” over my life.  I don’t go outside the lines just to prove to a point or to say I am better than you are.  I am different, not better or worse.  Different isn’t always bad.

I can hear my Grandmother’s voice now.  “Fat girls don’t wear white pants.”  “You have to wear stripes going down, never across”.  “People should not dye their hair…..God gave you the hair color he wanted you to have.”  “Fingernail polish, NO!”  The only jewelry you should wear is a cross necklace and a wedding ring.”  “No white shoes before Easter or after Labor Day.”  You see all the rules.  Yes, she really did say all those things.

I wrote about breaking some of the rules in my blog Red Hair, A Feather, and Funky Blue Fingernail Polish.  I wear white pants and last fall I wore a pair of white sandals after Labor Day.  It’s who I am.

I stayed “inside the lines” when I went to college and got married right away.  We knew each other six weeks when we eloped.  I was only eighteen years old and knew nothing about real life.  It was a very unhappy and unhealthy marriage, but I stayed there for almost 17 years because it is what they told me God expected me to do.   God didn’t tell me that, but other people who said they represented God did.

SPOILER ALERT——In the movie Blue Like Jazz, the main character is talking with an atheist.  “Do you forgive me,” he asks, “for misrepresenting God?”  I have been guilty of it myself.  Have you?

Here are a few other things they said God expected of me:

1.  You can’t have African-American friends or invite them to church.  (We have to add gay people to that rule now.)
2. You are a woman.  Know your place.  (God obviously doesn’t like women.)
3. You must be in church every time the door is open and take every position offered to you.  (Accept you can’t be ordained as anything because you are a woman.)
4. You may not interpret scripture.  You may not ask questions.  You must accept all we say as though it is direct from God.
5. You must not learn about other cultures and religions.  And, remember that Catholicism in is a cult.
6. Rock music is bad, dancing is bad, makeup is bad…….. ad infinitum

Family rules were impressive as well.

1. You must eat everything on your plate or children in China will die.
2. Don’t ask questions. You will be informed on a need to know basis.
3. You must feel guilty about something every day.
4. Conform—dress like everyone else, read what they read, listen to what they listen to, etc.  (everyone at church, that is)
5. Don’t tell anyone anything that goes on in your home or with your family. That included all the types of abuse that were going on in my life. It also meant you had to lie when asked.  I think that surely violated some rule from the things God didn’t want you to do.

There are more and you may have your own list.  I tried so hard to follow all the rules. I did a good job for a very long time.  I know because I was so very miserable. I couldn’t do it anymore.  I managed to go so far outside the lines that I went off the page.

When my life on this earth is over, I want everyone to see my life as an amazing picture.  I want to draw it myself.  It should have beautiful colors and shapes. I want it to be a picture my family and friends look at and see something special just for them.  When you look at my picture, you will never see the person God called me to be if I live”inside the lines”.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to The Hairdresser

GINGER THOMPSON

Today I went to see my hairdresser, Ginger.  I have to go every three weeks because my hair grows at the speed of light.  I love going to see Ginger.  She has been my hairdresser and friend for about eight years.   A couple of years ago, she opened her own salon.  I love going to get my hair done, spending time with her, and sometimes just dropping by to hang out.

Today we started reminiscing and laughing about something that happened a couple of years ago.  I jokingly mentioned that I should write a blog about it.

“Oh, that would be so cool.  You should do it.”  Ginger gave me her mischievous smile.

“Really?  You know-that is a good idea. I think I will write it.  It was so funny.  I won’t mention your name or the shop.”

“Why?  Go ahead and use my name.  I don’t care.  I tell everyone anyway.  You will have to tell them how much you love your hairdresser.  I was gone for 21 days and you needed your hair done, so you rescued me.”

“I didn’t rescue you just so you could do my hair.”    We were both laughing at this point.  Here is the story of the rescue.

