Happy birthday, Mom. Day 9

Today is my mom's birthday. Would have been my mom's birthday. Her 81st. Happy Birthday, Mom. We threw her a bangin' 80th birthday party last year, for which I'm grateful, but this year .... it's been a tough day in that regard.

I was talking with a friend who also lost her mom recently, just a few weeks ago, about how hard it is to find time to grieve. About how we have to go on as if we didn't just pass one of the biggest, most painful, milestones of our lives. It's like standing on a speeding escalator watching those days and weeks that surrounded my mom's death recede behind me way before I'm ready to let go. Long before I've had a chance to sit quietly for long spells and come to terms with the loss. I guess that's why we call it loss though. Life moves on at its own pace.

Which got me to thinking about a couple of special times that did help me through it. The times when I felt some space open up around me where I found peace and felt cared for and comforted.

Of course I spent a lot of time with family and friends over the 3 weeks I was in Iowa, and we spent a lot of time reminiscing and laughing and crying.  The viewing the day before the funeral was seven hours long. I saw people I hadn't seen since I left home when I was 17. And those people took care of us, my sisters and brother and me. They brought food -- mostly beef and cookie bars. I had forgotten how people do death in a small town. Food is a remarkable gift to give a grieving family. I was so grateful it was almost painful to be cared for in such a way while I was there staying in my mom's house. I miss that in my life. I digress though.

The Saturday afternoon between Mom's death and her funeral my cousin, who was one of my best friends when we were growing up, drove over from Madison County to hang out with us. We talked about how Mom loved to color in adult coloring books with her colored pencils, and how precise her coloring was in spite of the stroke she suffered 18 years ago that greatly reduced her small motor skills in her right hand. My cousin said she loved to color too, and I told about the coloring party I'd had one evening for 11 women.

Pretty soon we were sitting at Mom's kitchen table coloring in her coloring books with her pencils. laughing and talking. And it was like a space opened up in time where we could step away from the world and just sit together in our grief, coloring like we did when we were kids. My cousin's dad, my mom's middle brother, had also passed away not that long before and I hadn't been able to come home for his funeral, so we were double grieving. That afternoon was a bubble that brings me comfort even today. It was healing.

The next day my cousin, who is a gorgeous quilter, brought 7 quilts so we could choose one to bury with Mom. After we chose, she gave each of us one of our own -- five in all. Mine is shown in the photo above. Her generosity of both the quilt and her time made such precious memories during a time of sadness and loss.

When I got back home I felt like I was trying to keep up on a runaway treadmill. Getting back to work, getting Coraline back to school, picking up the pieces I'd dropped when I had to leave so suddenly. Two weeks is a long time to leave a life untended. I felt like I'd been through so much, and then I had to just go back to normal as if ... as if normal existed.

I'd only been home a couple of days when a friend I'll call Piano Man commented on my Facebook that we should get together and play some music. We're always saying that, but we never do. Seven or eight years ago we played a show together, but he's way out of my league and plays professionally. This time though he persisted. 

How about Wednesday? Does that work for you?  he wrote. It did. I told him to come over around 8:00 and I'd have Coraline in bed. 

When he got here, we didn't get right down to the music. We sat on the couch and the cats came over to investigate and crawl around on him. Piano Man is a cat guy. He was digging it. We talked, and he asked me about my time in Iowa, what had happened.

I told him some of the story, and then I said, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to go on about this. You didn't come here to listen to me talk about my stuff. We should play some music."

"No," he said. "You're wrong. I did come here to hear this story. I want to hear it. Tell me what happened. It's important."

I still get teary remembering those words. Listening is a gift, but asking for the story, especially a story of a mother's death and a daughter's grief .... not many people ask for that.

So I told him what it was like to take my mom off the ventilator and to wait for her body to shut down over those days. And what her death was like as I sat beside her bed with her. And how she gave me a sign when I told her I loved her some time after she took her last breath. He listened to all of it as he calmly petted one of the cats.

