Walking With Brody

Took Brody out for a walk earlier.  The day was calling for rain but it was unseasonably warm out, so I wanted to at least give him a chance of enjoying it a bit before the rain started.  I got us semi-bundled up and we headed out.

I kind of let him choose the direction we went in, because it’s usually just a quick jaunt along one end of our street or the other.  Once he’d decided, though, I felt we could probably get away with cutting across to another block and continue on a route we haven’t taken in quite some time.  I knew he’d like it and have the chance to investigate all the smells along the way.

The thing is, we got going, and the clouds broke apart and floated away.  The sun came out, and it got even warmer.  I ended up taking his jacket off, and decided we should just keep walking.  I think we went further than our usual long route, even!  And he was awesome.  He seemed to be in a great mood, and in no hurry, but not stopping for long at any point.  Just sniffing and peeing and trotting along the way he does.  It was so quiet and relaxing and we met other dogs and people – it was just really really nice.

i even thanked him for it when we were riding back up to the apartment in the elevator!

Obvious harm to our planet’s environment aside, it was really nice to just hang out with the puppy and explore our neighbourhood a bit and not be in any kind of rush, or have a goal in mind.

I’d never have done anything like that before living with a dog.  He has definitely changed my life – and me – in our short time together so far.  I actually have a lot of anxiety in terms of leaving my apartment, let alone interacting with others once I do so.  And in the beginning, if I saw people coming along the sidewalk Brody and I were on, I’d have mini panic attacks and brace for the possibility that I would have to acknowledge them in some way.  It was sometimes a bit better if the other people had dogs, too, but I soon learned you never really know how THAT’S going to go, either, so I started stressing about that, too.

And while Brody hasn’t turned me into a social butterfly who loves going out to roam around, he has made significant changes in how I relate to my immediate world.  For one, I actually know some of my neighbours, both in the building and in the area.  We greet one another whether there are dogs with any of us, or not.  I still have anxiety leaving the apartment and encountering others along the way, but it’s not nearly as bad.  Sometimes I barely even notice it.  Walking with Brody has taught me a new level of patience, both with the speed (or lack thereof) in which we walk, and the number of times we stop, mixed with the duration of those stops.

Brody slows me down and teaches me how to just wander and explore without any goal in mind.  I’m not just going to the store, or the subway to get to work.  On days like today, we go for a walk.  I catch myself taking in the trees and sounds and air around us.  And also taking a crazy number of pictures because I actually live in a pretty nice area, and while Brody doesn’t seem to love the park as much as I do, we both still get a lot of peace from just roaming the quiet little residential streets, as well.

I don’t think I’d ever go out on my own, or anything, but I sure do love going for long lazy walks with this cute silly puppy dog, and that’s a HUGE difference for me!


Food Matters

I need to evaluate, re-evaluate and keep re-evaluating my relationship with food.  I can’t break up with food, so I need to find a way to make our relationship much healthier than it’s ever been, and keep it that way.  Much easier said than done, of course, and perhaps not even entirely possible.  But it’s definitely time to try.

I love food, in general.  I always have.  Well, snacks, at least.  From needing that one bowl of chocolate ice cream after school every day, to a bowl of whatever flavour of chips was in the house, snacks were always welcome in my belly.  Peanut butter and honey sandwiches for lunch was a staple, breakfast for dinner was a treat, cereal was a never-ending parade of taste sensations.

I was a scrawny kid with a high metabolism, so I was the hateful sort who could eat whatever I wanted and never gain weight.  My problem was, for awhile there, I couldn’t gain weight.  I was constantly getting weighed at the doctor – weekly, if I recall – and everyone did what they could to put weight on me, but none of it worked for awhile.  I often wasn’t allowed to leave the table until I’d finished what was on my plate – which, of course would grow cold before I could finish it.  Mealtime became this highly stressful thing for me, and that did nothing to increase my appetite, so for awhile there, things did not go well.

As I got older, my body started to balance itself out, and though I was still scrawny, I was at least within the target weight range for my age and height.  The low end, but still there.  I went to University and introduced regular alcohol consumption to my routine, and still bounced between the same 5lb range for a decade or so.

