Supplement update 1

So, things get a little rough when Rod gets home after a business trip because he doesn't sleep well the first couple of nights which means I don't sleep either. That said, there were a couple of naps.

But, there's a sunny spot. My typical feeling on overcast days is one of a thick, cobwebby something behind my eyes. I feel like I should be able to scrape the cobwebs away and have clear thinking abilities.  Through the past few overcast days, I've not had that feeling so much. This is lovely. 

Again, I know that it may not mean much to the average person who hasn't struggled; and that's okay. It means a lot to me. It means a lot to my family because I can do more and engage more with them.

Fingers crossed.

Just the Same Old

Did you ever go along feeling the same old way for so long that you forgot that you ever felt any other way?  Apparently I have been.  I've not felt alive or healthy or energetic or anything for so long. I've gone to doctors who've told me I'm not sick enough to treat--almost, but not quite.  So I've sucked it up. And sucked it up. And sucked it up. I've learned to make feeling like crap normal.  Is that wrong? I mean, I've tried and I can't get better. 

So, out of a vague memory of an herbal supplement from 20 years ago that helped me feel better than I'd felt in years (yeah, it's odd to say that when 20 years ago I was a 20-something wandering around feeling like crap all the time), I picked some up again. I've been on it for 4 or 5 days. And I'm going to say that the strangest thing is happening. I've been able to function without a nap for 2 days. Now, you may not think that's much, but to me it's huge.  You may say, "It's only 4 or 5 days so you can't know for sure." Yeah, I'm not getting my hopes up; but I'm hopeful. I'm hopeful because I woke up on time feeling like I'd slept last night. I'm hopeful because I did multiple errands without any dread. I'm hopeful because I still felt like I had life left in me after the errands and I made meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner. And I swept floors and did laundry and dishes. And I cleaned my bathroom. And it's almost 9:30 pm and I'm doing okay. I'm tired but not the usual exhausted. Just tired. 

So, maybe I can learn to have a new normal where I can think clearly and process things that need to be done and then be able to accomplish those things.  If things are still chugging along nicely in a week, I'll spill the beans on the supplement.

I'm just a temp from Chiswick

If you  know me, you know I love Doctor Who. It doesn't matter if it's classic or new Who because I love it. I love the cheesy drama. I love the fanciful. I love the dream.

The Doctor always has his companions. He needs his companions. They are important to him. They help keep him sane. 

I feel like I'm often Rose or Donna from new Who. My life is mundane.  It's getting up every morning and doing the same.old.thing. I'm nothing special. I'm just a wife and mom. I get buried in the routine.

I sweep the same floors every day and yet they never look clean. Kids, dogs, and life in general come right behind me and muck them all up. I can never have an empty sink. As soon as I dry my hands and turn off the kitchen light, someone comes behind me and creates more work. I clean up clutter piles and then turn around to find them all right back where I cleaned them.  

I donate about 15-15 gallon trash bags of stuff to charity every year. Some years more, depending on how much the kids have grown.  And yet there's always more stuff to replace what I took out.  

This is my every day. This is my all week.  This is all year. Mundane. Routine. Rut.

It's nothing to write about. "I'm just a temp from Chiswick. I'm nothing special."  

Except that writing is supposed to help me break out of my rut; maybe it's supposed to simply help me see beyond my rut. This is a bit of a quandry because how is writing about the same old thing every day for 365 days going to help me see things better?

On the other hand, I am an introvert. I don't need new and exciting things. That sort of thing just wears me out.

Maybe next year's resolution will be 365 days of reading.

Are you well read?

I saw a post on Book Riot about being well read.  I think it was a very good article because it addressed the fact that there are various notions about what being well read looks like. The article, which I will link at the end nailed it perfectly.  And I feel better about myself now.

Being well read isn't based upon someone's list of requirements.  You know. those lists of books that come flooding by telling you 17 books that should be read by the time you are 16; 20 books to read in your 20's; 12 books to read to your 2 year old. Yeah, those.  And every time you look at those lists, you see how you failed to be well read.

Well, it's time to take heart.  Just because you didn't read that author's/blogger's/editor's picks doesn't mean you failed.  It means that maybe you've enjoyed a lot of things others missed.  