And then we played music for almost three hours, and during that time I just focused on the music. Nothing else. Sure we talked and laughed. And we don't have a common book of music, so mostly we ran through some of the songs I like to play by myself. He's a talented, skilled jazz piano player and I'm mediocre at best, but it brought me home, grounded me. He even sang some harmony while I sang melody, which never happens.

It was exactly what I needed. Like maybe the Universe said, "She's had enough for a minute. Let's give her a break." And for a few hours, I was in a bubble of music and harmony and the kindness of a friend asking to hear my story.

Words are my life, and yet I don't have sufficient words for how powerful those bubbles of time were -- the music and the coloring. The telling and the patient listening. And these are not the only times. Just the ones I've chosen to write about tonight.

The lesson is, I think, that we can't know how such simple acts can bring great comfort and healing to someone who is sad and grieving, but we should be open to the opportunity to step into that bubble where time stops and the coloring or the music or the eating or the sharing of memories is all that matters. In the end, these connections are what I call God, the Divine, the Mystery. Or it's just what makes us feel better. Either way.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.

Day 22: Coralineisms #11

First, before I turn this blog post over to Coraline, I'd like to thank everyone who read yesterday's post about the note someone put on my van, and especially those who liked it, hearted it, shared it and commented on Facebook and here. Sometimes I wonder if my late-night ramblings are falling into a black hole as I hit publish late late at night. I very much appreciate how many of you read, and even more, how many of you intend to share your own notes with strangers. We are stronger together.

At least once every time I do one of these post-a-day NaBloPoMo marathons I like to turn the blog over to my granddaughter, Coraline. She's only 5, so she can't literally take over and write a blog post, although, she is already putting words to paper and calling it a blog post, practicing for when she can. It won't be long. For now, I will simply transcribe some of our conversations here for your entertainment. Her school schedule has greatly limited our time together, so these Coralineisms are becoming more scarce. Because of that, I'm going to be a little more stingy tonight. As always, you get what you pay for here in Reticuland.

Better than losing it

Me: Will you run upstairs and get the book we’re reading while I finish cleaning up the kitchen, please?
Coraline: I don’t know if I want to.
Me: Why? I thought you wanted us to read it tonight. Did you change your mind?

Coraline: No, I just don’t really know if I want to change my mind or keep my mind.

Yeah, but I'll bet Jocelyn didn't vote for Trump

Coraline: Jocelyn is mean to everybody.
Me: Is she mean to you?
Coraline: Oh, yes. She's mean to everybody. Even me, and I'm her friend.
Me: Have you ever thought about telling her you can't be friends with her if she's going to be mean to you?
Coraline: Oh, no. I don't break up with somebody once I'm friends with somebody. I mean, once I meet somebody .... boom, we're friends and that's it.

Consider me schooled

Coraline: 2 + 2 is 4.
Me: Is it? Are you sure?
Coraline: Yes, it is. And if you don't believe me, I'll write it down for you.

At least she doesn't want to be president

Coraline: I want to be a lightning fairy when I grow up.
Me: OK.
Coraline: Do you have a big magic lightning fairy wand?
Me: No, it doesn’t really work that way.
Coraline: Why? I’m afraid I won’t be able to really be a lightning fairy.

Me: It’s like anything else you really want. You have to work hard to get it.

Coraline: I will, Mamá. I can do it.

Me: I know you can, Lovies. I know you can.

Day 17: Birthday wish list

How rude am I? Here it is just a day before my birthday, and I haven't even given you my birthday list. Why didn't you remind me? I mean, you know you can bring over a box of wine, a bag of Lays potato chips, and a bar of salted dark chocolate. I'll supply the rockers and the porch -- front or back. But just in case you want to branch out, here's my list of gifts that would please Queen Reticula, in no apparent order.

1. Books are always a good idea. I read a lot of children's books to Coraline, but I don't have this one, titled Fuck You, Sun. I'm sure it's no surprise to you that I've read Good Night, Moon at least 2000 times, but it doesn't really speak to this moon child. Also, that whispery old lady kind of creeps me out. Fuck You, Sun fits me much better.