In my early 30’s, a lot of change happened – mentally, emotionally, and physically.  I got into teacher’s college, so I quit smoking before school started, which helped launch me into a deep depression.  I started drinking way more, and continued to eat whatever I wanted to, not realizing that my metabolism would no longer bounce back as it had before.  It’s almost like it slowed to a stop for a bit there.  I packed on something like 60lbs in the 8 months of my school year.  None of what I’d purchased at the start of the year to wear in class would fit, and I couldn’t stop the spiral.

Over ten years later I managed to lose some of the weight, but it’s always in stages.  I try different things, and it works a bit, but I plateau, in a way, and no matter what I do, nothing changes for awhile again.  It’s like a tightrope where the drop is only on one side.  It’s ridiculous, really.  But the crazy guilt or sadness or despair I feel every time I eat something -no matter what it is – feels like it’s doing more harm than anything else.

And a healthy relationship that doth not make.

I think I’ve gone from one end of the spectrum as a kid, to the opposite as an adult, and none of it has allowed me to enjoy the simple act of eating.  I think everyone has this problem to some degree or other, and it seems to me that we’d all be a lot healthier if we could allow ourselves to enjoy providing our bodies with fuel.  Our bodies need it, our minds need it, and I think our hearts and spirits need it, too.

I’m not saying we should be able to eat all the crap we want and feel great about it.  I’m saying we need – or at least I need – to find a way to take the stress and guilt and fear and despair out of every single mealtime.  I could eat all the healthy, nutritious foods in the world and it won’t make a lick of difference until I can be glad I’m doing it.  Until I can enjoy it.

It’s all about balance, and when it comes to food, I’ve never had any.  Time to start looking for some.

Money Changes Everything

I hate money.

Or, at least, I hate not having any.  It’s becoming more and more difficult, and I find I’m cutting more and more from my life as time goes by.  I just can’t quite figure out why.

I don’t really go out (except fo Friday night “date night” with friends, so I’ll be keeping this short), I make lunches to take to work so rarely buy meals out, I often lament not being able to afford a new pair of jeans, but splurged a month or two ago on socks and underwear for the first time in I don’t know how long.  I had to buy a new winter coat, which apparently set me back at least a couple of months of being able to afford “extras”, and I feel incredibly guilty when I buy any actual food that differs from the regular every day same-ness.

It feels ridiculous sometimes, all this stress over whether or not I can pick up some raw veggies and hummus as an occasional treat.  Or grab a bite to eat at the zoo.  Or have a drink with friends AND something to eat tonight.

It’s such a whiny mentality, I know.  It’s not that I’m used to getting everything I want – far from it.  But I think since I declared bankruptcy in 2009, I’ve been extra terrified of not having money for something basic, like food or rent.  And I’m more aware of being solely responsible for those things.

True, I also have more medications to pay for than I used to.  And four critters living with me is different from one.  How I divvy up my income is different.  And, comparatively speaking, I make less now than I did 10 years ago, while my expenses are much higher.  I learned to budget differently.  And I began making more choices.  Do I want Option A more than I want Option B?  I’m making far more choices lately, it seems, and they are starting to feel…less possible.  Not impossible yet, but it feels like it’s heading in that direction.  Which makes me sad, and then I wonder if I’ll still be able to afford anti-depressants.  Haha

On the plus side, however, I feel like – instead of things – I’ve been more interested in spending what little extra money I do have on experiences.  On doing things instead of owning things. If I lose my memories, it will of course mean less, but for now, I feel like it’s better for my soul.  Now, don’t get me wrong – my apartment is more decked out with my geeky stuff than it ever has been before, and I love it.  When you walk into my space, you see me, things that are important to me, and that are also an expression of who I am.  I like it here, and I’m very happy to have my things around me.  But in recent years, I’ve made an unintentional shift toward experiencing different things…and then coming home to my owned things.  Though, they take a backseat to the living beings I also come home to, naturally.

I think that’s part of why little things like tonight are so important to me, and yet so stressful at the same time.  It’s good for me to go out and giggle and talk and just – be outside of the everyday for a few hours.  Yet, part of me is terrified that the day will come when I have to choose between even THAT and Option B.  It’s ridiculous.  There will always, of course, be other options; other ways of spending time, etc.  But that something as superficial as money gets to affect how we choose to hang out together is…it just has to be part of what’s wrong with the world, doesn’t it?

However.  That possible future day is not this day, so I’m gonna go ahead get ready to hang out with my friends for awhile.  Money stress can wait for another day.

