Would You Rather?...A Few Meandering Thoughts from the Lovely Author Anabelle Bryant

Hello, my lovely readers! Today I have the very great honor of hosting my fellow author, Anabelle Bryant, who's recently released the latest installment of her popular romance series Regency Charms, called Defying the Earl...See what kinds of things she'd rather do (or endure) if posed with the choice... 

Would you rather basejump or skydive from an airplane? I love healthy adventure – zip-lines and crazy roller coasters are perfect, so I’d choose to skydive. I’ve parasailed before, but this would be even freer – as close to being a bird as possible.

Sing in front of an auditorium full of people or pose nude for a small art class? I’m not a very good singer, but I’d still expose myself to the embarrassment in front of an auditorium before I disrobed for the art class.

Win the lottery or live forever? Living forever means watching all my loved ones die, so I’d like to win the lottery and improve everyone’s life while we’re all on earth together.

Have the ability to travel back in time or have a crystal ball? I would definitely travel back in time and learn from history, change a few decisions and become smarter for what’s to come. Seeing into the future with a crystal ball would change my perception of things and that could be negative. I’d rather leave that alone.

Read people’s minds or be invisible? Make me invisible, please. I’d love to choose what I hear or see by slipping in and out of the room. Hearing other’s thoughts in my head might prove hurtful and distracting – not to mention noisy!

Eat cow’s testicles or goat brains? Really? This question is brutal. I’m going with the brains because I’m the intellectual type…but honestly, I’d rather starve.

Give up coffee or give up sex? Looks like I’m going to have to find another favorite beverage. I mean, I love coffee…but you know, that’s a bit extreme.

Live in a big city or a small town? I grew up in a small town very close to New York City, so I do love both locations. If forced to make a choice, I’m going to have to choose the small town. Cities are fun to visit and explore, but I prefer the peaceful simplicity of a small town.

Bio:

Anabelle Bryant writes historical romance for Harlequin/HarperCollins. Her fourth historical romance, Defying The Earl begins a new series of Regency Charms novels and was released May 2015. A firm believer in romance, Anabelle knows life doesn’t always provide a happily-ever-after, but her novels do. An avid traveler and novice photographer, she enjoys connecting with readers on Facebook, Twitter, and at AnabelleBryant.com.

Links:

Defying The Earl: http://amzn.to/1D8UUWB

Website: http://www.anabellebryant.com

Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/AnabelleBryantAuthor  

Twitter: @AnabelleBryant

AmazonAuthorCentral: http://amzn.to/1Hako9p

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/anabellebryant/

Youtube Channel:  http://bit.ly/1r0TjsY

Did You Say Something?

Surprise, surprise, once again I come shuffling back after a long absence to this space, my head slung low in shame that I have been so neglectful. What can I say, except that I am an unfit keeper of the Bloggosphere, an unworthy member of the community that others so eagerly contribute to...Or am I? 

Actually, I do blog...quite regularly, in fact. But it's not for me––it's for work, to blog about a million things that I feel completely unqualified to write about. I fluff and fan and fill the page with words that will, ideally, generate clicks and clients, churning my brain into smithereens as I try my best to compose a post that will sound clear, professional-yet-approachable, and knowledgeable. I'm a posting poser, and sometimes I worry that I will run out of things to say, run dry of ways to re-spin the same load, find myself facing the blank page with no way out. 

Little wonder, then, that when it comes to my own blog, the page so often goes unopened in the first place, so that its stark whiteness is not even an issue. I don't see it, so it doesn't see me.

Perhaps if I didn't take this space so seriously, I would't feel such a need to say only things that I feel need to be said. I would be better able to toss off the casual blurb without worry, but I'm not wired that way. I want the people who read what I write to feel like they got something from reading it. Like they can relate. I don't want to fill the space just to fill the space, so until I have something to say that I feel is worth putting out there for others to read, I won't. And I'll have to learn how to feel a little less guilty about the fact that somewhere out there, the pages of the Bloggosphere are being written; but mine hang back, untouched and white. Waiting, yes, but not impatiently.

Be patient, my dear readers, and I'll be back again soon...

Taking a Holiday?