2. If' you're not feeling the literature, how about getting me this remote control flying fuck? How brilliant is this? You want one too, don't you? Next time your boss gets on your ass, how awesome would it be to fly a fuck into his office just before you clean out your desk? I don't have a boss, but I wish I'd had this when I was teaching. I'm pretty sure I could have rigged this baby to fly over and drop a great big red F on .... well, I can't name any names, because that would probably be illegal, but I had students who deserved for me to maneuver my flying fuck over their desks and drop an F-bomb right in their laps. I get shivers of delight just thinking of it. Even though I'm not teaching now (or ever again), I'm pretty sure I have plenty of opportunities outside the classroom when a flying fuck would come in handy.

3. Then again, maybe I just need to chill out with my very own wine sippy cup. I know what you're thinking. A wine sippy cup doesn't seem very sophisticated for someone like me. I get that. But there are people in my life .... and again, I'm not going to mention names .... who like to fill my wine glass while I'm distracted. And then I end up drinking about a gallon of wine, and I can't understand why I fall off the toilet the 6th time I have to pee. Also, it's embarrassing to remember pole dancing on one of my male guests .... umm ... in front of his wife. I'm not going to give up any details, but you'll have to trust me when I say I need to be protected and this wine sippy cup will do the trick. Notice there are 2 in a pack so I can keep one locked and loaded at all times.

4. Changing gears (all puns totally intended), how cool are these bike lights from revolights? I don't ride at night as often as I used to, but any time I ride after dark I always hope some asshole won't look down at his phone while he's playing Pokemon Go and plow into me. I think we all know who would come out ahead in that collision, and it wouldn't be me. The later it is when I ride, the more I worry about being hit, even in the city where it's never really dark. OK, that's a bit of a lie. I don't really worry that much about being hit, but I probably should worry about it. And these lights are cool and rechargeable.

5. For anybody with a literary bone in their body, the Lit Kit has got to be intriguing. This one I'm totally serious about. What a fantastic idea, and why didn't I think of it? The only thing is .... looking at their past kits, I think if I were going to give this as a gift, I'd rather put together my own kit for the person I was giving it to. (Not that I'm here to talk about giving. I'm here to talk about receiving. Take that any way you like.) Certain things they've put in past boxes I really wouldn't appreciate that much, like magnets or postcards or buttons. OK, maybe postcards would be cool. I do like the idea of getting books from authors I might not discover on my own -- if they were excellent authors. And I love the idea of getting a unique journal and a pen, and the prompt calendar (although the one they show seems a little thin), maybe the makings of a handmade journal or a fountain pen or some stickers or stamps would be cool. Maybe because I'm a writer and a reader, not just a reader, I'd be happier with things that challenge me to create.

I do think this is a brilliant idea, and I almost bought myself the mystery box, but the shipping turned me off. I'm pretty cheap or I'd already have all the things on this list.

6. And finally, I saved the best for last. I don't mean to get all mushy, but that list up there .... those are all things I can live without. The real gift is friendship, and I consider all of you who read here regularly friends, even if I don't really know you. I appreciate that you're in my life. I appreciate your support. Many of you are F2F friends who encourage me and mock me and introduce me as the woman who writes about vaginas a lot. Friendship is a gift that doesn't need a birthday or Christmas or any other holiday. So if you really want to get me something for my birthday, come and sit on my porch and we'll drink wine, and you can tell me your stories.

Last week a friend was in town from Colorado, and she made time for some porch sitting. We walked down the alley to the taco truck and got dinner, and then we sat on the porch to eat our yummy authentic Mexican food (fuck your wall, Trump, you fucking oompa loompa) and rocked and drank and caught up, because Facebook isn't the same as talking in person. Never will be. We watched the police go to a neighbor's house and  wondered what that was about. We watched people drive down the street and realize there was a gate at the end. Crow guarded us, and saved us from a guy on a bike who didn't even notice he was almost attacked by a growling 90-pound poodle. It was precious time.