I Dream Of Kate


I believe my much-loved-and-missed kitty Kate came to visit me in a dream last night.

It’s weird – right after she died, while I was alone in the apartment for a couple of weeks (until I got paid again and could afford a trip to the animal shelter), I kept thinking I heard her around the apartment, or felt her jump onto the bed and lie down next to me like she always did. I even thought I heard her meow a couple of times. I’m sure I’ve dreamed about her since she died, but I can’t really remember anything. I was thinking recently about how I missed feeling like she was still around, even though there are 3 more cats and a doggie enriching my daily life these days. Kate was my first, and therefore will always be special to me in a slightly different way from all the rest.

Also, sometimes she said “mama”, and I don’t expect to find another kitten who can do THAT!

So anyway, whether I dreamed much about my girl Kate in the past or not, last night’s dream was definitely different. As with most dreams, location and such didn’t make sense with reality. I was living in the house in Creemore where I grew up, but on my own, not with my family. I still had Brody, Jack Bear, Flynn and Piper with me – we were just in a much bigger place than we actually are. A place none of them, Kate included, have ever been.

Now, in the dream, Piper had found Kate, but there was also some indication that she was partly responsible for Kate being gone, or for her not coming home sooner. There was some reason why I was potentially angry at Piper, but before the end of the dream I’d forgiven her and moved past it and whatever it was made us closer than ever, so it doesn’t matter now. I know in real life Piper was the kitten I wasn’t sure I wanted, because she looked too much like Kate and it hurt my heart to be close to her. But then she was also the one I waited the longest for, because another month would pass before I could bring her home from the shelter, and she’s kind of the one that keeps the household in order, if that makes sense. She’s like the den mother, in a way. And while I got over the distance I’d put between us long ago, I feel like this morning I actually do feel closer to her now than ever before, which is nice.

I also know that I feel a lot of guilt over not being a good pet mom in the past. Or not being the best. But I’ve always been MY best, so I said to the fur kids this morning that I’ll always be my best for them, but I’ll also always try to be better; to learn as we go. There is, after all, always more room to grow.


Back to the dream. Kate had found her way home to me, after all these years. She’d been taken away, and something had been done to the pads of her feet, so that she couldn’t walk. So my girl taught herself to walk on the sides of her feet – they were all bent and deformed from not being walked on properly, but she made it work and came back to me. I was momentarily worried about how everyone would get along – 3 cats and a dog when she used to have me all to herself is a lot to get used to – but everyone was great. They weren’t all cuddly or anything, but everyone respected one another’s space, and tolerated everyone together in the much-bigger-than-my-real- apartment house we were living in.

My first thought upon waking was that Kate came back. Not in a sense of being back alive, but in terms of being close to me again. Maybe we hadn’t yet figured out how to visit in dreams, and now we can. Maybe she felt the distance of my being distracted with all these other fur babies, but now we both know there will always be a place for her, no matter what. She’s on my mind a lot today still, instead of fading the way most dreams do, and I am glad for that. I still miss her, of course, but it’s different. I am full of love for the critters who depend on me to take care of them, and don’t have time to miss Katie-Kate the same way I used to. That I don’t hear her or feel her anymore no longer seems like a failing on my part, or something that’s been lost. Now she feels close to me even without those things, and I suspect this dream visit will not be the last. And since Dream Kate gets along just fine with Dream Brody, Dream Piper, Dream Flynn and Dream Jack Bear, I see no reason why she won’t always be close by, through the veil, on the other side of waking life.

Now if I could just figure out why Brody – and lately Piper – keep staring intently into a particular mirror at something I can not see…


The Soundtrack Of My Life

Before I get started on my topic du jour, I want to just take a moment to acknowledge that, on this day in 2013, I had to say goodbye to my favourite polar bear boy, but got the honour of tossing him some fish during his final Keeper Talk at the Toronto Zoo! It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and something I will treasure always. I love that fool bear. Miss you, Hudson!

Anyway, I’ve been big into music pretty much since I was in the womb. Not in a cultured, knowledgeable music snob kind of way, and certainly not in a way that would suggest I can dance any better than a white guy, or sing as well as someone who is tone deaf…I’m actually not great at creating music at all. BUT I love to listen to it. I always have. I always have a song in my head (sometimes stuck there against my will, but mostly I like whatever’s “playing”), and am one of those people who CAN’T really have it playing if I need to focus on anything else, because it’s distracting as hell to me. I want to let me mind go wherever the music takes it, not force myself to concentrate on anything else, like reading, working or conversation.