I mean, if your list includes The Odyssey, The Inferno, The Brothers Karamazov, Little Dorrit, a Jonathan Winters biography, a few other obscure biographies, and a mish-mash of non-fiction, vs. The Bell Jar, A Passage to India, Frankenstein, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and biographies about JFK, MLK, and Harry Truman, how are you any less well read than the if the list were switched? 

The point of being well read is to read.  Just read.  Pick up a book and devour it. Let the fictional characters beat you up; live life with those in the biographies; learn something useful from the non-fiction.

Isn't that the point of reading? Variety is the spice of life. Being well read means you read things that aren't by your favorite author. It means picking up things that might be a little hard and persevering through them and being richer at the end. 

And if you and I cannot discuss what books we have in common, we can still converse about books we don't have in common because we will share recommendations. 

Go forth and read, Friends!

Are you well read?

New Years Resolution

I don't typically make New Year's resolutions. I break them by February, beat myself up for my lack of perfection or my lack of self-discipline and then there goes the year.  But this year, I'm making one. I'm calling it 365 Days of Writing.

I love to write.  I am not necessarily good at it, but I remember when it was an outlet for me. Becoming a mother sort of plugged the outlet. I don't have time, I  tell myself. But, I do have time.  As I look back at what my life has been during the last 6 months, all I can say is that it hasn't been pretty.

I'm tired. I'm overwhelmed. I've got absolutely zero motivation to get through Christmas. (That's a whole story in itself that would take too long to explain.)  I do know how I've arrived at this place and it's not a fair story for me to share.  I'm not sure how I'm going to move past this place.  I think sleep might be good, but rest might be better.  

So, my writing may be blogged but it may not be. It will, however, be done.  I need to do it.  My brain needs some freedom.

Set a spell

I am currently reading Life on the Mississippi by Mark Twain. Along with that, I'm reading various reviews of the book.  I'm amazed at the number of one and two star reviews that come with words  like "boring" and "needs a heavy-handed editor."  This gives me pause as I read the book and I wonder whether we are reading the same book.

Then, these unhappy readers add that they quit reading when they hit about 43% of the book (yeah, e-version.)  I understand because at about 43% in the e-version, the tone of the story changes.  It's no longer the Mark Twain everyone thinks they know and love.  It becomes someone else.  It becomes Samuel Clemens. 

If you have never had the privilege of sitting on the front porch on a summer evening with a country boy and plenty of sweet tea, you cannot understand what happens at that point in the book.  About that point in the book, we return to the river after a long absence. Twain has done a lot of living and a lot of growing.  He's filled himself with more experiences and has come back an entirely new person.  His first love, however, is still there.  

So, now pretend you are talking with a guy on his front porch while he recalls life.  Pretend you are with my parents' neighbor, Ike. Or pretend you are with my Uncle John.  You are listening to life now.  You are listening to the humorous things; you are hearing the hard things.  You have to listen to the ridiculous as well.  It's all in there.  Just listen.  Hear the wisdom from one who has lived and done a thousand things.  Listen for the heartache; listen for the joy.  

This book is rich. But if you aren't prepared to listen, you won't get it.  And when you don't get it, you will put a very good book down.

The year I knew we were poor

I had the childhood dreams are made of.  We lived in Arizona and there was always plenty of open desert to wander through.  We found treasure around every corner.  We forged our own paths.  We learned life lessons.  We played in snow. We walked to school. We fed the pets and gathered the eggs from the chickens.  

We didn't know how poor we were because we had so much.  We had friends. We had a roof over our heads. We had food on the table.  We had a car.  For a while, we even had piano lessons.

I didn't know we were poor until my birthday that year.  I may have been 9 or maybe 10.  There was not a dime for me to have "real" birthday presents.  My mom sat up at night making me a quilt for my bed.  Then, she got cardboard boxes and made a Barbie Dream Home for me.  

That was the year I understood how poor my family was.  I knew my clothes would rarely be brand new.  I knew that I wouldn't have the great stuff my classmates had.  But I will tell you something.  I had the greatest quilt ever made.  I had the grandest Barbie mansion ever created by human hands.  

I had those because that was the year I also learned how exceedingly rich I was.