And it was a gift.

On my actual birthday, my friend Colorado (different friend) is coming to town and we're going to do whatever I want. Probably go to dinner and a dress rehearsal for a play and then sit on the porch and drink wine in a bubble of drunken friend-love. Wednesday my DIL Montana is doing a tea party at a local park with a botanical garden for Coraline, whose birthday is 2 days after mine, and me. That night is karaoke, and celebrating another friend's birthday, but before that Maria and I are going to dinner to celebrate mine. And on the weekend my kids will come over -- all of them -- for Dairy Queen ice cream cake. OMG. DQ ice cream cake makes me want to touch myself. Mmmmmm. I've had some shitty birthdays, but this year I'm not dwelling on the past. That's a gift I'll give myself.

Now, that doesn't mean somebody shouldn't get me all of those things on that list. Please do! But I'm not a fucking idiot. I do  know what's important, and while I can order a lot of happiness from Amazon, they don't sell the most important things. If you want to give me the most important thing, clean my house put your butt on one of my rockers and spend some time sitting on my porch. And bring some fucking wine too.

Oscar Wilde

NaBloPoMo #21: The weight of the world on the shoulders of little girls

I've got pumpkin bread and muffins in the oven tonight at 1:45 am, but I can't say I've got a blog post in my head. On day 21 of the challenge though, I'm not going to quit, so I'm just going to tell you what I'm thinking about.

When I was a little girl growing up in a small town in Iowa, I dreamed about the things I would do when I was old enough to get away and go to the big city. I have to admit, my dreams were vague, because I didn't even know anybody who had done those things I thought were out there, and what did I know of the world anyway except what I'd seen on TV and in the movies? I just knew there was something better, and I was going to experience it. Which means satisfying that little girl's dreams is more a matter of retrospective thinking than a fulfillment of any actual plan she had other than getting out and going .... somewhere.

This weekend -- and it's only half over -- has been one of those weekends when I can say to that now imaginary little girl, "Hey, I'm doing it. I'm doing those things you dreamed about doing. What do you think of us now?"

Maybe those things I offer her in retrospect aren't exactly what was on her mind. She wanted to go to college -- something that she was actively discouraged from doing -- and now she has a master's degree that isn't really worth much except the pride she takes in it. She was going to have a career, and so far .... well, she didn't really know what it would be like to be a military wife and mother, which is not considered a career, so that dream was deferred. But she knew there was music and theatre and food and people who loved books and music and theatre. And those things ..... we're doing pretty good with those things.

Last night I took Coraline to her first real, full-length play. We saw James and the Giant Peach at the school for the arts where I taught creative writing for a while. She loved it, especially when she got to meet some of the kids who were in the play out in the lobby afterwards. Then we came home, popped some popcorn and watched Monsters Inc. Hey, when I was a little girl we had 3 channels in black and white. Even watching a DVD is kind of cool to Little Reticula. Then this morning we got up and ate chocolate-banana pancakes with Elvira when she came to pick up Coraline.

The actual cast we saw

In the afternoon, I went with 3 girlfriends to see the touring show of Menopause, the Musical. It was hilarious, relevant (to many of us), uplifting, kind of depressing sometimes, but still uplifting -- if you think fucking hot flashes, night sweats, foggy brains, weight gain, and  all that other shit is funny, that is. We did. We laughed out loud for most of the performance, and then a couple of us even got on stage at the end. (Don't worry. We were invited.) Good times.

After the play, 3 of us went to a coffee shop to wait for the nearby Thai restaurant to open. The shop wasn't really open, but the owner let us come in while they were getting ready for a private party there later in the evening, and she made us hot chocolate and coffee.

Once we were seated at our little table on the balcony at the Thai restaurant, we ate coconut milk soup and spring rolls, tangy mango salad, warm, salty edamame, and sauteed vegetables with tofu. Zero heat, thank you. We drank hot sake and tea. We told stories, and laughed some more.