I spent hours upon hours in my room, listening to music and just thinking about things. I’m pretty sure I did that daily up until I got my own apartment, in my early 30’s. Actually, even more recently than that…probably up until I got my PVR, actually! Haha Damn television. 😉

I still do it now, just less often. Definitely while I am cleaning, and every day travelling back and forth on public transit. Music helps me control my rage, apparently!

I don’t have music on when out for a walk with Brody, though. That’s our time together and I want to spend it more with him than inside my own head.

My musical upbringing was deliciously varied. My parents introduced me to classic rock from the 50’s and 60’s, then other crazy things like Roger Whitakker, Johnny Horton, a bunch of country music when my dad was going through that phase, and – who was that ukulele guy? George Formby! Yeah.

My grandfather on my dad’s side was a huge fan of big band music. An ex introduced me to jazz in my 20’s. And then there was just plain old growing up in the 80’s. The first vinyl I ever got was Olivia Newton-John’s Greatest Hits Volume 2. My first cassette tape was Bryan Adams Reckless. I actually kept buying vinyl and then recording them onto cassette pretty much right up until I was buying CD’s, but I did have a few cassettes, in the end. I also recorded a LOT of songs off the radio. Ever do THAT? You wait and wait for the one song you want to come on, and then inevitably lose the beginning of it while the recorder got going. Good times.

It never fails to amaze me how versatile music is. Like different scents, a song can often re-create a memory so strongly that it transports you back in time. I have songs that take me back to different moments of past relationships (and break-ups, let’s be real), and some that just evoke a certain feeling from another time – like elementary school, or high school – various periods of time, I guess is what I’m saying. Then there are more specific memories, like AC/DC Back In Black being played at the back of the bus every day on the way to school in Grade 9. Or how I was sure I could run forever if I had Flashdance (Oh What A Feeling) playing on my headphones. Or singing Lean On Me before the audience arrived to warm up for a band/choir performance and help get rid of any jitters.

The first time I asked a boy to dance was to Every Rose Has Its Thorn in high school. I can still remember the shirt he was wearing and how good he smelled up close. My University residence floor’s pre-going-out routine was to turn off the lights in our lounge, put on hats, and dance on the furniture to KLF’s 3am Eternal. It’s how we bonded, or something. But every time it was played at the bar, you’d better believe we all dropped what we were doing and danced in a circle together, because D-1 RULES!!!

Where was I?

Ah yes, various movie soundtrack songs – anything from Grease brings up memories (especially my host teacher and I showing the Grade 8 kids how it’s done at their graduation dance), that song from Karate Kid about being the best around makes me want to kick some ass through a competition. Mortal Kombat just makes me want to kick some ass in general. Peter Gabriel’s In Your Eyes makes me want to sleep with John Cusack and then break up with him in the hopes that he’ll do that thing with the stereo outside my window.

Anything we played or sang in high school – including the parodies (Phantom of the Oprey most of all).

And any concert I’ve ever been to I am often transported to when I hear various songs in my head. Madonna, Alanis, Melissa Etheridge, Mel C, Gogol Bordello, Rage Against The Machine…Mini Pops…  

You know, the usual.

Music is memory. I feel like I’m not making as many musical memories as I used to, but it’s possible that I am, and just won’t realize it until somewhere down the road. Until then, I’m content with re-living memories through music – and living each day surrounded by music – and basically just enjoying the ongoing soundtrack of my life.

Who Would Play Me In A Movie Of My Life?

I think the idea of writing one’s autobiography has always come up, in one way or another, over the course of one’s life. Most of us don’t actually do it, of course, but I think most of us have considered it on a hypothetical level at some point in our lives. Maybe it was a school assignment, to divide your life (to that point) into more easily-digested chapters of moments and memories. Maybe it was a silly Facebook meme, asking what your autobiography would be titled, or who would play you in the movie of your life.