_______________________________________________________________

I stopped by the shop one morning to see Ginger. I had tried calling the day and  night before .  When she didn’t answer or return my call I thought something was wrong.  Her significant other (hereafter known as SO) was at the shop.  He was obviously upset.  He motioned for me to come to the back of the shop.  He said he hadn’t had time to call me yet.

“Ginger is in jail.  It is a big mess.  I don’t know how I am going to handle the shop, and house, the kids.”

“What?  Why is she in jail?  Which jail is she in?  Is she OK?”  I was shooting off questions faster than he could answer.

He explained the situation.  I am not going to share all of the details here, but there was a mix up with some money that should have gone to the county and was sent to North Carolina instead.  Ginger had gone to court with paperwork and assumed she would be able to get things straightened out.  WRONG.  The Judge put her in jail until the money was paid.  Now they had to get the money redirected from North Carolina and that was going to take some time.

I kept in touch with SO and sent love and support through messages from him.  I told him I would do anything I could to help with the shop and kids,etc. The jail was in another county and visitation was limited.  One day SO called me.

“Cathy, we just got the money from North Carolina.  They screwed up again and it went into our bank account instead of to the court.  If we can get the money to the court, they will release her.  I don’t have any way to do it. I have to be at the shop and I don’t have a car.”

“What can I do to help?” I had an idea where this was going.

“Would you be able to take me to the bank and then drive out to the jail and get her?”

I checked my calendar, called my boss and explained that I needed to be gone for the rest of the day. I have gotten someone out of jail before and it may take 15 minutes to handle the paperwork but rarely takes less than 2 or 3 hours or more for the jail to release someone.   I drove to the shop, went to the bank, and headed out to the other county with over $3000 in cash in my purse.  Now that my friends, is trust.

I had to go to the courthouse first, pay the money, and get the paperwork.  Fortunately, the courthouse is just across a courtyard from the jail.  The clerk processed the payment and told me the paperwork would go across to the jail in just a few minutes.  It was after lunchtime so they had already handled processing people from the morning.  It was going to be a while.  I got my book and IPod from the car and went to the covered shelter in the middle of the courtyard.  It was a small shelter.  On one side, there was a Coke machine, a big ashtray, and a wooden bench.  There was also a bench on the other side.  I sat on the bench across from the Coke machine so I would have a direct view of the door of the jail where the released the “residents” would exit.

I had been sitting for about half an hour when a well-dressed young women walked up the sidewalk carrying a large bag filled with boxes of meals from a local chicken fast food place.  I wondered if there was going to be a picnic lunch and if I would be invited.  She placed the bag and her small briefcase on the bench.  She looked at her watch and then turned and smiled.  She explained that her guest must be late.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an older woman in an old-fashioned black polyester pants suit.  She approached the young woman and apologized for running behind.  She said Harry was coming but he had a bit of hard time walking.   I saw the older woman look around and say, “Oh here he is.”

I looked and saw a much older gentleman walking up the sidewalk.  He had a cane and walked slowly but deliberately.  He had a big smile  on his face and he looked EXACTLY  like Colonel Sanders (Kentucky Fried Chicken Icon).  He had on the same white suit with a black ribbon bow tie that the good Colonel himself always wore.  It would have been even stranger if  the fast food chicken the young woman was carrying was KFC.

Now my interest was really peaked.  Were these the parents of the young woman?  Was there going to be a family reunion?   Was she just meeting them to exchange paperwork?   It wouldn’t take long to find out exactly what was going on. You won’t believe this one.  As Colonel Sanders approached, the younger woman motioned for him to come over.

“Hello, my name is Mary Smith.  How are you today, Sir?”  The young woman smiled at the older gentleman.

“What did she say?” he asked of the older woman.  She repeated the younger woman’s question and suggested he move closer.

The young woman asked if they had the paperwork.  The older woman pulled something from her purse and handed it to her.

“Great, everything looks in order.  Do you have the rings?”

“Did she really say rings?” I thought.

