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Write Your Life

Two weeks ago I attended an all-day Write Your Life workshop facilitated by a friend. The invitation read something like this:
What would your life look like if you felt empowered to manifest your dreams?
How are you using your gifts and talents to reach your highest potential?
Are you ready to explore your choices?
This interactive workshop will take you on a transformative exploration to help you to articulate, visualize and identify ways to practice the art of creative living.

That workshop challenged me to acknowledge my Bankruptcy and Subsequent Divorce to a group of relative strangers. Somehow that was much more difficult for me than acknowledging the BASD to people who already know me. Why is that? My friends already love me and understand who I am. These new people... well, they're amongst the first to know me in my new persona: poverty-stricken divorcee. What does that look like to them? How do I define myself when I've renounced a role I've held for 17 years? I'm no longer defined by my relationship to DH. That's interesting to me.

One of the exercises at the workshop invited each of us to describe our perfect place, our idea of heaven. This is what I wrote:

There's a big wooden house with spacious interior and a massive wrap-around porch. On the porch are comfortable places to sit and lie down---suspended chairs and hammocks and rockers. It's usually sunny and warm, almost too warm, but that's OK. It's flat and dusty but only a mile distant (to the north) rise incredible mountains, snow capped and vicious, protecting that house with the wrap-around porch. A mile south is a CA beach with tide pools. Every afternoon the wind picks up and a storm rolls in off the coast. There's an amazing lightning and thunder show that lasts about half an hour. Then it smells like rain, like creosote and wet concrete. Otherwise it smells like jasmine from the vines curling up the porch stanchions and railings. There's a garden that provides all the fresh vegetables I need, and an orchard providing the fruits I like. I have no refrigerator because each meal is harvested as I need it. The whole place is solar powered and there's lightning-fast internet with streaming Netflix. I putter around daily, maintaining my self-sufficient, self-sustained property. I am always happy for a visitor but don't often issue an invitation. I teach myself to fish and dig clams and trap crabs and lobsters. There's a horse but I don't often ride, he just follows me around like a dog would. There's a room inside for crafts; there's a room inside that's completely empty. There's a room inside holding only a grand piano. I play and when Jack comes to visit me he fills the house and yard with music.

Most notable: I am almost always alone.

Why is that?


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wotd: temporize

temporize \TEM-puh-ryz\, intransitive verb:
1. To be indecisive or evasive in order to gain time or delay action.
2. To comply with the time or occasion; to yield to prevailing opinion or circumstances.
3. To engage in discussions or negotiations so as to gain time (usually followed by 'with').
4. To come to terms (usually followed by 'with').

It's easy to tell yourself that you'll write a daily blog entry using the word of the day from dictionary(dot)com as a prompt, and equally easy to temporize your daily entry by waffling over what to write about, or evading your obligation by procrastination. There. Bedtime.

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40 observations on the eve before my 40th birthday

Indulge me! In no particular order:

1. I love making pinatas. I've made a pinata for Jack's birthday for the last five years. The Death Star, a jellyfish from Spongebob, Patrick Star from Spongebob, Plankton from Spongebob, and just this year King Pig from Angry Birds. I've been commissioned by a friend to produce another Angry Birds Pig pinata for her son's birthday. I'm gonna do it.

2. Right now three of my ten fingers hurt when I type. I don't bite my nails (unless one is already broken) but I do pick and pull at my cuticles. I've developed acute paronychia, a bacterial infection, at those three finger tips. The one that hurts the most is my right thumb. Space bar hell. I've done this to myself since childhood. When I'm pulling and nipping at a hangnail, I know it's going to hurt but I go ahead and do it anyway.

3. I consider myself substantial: in body and in mind. I am robust. I have zeal. I just don't have any confidence.

4. My brain stop…