Mine would be called “Great idea, Poor Execution”. As to who would play me, though, I’m not sure. Someone with little to no talent, probably. Haha

Whether it gets written down, or not, the idea of chronicling one’s life is kind of excitting to think about, isn’t it? My great-grandmother wrote down a bunch of things she remembered from over the course of her life, and a team of relatives typed it all up into book form, then copied and bound it all together with photos and newspaper clippings and the like, to go along with things she was talking about. The woman lived to just over 100 years old, and the things she remembered and related were all pretty incredible. Trust me, guys, it’s quite a fantastic read! With little to no editing, a whole different world – from a time long passed – was brought to life in her words. I couldn’t be more grateful to have one of the very few copies of that wonderful piece of literature, and it makes me wonder if I, too, should be writing more things down as I go along. Not only so that I won’t forget, but maybe so the world won’t, either.

Not that I expect the world to read my book. That’s not what I mean. I just keep feeling like I want to leave behind some relic, some sample of life – even an unremarkable one – in another time, for others in a future time to read, if they so desire. So that they understand a tiny bit more of what came before. And, of course, to leave more of a mark; more proof that I was ever here at all.  

I can’t remember when I started to obsess a bit about that – leaving a mark on the world which would remain once I am gone. Definitely by high school, possibly sooner. I even made a list at one point, in a notebook. Ways to leave something behind, create a legacy, and essentially achieve a form of immortality. Writing a book was in there. Planting a tree (which I’ve done, but I fear they may now all have been cut down. Blah). Having a child. Other things I can’t remember right now.

See?! I’m already forgetting stuff!

I remember being glad that my name was on some plaques in my high school, because things engraved usually last a long time. And now, of course, I have my Guinness World Record – though I’d be much happier if it were to turn up in one of the books before it gets beaten by someone else!

And the claim is that, once something is on the internet, it’s there forever, but I’m not sure I buy that just yet. The internet isn’t really that old, after all. Maybe if we’re broadcasting it all out into space to travel at the speed of light and/or sound to other galaxies, then I’d get behind the whole forever idea, but at the same time, that does nothing for the Earthlings who’ll never see it.

Anyway. Capturing moments and archiving memories has been kind of my thing for a very long time. I’m afraid of losing my memories from my life, and I am afraid of being lost and forgotten once I’m gone. Let alone while I’m still here. Haha

So the notion of writing more things down has long been on my mind, and every so often I revisit the idea of trying to write something autobiographical-ish. It’s a huge undertaking that I may never have time for, but I was thinking just this morning – what about doing it here, on this blog, in little bits, and whenever the mood strikes? I’m thinking I might make a Memories category, or something, and then I don’t even have to worry about writing in chronological order or anything. I’ll just capture life in pieces, for myself, and for anyone who wants to read it. Readers wouldn’t even have to commit to a whole book or even a whole chapter. Just a page or two about a specific thing. Then, if the day comes when I feel like doing something more official and on a grander scale, I’d already have a bunch of notes to build on.

It would also count as a post for the day, so I wouldn’t have to concern myself with whether or not I had any time left over to do it! 😉

Definitely an idea.

Clever girl. 🙂

Thought vs Respect

The concept of respect is a bit of a weird one to me.

I feel like I extend it pretty much all the time, because there’s always an argument to be made for why an individual deserves my respect. Maybe they are older than I am, or have letters after their name, or have been working in the same or a related environment. Maybe they do a job I can’t possibly do, or have a skill I’ll never acquire. Maybe they are really good at a sport. Often the measure of respect is doled out in relation to my view of myself – a person has something I don’t, and therefore deserves my respect. Sometimes we’re on fairly equal footing in a particular area, and I extend them respect because I know how difficult it was for us both to get to that point. Sometimes it’s just because everybody deserves at least some measure of respect, and so I give them some of mine by default.

I just really have no idea how to earn it.

I definitely feel it should be earned, but my inner criteria for what that means is skewed somewhat. I rarely feel like I’ve earned it in a given situation, but then I have a high expectation of what “earn” and “deserve” actually mean. Oh really? You have a buddy in head office who hired you based on no experience while I’ve been here for over two years and now I’m supposed to respect you because you have “Manager” written on your nametag? All while you leave most of your duties to me, anyway, because you don’t know how to do them and don’t care to learn because you’re getting paid, regardless?

Dude, the fact that you’re WEARING a nametag suggests you haven’t really climbed the corporate ladder all that high yet. How’s aboot you extend me a little respect, too. Then we’ll get along just fine.

What was I talking about?