I have to admit, I'm always thrown off by holidays, especially the ones that are "government holidays," but not mandatory holidays. The ones that are my black hole. The ones that are still workdays for me, but many of the people I work with (or try to...) have decided to take off. The days the Inbox feels unloved and neglected, while my Sent pile seems to grow and grow, doing nothing but feeling my feeling of rejection. I know, I know, the therapists are foaming at the mouth to lend their analysis. 

I think the reason behind all this is multifaceted, one that sensitive creatives can understand quite easily––as can the self-doubting, self-employed perfectionists. We never feel done, never feel good enough, never feel like we're quite living up to everyone's expectations. But where do we get this idea? And why do we allow it to thrive so much that it strangles and blinds us from our ability to relax and enjoy things the way we should? I hope that's something I can change sooner rather than later. I have so very many things to be grateful for, so many things to cherish and enjoy. Yet I allow myself to give time and space to fear, to let it cloud my vision and stand in the way of...me. The me that I once was, the spontaneous, fun, adventurous me. The me that I want to restore and rediscover. The me that I want others to see. 

This is a new year, and––as I have seen so often in the past few years, so many many unexpected things can happen in a year to change your life. There's magic waiting to happen––my wish is that I (and you, dear readers) will be open to seeing it.

Time and Space to Breathe

Funny thing happened this morning while I was getting ready for the day, dashing between shower and hairdryer and all that good stuff that makes us presentable (presumably) to the general public...I had a flash of insight, an epiphany of sorts. Odd how that happens in the bathroom, isn't it? Perhaps it's because that seems so often to be the place that we allow our thoughts to wander, to be unguided be all the minutae that will, no doubt, assault us later on in the day.

Anyway...as I combed my hair and rubbed in my moisturizer, I thought back over the non-events of my Tuesday (yesterday) and how frustrating it seemed to be. Not that anything really happened...quite the contrary, actually. Which was precisely why it had been so frustrating. Granted, it was something I had brought on myself, as I'd worked so furiously to get ahead enough to actually have a little breathing room, a little time to relax or take an afternoon off...a little time to enjoy the fact that I had a clear list of finished assignments. Oddly enough, I was too worried about the very fact that I had a clear list of finished assignments without having any more lined up to actually enjoy my time to breathe. 

Yes, I breathed. But I didn't breathe a sigh of relief or contentment. I hyperventilated, stressed over my momentary lack of assignments. 

That's me. A worrier who worries when I'm not worried, because clearly, if I'm not worried, I must be overlooking some shoe that's about to drop.

What's up with that? It's a tendency I'd like to change this year––not a resolution, but a goal. A part of my character that I know needs to be reshaped by the realization that things are really okay, and that in those times of quiet, it's okay to relax and enjoy the gift I'v been given by having that time to just be.

My How Fast the Time Flies

Amazingly enough, it's been nearly three years since I started blogging. Admittedly, it's not that I've been posting regularly in those three years, but still. 
Where. Did. It. Go?
But not just those three years. 
Where did it all go?
The other day, I was having a conversation with my mama (Yes, I still call her that. I live in the South, people, get over it) during which I came to the astounding realization that it's been almost FIFTEEN (gasp!) years since I graduated from high school. Okay, so I still have a year yet, but you get my point. 
How did that happen?!?
Granted, it's held quite a few ups and downs and twists and turns...enough to make even the cast-ironest of cast iron stomaches turn queasy and toss cookies like the Nabisco factory in a machinery malfunction, so it could seem like a relatively short amount of time in certain respects. But in others, it seems like such a long time. 
When did we all get so old? 
Did we happen to get any wiser?
I'd like to think so.
I'd like to think that in the past fifteen––or even the past three––years, I've matured and gained a deeper understanding if what really matters. 
Because if I haven't––if we haven't––then any stretch of time, long or short, is lost. 
Where has it gone? But, more importantly, what have you learned? 

Watch Your Tongue!

Okay. Here it is––finally, after months of putting it off, shifting it from one burner to the next, re-jiggering the To-Do List and eyeing my Inbox with guilt as I know that it still holds a reminder e-mail that I need to blog...A BLOG! Ta-da! 