Finally, after a stop off at home to let my dog out and eat a couple of designer cupcakes, 2 of us went on to a local night market where we ate absinthe cotton candy, sampled Haitian chocolate, shared a piece of frozen banana chocolate pie, and visited with various friends who were there either shopping or selling.

In spite of the rain and plunging temperatures, it was a practically perfect day, and now I'm sitting in my kitchen surrounded by the smell of pumpkin bread, drinking a glass of chardonnay and writing my words that some people will even read. I'm a fucking writer, you guys! Little Reticula is thrilled. This! This is what she knew was out there in the world. Theatre, music, great friends, food adventures .... 

And then I started thinking .... I grew up in a poor family (money-wise), in a relatively poor town, in the middle of corn country. I had no reason to believe I'd ever leave there. In fact, I was told I never would, and that I might as well stop acting like I was better than everybody else and find that farm boy I was going to marry, because that was my future. Well, I did marry a farm boy, but he didn't want to stay on the farm any more than I did. So there.

We have so many choices in this country even when it seems like we don't have any. If we can dream, we can choose where to live based on whether the temperature is hot or cold or a mixture; whether the climate is humid or dry; whether the population is dense or sparse, urban or suburban or rural; near the mountains, desert, valleys, oceans, farms, tundra, or rivers; near people of our own ideology -- liberal, conservative, hands-off. In my own family one sister lives in a college town and works as a manager of a plant that makes electronic components, one brother lives in Minneapolis and the other in Alaska, and my youngest sister stayed close to home. That's just my one little family. When you consider that 319 million people live in this country and they all have dreams and aspirations ..... The possibilities are staggering.

What a privilege. What a blessing. I'm ashamed I don't give thanks every day for all that I have. I take it for granted too often.

I can't imagine what it's like to be a child who lives here .... 

.... What does she dream of doing when she grows up? What does she even dream for the next day? The next hour?

I wish I had the one perfect right answer. I don't. I understand why people want to help. I understand why people are scared to help. Don't hate. I live in the gray areas where we're all in this fucking mess together. There are no easy answers in a world that has become so very small, with problems that are so overwhelmingly large.

When I was a little girl dreaming about the big world that was out there, I couldn't have known there was also .... this.

Moving on ....

I finally brought my guitars home today. That was certainly an unnecessary ordeal. What many messages, face-to-face talks, unanswered calls, and unanswered knocks on the door didn't accomplish, two police officers did. I have no idea why shit got that crazy, and I'm not even going to guess. My imagination is only so good, and my time is precious. Too much of both has already been wasted on the situation.

I have learned a couple of lessons though. One is a repeat that's hard to put into action: If a woman starts dating a male friend, and she tries to get close to his friends and immediately make them her friends, maintain distance until her motives have been determined. I've learned this one the hard way and more than once. The other part of the lesson is that you'll probably lose the male friend anyway if he stays with her, because .... well, because. Who gives a shit? It's a thing that happens. As my daughter Elvira tells me, friendships are fluid. She's such a Buddha.

Second ... duh. Don't loan guitars to said girlfriends to use as props for sexy photos. Even I'm rolling my eyes at myself over that bit of stupidity. I'm not going to say I'll never loan a guitar. I've got one out on loan now, and I won't be worried if I don't have it back 2 years from now. But never again for a frivolous reason.

I'm sure more unpleasantness will surface from this stupid bit of assholery, but for tonight I can only report that Free to a Good Home finally, finally, got to have a band practice. As we were playing through a new song we're learning, I realized a sense of euphoria that only comes from playing music with close friends. The kind of friends you'd ask to witness your will or share an orgasm on stage.

At one point Chicken Grrrl said she had decided she would sing the part of the song that sounds like an orgasm ... ah ... ah ... ah. And I said I'd sing the harmony, and we could have a double orgasm on stage in harmony.

We looked over at Joe, who was standing there with a blank expression on his face, just holding his bass. I said, "Joe, we're talking about having orgasms."