Ah yes. I have high expectations, but I feel like I hold myself to them, as well. Which I why I never really demand respect. I’m never all that certain that I’m deserving of it. Also, I think it would probably come out sounding really whiny and childish and look at cute little raging Sue, and thus backfire in a huge way.

We throw around words like “deserve” and “earn” and “rights” a lot, but I wonder if they’ve lost their intent a little over the years. A bit of their glimmer and shine. Like, if everyone deserves everything, then what’s the point of trying? Is an award still special if everyone wins it? Congratulations – you are the same as everyone else.

There is totally such a thing as mutual respect, of course. It need not be exclusive nor one-sided. I just feel like it IS very one-sided more often now. Either that, or I just notice it more as I get older. It seems to me, for example, that those who rush headlong into things – without planning ahead and getting all the information they need to make a decision – seem to get ahead faster. They get things done. It’s not pretty, and perhaps could have done with a little fore-thought, but they make things happen. They are doers, not thinkers. And that gets rewarded – and respected – because it gets results. Thinking does not. Or when thought does lead to results, it takes way too long.

My problem is that I think before I do. And there is not much to repect in that, because you can’t measure results on thinking.

I’m the person that thinks before she speaks (most of the time), so I always have brilliant responses well after the moment has passed. I remember in elementary school, French class in particular, I was constantly getting in trouble for not raising my hand. The teacher would ask a question, and I’d think about the answer before putting up my hand, because I wanted to be right. And I wanted to know I was right before I got called on to answer; certainly before I offered an answer of my own free will. The teacher knew I knew the answers, but had a hard time calling on me because I never put up my hand. I wasn’t being stubborn, exactly. It’s just that the class had moved on to the next question by the time I was ready to answer. Someone else had been called on already because their hand had gone up right away.

I once traced my hand onto a piece of paper, cut out the outline, and taped it to the end of a ruler, with the words “Sue’s Hand” written on it. But I never raised that, either. I was never ready in time.

I feel like that’s a theme in my life, really. Not being ready in time. How many of life’s experiences does one miss out on because they are waiting until the right time; until they are ready?

If the answer is “too many”, then is it possible to learn to put up one’s hand without having the answer ready? It feels SO RECKLESS, I must admit. I would have to decide if that’s really the kind of person I want to be.

Guess I’ll have to think about it first, and go from there.

Inventory Day

I was thinking I should start selling houses of cards online – some assembly required.

This is what Inventory Day at work does to me.  Every year.

This was number 16 in a row for me.  And yet, nothing changes.  Or it does, but it generally gets worse.  Apparently we refuse to learn from year to year.

I mean, it’s not rocket surgery.  It’s counting.  Most of us learn that pretty early on in life.  But it’s almost surprising how fried I am by the end of the day each year.  Hell, by the time lunch arrives each year.

I think part of it is the constant struggle to find a work-around for the glitches that come up. Everyone comes to work, even though we all hate it.  We just want to get it done and go home.  But it never ever goes smoothly.  At all.    And no one wants to stand around doing nothing while we wait for it all to get fixed.  So we try to find ways to make it work, as best we can.  I think it’s the near constant struggle to complete simple tasks that burns everyone out every year.  It’s exhausting.

It’s interesting that, even though I’ve now completed 16 counts in a row, I am actually further and further removed from the organization or execution of the event.  Even though I could help to make it go more smoothly, I find I do less and less overall with each passing year.  It’s interesting, but not surprising.

Regardless, another year is done, and I am now home with the fur babies, washing down my anger, frustration and fatigue with some free-pour rum and cokes.

And tomorrow is Monday.


It’s Saturday, and I am exhausted, but as it’s my only day off until Friday, I’m trying to get as much done as possible.  Trying to make the rest of the week as easy as possible.  Or something closer to that, at least!

I’ve got two loads of laundry on the go, I managed to sleep a bit more after taking Brody out this morning (and we’ve gone out again since), I washed what seemed like every dish I own before making breakfast, and I’m attempting to write this – today’s blog post.  More plans for the day, too, but so far, so good!

Except I don’t really feel like writing.  Or, at least, I’m distracted.  I’m having trouble focusing my thoughts and making words.  So this will probably be short, but the goal is to write SOMETHING every day, not to always write a boat-load.  Or to even be intelligent.  Or meaningful.  Just…something.

So here are a few little somethings.