Strange as it may sound, I had a second of insight today that left me with the realization that––with as much pressure as I put on myself to write something absolutely, mind-blowingly spectacular for my blogposts––I let it become HUGE in my mind, the equivalent of writing assignments in school that left me physically unable to hold a pencil as I struggled to write the first words. As I got into those assignments, however, I always found that I had over-exaggerated them; and that they were, in fact, very much simpler than I had initially thought. And much less time-consuming. So now, instead of the school reports, I have THE BLOG, which I want to do, but which I have so over-stressed to the point that I sometimes dread it. Hence the loooooooong periods of time between posts. Well, that, and the legitimate writing deadlines that sideline any efforts to make a coherent post come out of my over-taxed little gray cells.

But I digress. Today's post (woot woot!) is one that reminds me (and all many millions of my readers, ha!) of the importance of words––words that we speak over ourselves and words that we speak over each other. Over the past few years especially, I've seen the power that words hold, even ones that seem, at their speaking, not to be that life-changing. But they are. They reverberate. Not always in the physical, but in the spiritual, in the mental, in the emotional. They cause death and create life. They encourage or destroy. It was in this spirit that Nelson Searcy wrote Tongue Pierced: How the Words You Speak Transform the Life You Live (released Jan. 1 by David C Cook). It's a guide for growth in that knowledge, of becoming aware of what you're saying, whether it's spoken in love or in anger. Explore its chapters and explore your head, your heart, and your tongue––and learn to speak life.

Dear Diary....

Once again, I find myself appalled at the time that has elapsed since my last real blog-post. You'd think that, by now, I've come to terms with the fact that I'm horrible about maintaining any sort of regular posting schedule when it comes to my own personal blog, but I still tend to send myself packing on a guilt trip when I log on and realize just how very loooong it's been since the last entry. This is why I tried multiple times to keep a journal and never actually maintained one with any degree of success. No one's beating down my door to hear my thoughts on things, so why would it matter if I let things fall by the wayside? 

Really, though, what sort of self-expression and self-exploration do we rob ourselves of when we shrug off the thought of writing those words? What chapters in our lives are we letting slip by, without record? While I wouldn't want everyone to know every thought or feeling that goes through my mind, I do sometimes look back over the trajectory of my life and wish I could recall things more clearly...and had I kept that journal, I might actually have that bit of insight. For some reason, though, we seem to think of "journaling" as a time-suck or a frivolity, rather than a beneficial way to connect with ourselves. We're too busy with other things, and so the pages stay empty––clean and white and going to waste. The journals collect dust, just one more prettily bound book whose spine was never cracked. i'm too guilty of that. But really, isn't that empty journal just a metaphor? We don't take the time to get to know ourselves. We're too busy with other things. I'm not suggesting navel gazing and becoming me-focused. I'm talking about getting to know yourself and what drives you, to finding out what makes you unique and worth getting to know. To becoming whole and healthy and happy as an individual so that you can have a full relationship with yourself, but also with everyone around you. The journal pages might just be a start, but they're a good one. 

Cheese Clouds

I seem to be in that vacuum of space between the feast and the famine––that weird phenomenon of time that seems to happen when there's this building cloud of assignments that you just know is coming, waiting...looming...growing. And yet, the actual time you'll be given to deal with the cloudburst is unmoving. While the knowledge of upcoming work (and the resulting reflection in the greenery of my bank account, of course) is always nice to have, there's that downside of stressiness that happens. Maybe it's just me, maybe it's not. I'll be the first to admit that I'm sometimes too easily launched into that black hole of anxiety, even though the reality is that I can truly handle the workload, if I attack it methodically and with a clear head. I.E., trading in stressy-me for rational-me. Stressy-me seems to be my default setting, and that's something I definitely would like to change.

I've never personally read Who Moved My Cheese, but if I wrote it, I'm sure the dialogue would go something like this: 
My. Cheese. Has. Moved.
Where?
Why? 
Who touched it?
What if they had germs?
What if it's not the exact same cheese?
Can I move it back?
When?

As you can guess, change is not something I embrace easily. And neither is lack of details. Both of which occur with maddening frequency in life as well as in work. Especially in the ever uncertain world of a freelance writer. Which begs the question: why do I do this? And how do I not have a bleeding ulcer? Who knows, maybe it has something to do with my very contradictory love of the adrenaline rush that comes from knowing I met the tightest deadline, that my clients were impressed. That I proved I could do it.