He said, "I wasn't really paying attention. I was thinking ...." 

I said, "That's how I know you're like a brother to me. You don't even listen when the two of us are talking about having orgasms together right in front of you."

He said, "Oh, I know what you were talking about, but I was thinking about two other women while you were talking."

Flattering. Like a brother. Then he told us every man fantasizes about making two women come at the same time, and Chicken Grrrl that would never happen except maybe in porn.

I said, "Even so, you'd have to have a plan .... Ready ... set .... come!"

Get it? Come instead of go. Maybe you had to be there.

Anyway, I hope I don't have to call the police again for a long time. I've needed them for four situations in the past month. The first was somebody breaking into the house next door to steal the copper pipes. The pedophile who lived there is in prison, and it's in foreclosure. Those of us who live nearby are not going to let thieves do any more damage than was already done by the former owner.

The second time was when a dog attacked Drake's dog Duke while we were on a walk.

The third times were while I was trying to get my guitars back after they were held hostage for over three months.

And the fourth time was this afternoon when I got home from picking up my guitars. Somebody kicked in my back gate last night and broke the lock. For now, it's booby-trapped, and my friend A Man Called Horse is coming over to fix it tomorrow. It will be better than ever when he's done.

And so two more lessons came to me today. First, no matter how much bad press they get, the police can be effective guys to have on your side. The two who wasted the taxpayers' money helping me this past week were courteous and efficient. It's kind of embarrassing that I had to bother them with something so stupid and avoidable, but neither of them treated me like that.

Second, hold your good friends close and kick your enemies to the curb. It's easy to become cynical about people, and I'm guilty of that, but focusing on the friends who love me feels a lot better than obsessing about the idiots who prefer to wallow in their own drama. Running around the barnyard pecking and squawking is for the chickens, and we all know how smart those birds are.

In this year of unpacking, I'm grateful this is one nasty experience I can unpack and put behind me. Moving on ..... I think it's about time to write about some vaginas.

Shelf of broken dreams

In July I suffered through tolerated celebrated my birthday. Most people consider the birthdays that end in zeros their big birthdays. I don't. My big birthdays are the ones that end in fives. I didn't realize that until this year's birthday.

I didn't recognize that there was a pattern to my years -- a wobbly pattern, to be sure -- but I'm calling it a pattern. I've always done big things during my 5-years, or big things have happened. Here are some examples.

I started school when I was five years old, and learned to take tests and count the slow seconds on the clock.

The year I was 15, I probably smoked my first joint, and I got drunk the first time right after my 15th birthday, which may have set the pace for the rest of high school. It doesn't seem that significant. What is significant is that I fell in love for the first time that summer, and also set precedents for choosing the wrong men and taking a very long time to heal from a broken heart.

The year I was 25 two big things happened. First, my dad dropped dead of an unexpected heart attack at age 46, leaving my mom with 2 kids at home, and 2 more barely out the door. It was my first deep experience with death and adult grief. A few months later when my neighbor's plane flew into a mountain, I was one of the few people who knew how to deal with the grief, if such a thing is possible. I knew something about life that was hard-won.

Second,  we decided to get pregnant with my son Drake. Balance.

Fast forward and I sold our house during a 5-year and bought another one. It was in the same city, which was a first for us. Air Force families don't do that very often. Another 5-year I indulged in an enormous mid-life crisis, lost a bunch of weight, and decided I'd better start living a little harder if I wanted to suck all of the juice out of my life.

Past 5-years have been both positive and negative, obviously. I don't know what to expect this year, except that this will be the 5-year to end all 5-years.

I was telling Drake about my 5-years, and he said he predicted "a rich boyfriend and a muscle car parked in front of my house."

I'm not saying "no."

"Mine or his?" I asked. 

"Yours, of course," he said.

"Both of those things would be big and unlikely," I said. "But I'll be glad to let you drive the one that's possible when you come to visit."

I talked to my daughter Elvira about it, and I said I wasn't sure what might happen this year. I told her what Drake had said, and we agreed he didn't know me very well.