I dreamed about someone the other night; someone I haven’t seen in  well over a decade.  But that person meant a lot to me at one point in my life, and so has been on my mind more since the dream.  Not in a concerning way.  More in a thinking about past and present and how it all might affect the future.  About who I was, who I am, and who I might become.  And just about being glad to have known some people, or to have had some experiences.  Just…kind of a check in, if that makes sense.

In similar news, my Facebook memory feed turned up a post I wrote to try and put into words what Hudson the polar bear cub means to me.  I re-posted the link, and the article has been making the rounds again a little bit, which is cool.  But it has me thinking back on the boy a little more than usual, and how much things have changed since he was a regular part of my life.

The thing I’d intended to talk more about today is Friday nights with the Angels, and what my card said this week.  In short, a woman on Facebook does a thing each Friday night, wherein people comment on a certain post as to whether they are thinking of a question, or open to guidance.  The woman then draws a tarot card for each person who commented within the specified timeframe, and gives a mini-reading of what the card means.  My pally introduced me to it a while ago, and it’s become somewhat of a ritual for us; one that I look forward to each week.

Sometimes the card drawn for me moves me to tears, or gives me something to ponder, or just affirms something I was already thinking.  Believer or not, it’s thus far always been interesting, at the very least.

This week, my card was about Practice, and how I should do something I’m passionate about every day so that I can get good at it.  Logical, for sure, and one of the things I’d hoped would come out of writing this blog every day.

But it made me wonder if this was even doing anything for my writing.  I mean, it ain’t Shakespeare, nor is it particularly creative.  It’s just me babbling about whatever is on my mind.  I’ve already admitted that I consider this to be a public forum, and hence there are things I won’t write about or talk about or even mention on here.  So if I want to become a better writer, and/or learn to express myself better and be a more open person, capable of establishing stronger connections, is this really the way to go about it?  How much of this idea is just me being stubborn, and seeing how long that lasts?  Each time I post, I wonder if I’ll have anything to say the next day.  And I wonder if my headstrong insistence that I post every day will get lost in the frenzy of daily life and I’ll just forget one day.  If so, what do I do about it?  Post twice the next day?  Plug on regardless?  Feel like a failure and stop all together?

No idea.  I guess we’ll see if and when it happens.

Drawing the Practice card last night got me thinking, though.  My first reaction was that it was redundant.  I’ve already committed myself to trying to post at least once a day, so having a tarot card tell me to do the same thing seemed pointless.  Then I wondered if there was something else I could add to my days that would bring a better balance.  Something else I enjoy but need to get better at.  I came up with a couple of ideas but just thinking about it made me tired, and I decided I was busy enough for now.

So then my thoughts turned to the act of writing, and wondering what possible good could really come out of blogging about some things each day, but not others, no matter how important those others may sometimes be.  Am I doing this for me?  To better express what I’m thinking  and feeling?  Kind of, but why not just write it down and destroy it, or toss it in a box or something?  Why put it online so others could read it, or not? Especially if I wasn’t being completely open in the first place?  Would anything change just by writing down what can be seen as essentially just one-sided small talk every day?  Would I grow, as a person and/or as a writer?  If not, then why do it at all?

Obviously writing is a passion, but I’ve always been more about creating fiction than expressing fact.  Especially when I go through those times when I’m not entirely sure what’s real.  I don’t mean hallucinations or anything.  I mean like when I can’t trust my emotions, or my thoughts and impressions, particularly with respect to myself.  Like, logically I know PMS can mess with my emotions and make me feel sad and a little unhinged.  But so can other things.  Sometimes it’s hard to tell where the root starts, and if there’s anything I should do to balance back out again.

And maybe that’s why I’m doing this.  To chronicle, to give perspective.  To learn to share a little more.  But more importantly, it gives me a space to practice being me.  The good, the bad and the ugly.  To stay honest, even in the things I don’t share with anyone else.  Because I often have a lot of trouble staying honest with myself, and that’s a problem.  A bad habit that needs to be broken if I am to become more like the person I am meant to be.

Practice.  It might not make perfect, but it definitely helps us get closer.  So I write.  To practice being me.

And apparently to show myself that even thinking a post will be short isn’t necessarily accurate.  Funny to have more to say than even I thought at first!

Maybe soon I’ll be able to practice saying more with less, too.  That’d be nice.  😉