The older woman pulled the rings from her purse and handed them to the young woman.  The Colonel was hard of hearing and the young woman had to speak very loudly.

For the next ten minutes, I was witness to the Colonel and the older woman’s wedding.  Yes, a wedding took place in the courtyard between the courthouse and the jail.  The young woman pronounced them man and wife and I was grateful the ceremonial kiss was a brief peck.  As they turned to leave, I felt I needed to say something.

“Congratulations.” I said.  I was just a witness to their marriage so it seemed I should say something.  The new bride left Colonel Sanders on the bench to wait while she got the car.  Colonel introduced himself and told me enough to let me know that he was financially well off.

“Oh, here she comes.  See that new Lexus SUV.  I just bought that for her.  Pretty, isn’t it?”  Now I understood the attraction.   He bid me farewell, walked the car, and off they went for a glorious honeymoon in the Bahamas.

About two hours later, I saw Ginger walk out the door of the jail. I started to hug her but she said I might want to wait because she hadn’t had a shower in two days.  The overcrowded conditions in the jail only allowed for showers every other day.

I told Ginger about the courtyard wedding.  She laughed as I described the event.  I could see the relief on Ginger’s face.  As we road home, she described the conditions in the jail.  Her heart was heavy as she told me the stories of some of the women she met.  Ginger has a big heart.  She would have brought many of the women home if she could.

Every now and then, something will remind us of that day.  We will laugh about Colonel Sander’s wedding at the jail.  She will tell people that I came to get her out of jail because I needed my hair done.  Everyone laughs.  I look at Ginger and our eyes meet.  We both smile the kind of smile friends share when they know something no one else knows.   I know her heart still hurts for those women she met and left behind in the  jail that day.

If you would like to meet Ginger in person or come to the best hair salon, check out NOLAS (SALON spelled backwards) at   http://www.nolassalon.net/

If I Started Blogging Today

If I started blogging today….the first thing I would do is find out who in the heck named this thing blogging.  What is up with that? It is almost as strange as Google.  If you don’t know where they got that name, you can Google it.  I know the term blog came from combining two words, web and log….weblog…blog.  It is makes no sense to me.  I don’t write a log.  I write stories, essays, informative pieces, and more. I suppose you could refer to it as a log of my writings, but that is really stretching it.  This is just my humble opinion.  I assume you will now ask me to tell you what I would call it.   I would have to do some thinking about that but perhaps we could call it “SWOLing” (Sharing Writing On Line).

I started blogging with Blogger.  I started because my friend created a blog and then my son followed  with one.  I had just created a website and had planned to share my writing there in time.   Facebook became a part of my life at that period as well.  I still have my website but I don’t really use it the way I had intended.

Blogger was easy to learn and allowed me to post and share with a small group of select people.  I wasn’t comfortable sharing yet.  I didn’t post regularly and I didn’t have a real idea of where I wanted to go with it.

A friend used WordPress and explained that only amateurs used Blogger.  Amateur “whats” I don’t know because almost everyone I know who blogs is an amateur. Published writers may have a blog but it is usually to sell their books.    I did not want to be considered an amateur so I created a second private blog on WordPress.

In January this year, I made the switch to using my WordPress account as my main blog.  I had a much clearer idea of what I wanted to do. I made my blog public and started sharing it anywhere I could.  WordPress opened more doors for different types of readers and I have been very excited about that.

If I started blogging today, I would not have waited so long to share my blog with everyone.  Fear held me back.  I stepped out of my comfort zone and shared my writing with the world.  The world didn’t end, lightening didn’t strike my computer, people didn’t email hate mail and tell me to stop writing, nor did any of the other irrational fears come true.

Did you goggle Google yet?  Let me save you some time.   Here is what Google says about it, “The name ‘Google’ is a play on the word ‘googol,’ coined by Milton Sirotta, nephew of American mathematician Edward Kasner. A ‘googol’ refers to the number represented by a 1 followed by 100 zeros. It’s a very large number. In fact, there isn’t a googol of anything in the universe — not stars, not dust particles, not atoms. Google’s use of the term reflects our mission to organize the world’s immense (seemingly infinite) amount of information and make it universally accessible and useful.”  Weird, right?