I said I hadn't had a real best friend in several years. Lots of good friends. An embarrassing richness of good friends, as well as my kids and their beloveds. But not a best friend to go places with and share intimate best friend experiences. It takes a lot of work and some fine good luck to find and keep a best friend for any length of time. (It's not me. They find spouses eventually who become their new best friends.) I've had a true best friend for most of my life, except for the past few years.

I told Elvira that could be something that would happen this 5-year. And I said I also wanted to travel more. And I wanted to let myself fall into adventures.

But I don't really think I have that much control over the 5-years. I was just trying to dream. Because ...

Shortly after my birthday, I was listening to a speaker talk about dreams. He told a story about when he was a kid and he wanted to be a drum major, but his dad squashed that worthless wish. He talked about dreams, and how they often get put away, forgotten.

As I listened, I tried to remember what my dreams were when I was a kid.

I couldn't think of any. Not one single dream. I started to feel anxious. Surely I had dreams. Everybody has dreams, right?

I tried to listen to the speaker, but my mind was working in the background looking for dreams. C'mon now. There has to be a dream back there somewhere. Sift. Sift. Sift.

College! That was a dream. I wanted to go to college. I received about as much encouragement as if I'd dreamed of being a lion trainer.

OK, I thought. College. But college itself isn't a dream. What did I want to do? What did I want to study?

As I sat there listening, I couldn't remember wanting to study anything. (As I wrote this I remembered tossing around wanting to be a doctor or a psychologist. Yes, that would be it. A psychologist. I'd help people. It wasn't much of a dream. Lots of kids choose psychology because they can't think of anything else to study and it seems achievable. Like them, I didn't realize the years of school and licensure it would require. I did get a social work degree though, so close.)

Doesn't matter. What I really dreamed about was getting the hell out of that small town and living in a city.

But I couldn't remember any dreams that morning during the talk. Not one, except that vague dream: college. In fact, I haven't been able to remember any dreams until I started writing this tonight. And then I remembered when I was 7 I dreamed of being a writer. And I always yearned to play the piano. And .... that's it. Leave as soon as I could, write and play the piano.

I did all that. But those don't seem like enough. Why can't I remember having concrete dreams that would move me forward in a direction?

What I dreamed was vague. To have a career. To be a liberated women who knew what she wanted and didn't care what other people thought -- especially men. (Maybe that one is still in the box.) Those are character traits, not dreams.

The speaker said it was time to realize those dreams, to get that old, dusty shoe box down off the "shelf of broken dreams in your heart closet."

I wrote it down because it hit me so hard. If something big was going to happen this 5-year, I needed to figure out what my dreams are. It has to be now. I need to use this special year while I've got it, but I need some dreams.

I mean, I'll take the muscle car if it happens and it's cheap. The boyfriend -- rich or not .... well, if he's been sitting on a heart-shelf in a dusty box, he's probably desiccated  I don't want dreams that are half-dead or not achievable.
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The best friend .... maybe. I can't force that one, and I can't call it a dream really. I'm OK with having lots of wonderful friends, and a few who are close enough to get past the sand beaches of my island.

So far, I've had a couple of surprise adventures. I'm not sure if they came out of my shoe box though, because they were more a result of my saying "yes" to whatever was offered, whether it was comfortable or not. There's definitely value in that. I'll be writing more about those adventures. They are a valid part of 5-year.

But they're too fresh to be dreams that have been shoved to the back of my heart closet in a dusty box.

I'm sorry to say, I haven't located the box, much less opened it. Writing this helped. I realized I did have a couple of dreams, and I've achieved them. Writing. Piano. Leaving home when I was 17.

I'm still searching for my shoe box though. I'll let you know if I find it.

Do you have a shoe box on your shelf of broken dreams? Is there anything in that box that you want to dust off and make happen? Inspire me! Tell me one broken dream.

And I'm sure one of these days I'll find that box and tell you mine.

(All photos stolen from the interwebs.)