I am thinking I might just start writing a SWOL instead of blog.  Who’s with me?

My Safe Spaces

This week I read a blog written by Dr. Kathy Murphy entitled, “Your Safe Space.”  http://kathymurphyphd.com/2012/05/where-is-your-safe-space/

She describes a place in her home overlooking the water where she has a large overstuffed chair along with books, candles, other comfort items.  This is her place for reading, quiets meditations, and visualizing her hopes and dreams.   I would love to create a place like that for myself, but  I have a small house with very little extra space, a dog, a cat, and a husband at home full-time.  Noise seems to be a constant companion in my house.

She went on to wrote  that safe spaces don’t have to be  literal places.  We can learn to create that space for ourselves even in the midst of chaos.  We can create a place within ourselves that allows us to find peace in any circumstance.  I plan to learn a lot more about that as I work with Kathy in our  weekly group.    I have attended workshops about meditation and other types of philosophies that are helping me develop my inner safe place as well.

In her blog, she says that finding a safe place in another person or a group of people is a gift.  For some of us that might be family.   For others it may be a friend, a faith group, or a support group of some kind.    These are the people who can look at you and see past the image; the image you hold up for the world to see.  They care about you and want only the best for you.  These are the people who know the real you.  These relationships are the ones that allow for giving and receiving.  There is a mutual trust and concern for each other. One never depletes the other.  When you are with these people (in person or not) you can breathe and let your hair down.

I spent a lot of my life being afraid to let anyone be a safe space for me.   I had good reason.  As a young child,  many people I cared about left my life.   As people would leave, I began to believe that I was the cause.   I believed they left because of me.   I tried to change to please everyone.   I kept the real me hidden from the world.   Things became more confusing when my best friend died after being caught in our rope swing and then my favorite uncle died unexpectedly. He was my the only adult in my life  who created that “safe space” for me.   The pattern seemed to repeat itself throughout my life.   I continued to transform myself into the person I believed allowed others to care about me.

In my late thirties, I found my way into therapy and began to realize that being a fake me didn’t make people love, stay with me, or keep me safe.  I began to figure out who I was really was.  It hasn’t always been easy.   I would often slip back into being a people-pleasing doormat.  Other times I would become an absolute “bitch” and dare you to like me.  The hardest part was finding out who I really was and learning to love myself.

At sixty years old, I am finally comfortable being myself.  I know what makes me happy and what makes me safe.  I am no longer willing to change who I am so you will like me.  I realize the sun will not implode, the stars will not fall from the sky, and I will not become a vagabond if you don’t like me or I don’t particularly like you. I don’t pretend to like the same music you do or enjoy an insufferable activity to fit in.  I seek people who create that safe place for me.  I choose to focus my time on things that help me become the person I am meant to be.

I may not have a window by the water in a quiet place in my house.  I do have the gift of safe spaces in my life.  Writing allows me to expose my inner desires, fears, the things I love or hate, how I feel about events in the world or my life, and anything else I choose.    I have a friend who shares my love of writing.  We haven’t been friends long but she has become one of my safe spaces.   I am blessed to have found a few others who  hold that safety for me as well.

I am part of the weekly coaching group I mentioned.  I recently began martial arts training and I have workshops with people who are like minded.  Yesterday I wrote about becoming part of a church again and finding acceptance in a place from which I had been alienated  for many years.  All of these are becoming safe spaces for me.

In my safe spaces, I see the reflection of the true spirit of my being.  I find the power to achieve my dreams.  I feel the unconditional acceptance and love I longed for as a child.  I learn to reclaim my joy and I am at peace.  I dance to the music even if you can’t quite hear it yet.

Do you have people who are safe spaces in your life?  Have you created other safe spaces?