The cheese moves. The thundercloud builds. Life can't be planned. But I'm trying to learn again how to cope with all of those things. To not worry about who or why or when the cheese was moved. To be thankful that the cheese is, in fact, still out there and available. It's still cheese. To not worry about when the rain will come. Just to be glad that it's coming and realize that it's needed to water this thirsty ground. And to embrace the unplanned moments of life––since sometimes those turn out to be the best ones. 

I'm just going to have to see if I can keep the cheese from getting soggy in the meantime.  

More Than Words

Call it a hazard of being a writer, but I'm always amazed that people can put so little stock in the importance of words. Words are amazing, yet so many people treat them with such flippancy. Really, though, if you think about it, words can change everything. 

They have the power to persuade, the power to hurt, the power to heal. The power to kill, and the power to give life. Whether spoken or written, words are essential to how we relate to one another, to how we connect. Maybe that's why I love them so much. They are truly a powerful thing, and I'm reminded of that on a daily basis as I boot up my computer to start my work day or crack the spine on a book.

What would life be like without words?

As one who makes a living from my ability to spin them together, I shudder to think. But even as a simple human being, I've often reflected on a world suddenly robbed of words–-one where they could not be spoken, heard, read, or written. It would be a lonely thing, I think. We would never really know someone else, would we? How could we fall in love or really feel anything about anyone or anything?Death of words would, I think, literally mean death. They're required for technology, for entertainment, for relationship. 

And still, they are so undervalued. Think about it, though, next time you're about to say something or write something. What do those words mean, and what will they cost you? How will they be received? Hold them in your mind's eye and measure them. 

Words are a powerful thing, a gift or a curse. 

Words are never just words. Be wordly wise.

Bubblegum Bubbles

I'm always amazed at people who can just walk around in their own little bubble without ever talking to anyone. I'm just not built like that. Yes, I'll admit that I'm often guilty of the bubble thing, but I like talking to people far too much to operate my day on Mute, in a shatter-proof bubble. 
So I may have a bubble, but it seems to be made of gum.
And like all bubblegum bubbles, my bubble frequently pops.
Which means a fresh bubble later on, sure. But who doesn't like fresh?
Fresh is better, right?

I guess that's one of the hazards of being a writer. 
Or maybe it's one of the advantages.
I talk to so many interesting people and learn so many different things. And Lord knows it keeps my days from stagnating and my conversational level above a grunt. 
I find sources for articles I'm working on, get ideas for characters, make friends, and network. I've gotten some really great content, and I've met some truly inspirational people that I wouldn't have, if I'd kept my bubble intact.
Shatter-proof bubbles are overrated.
Sure, they may seem like a good idea, all protective and impenetrable.
But bubblegum bubbles can grow. 
Bubblegum bubbles are pretty colors.
Bubblegum bubbles are fun.

If we constantly operate within the confines of our own bubbles, the world would be a sad place. 
We'd lose connections, and I like connections. 
I like knowing that there are people who care about me, and people I care about. 
I like knowing that, as sticky as things can be, as difficult as life can become, there are people I can reach out to. People who don't mind that my bubble popped and I got stuck in their hair or on their faces. They get stuck to me, I get stuck to them. 
And then, we get stuck to the shatter-proof bubbles and prove that sometimes being bubblegum can fix holes. 


   

Muddle On

I seem to be having one of those days where it seems that every word I type is laborious and not-quite-right. Which is a bad thing when you're staring down the business end of a deadline. It leaves you with little choice but to muddle through and hope that something magical happens between the time the thoughts squeeze out of your brain on their way to your fingertips as they hit the keys. Unfortunately, there is no app for writer's block. There's only sheer force of will...That, and the oh-so-galvanizing reality that if you do not work, you do not get paid. And paid is good. Paid means I get to keep a roof over my head and food in the fridge. All of which I like, so I muddled on. 

All morning and into the late afternoon, I have muddled on. 

Fortunately, I can now cross the muddling off and breathe a sigh of relief for a little while. I can try to think about something else...like who might next get booted from the teams on "The Face." You know, the really important stuff. Sometimes it's refreshing not to have to navel-gaze, okay? It keeps things a little more balanced, a little more sane. Yes, insane reality TV can keep you sane; there's a study on it, I'm sure. 

But even if it's not a proven scientific fact, it's fun. And fun is sometimes precisely what you need, especially after a long day of un-fun brain squeezing. So as you can imagine, I'm quite looking forward to going home later and planting my rear on my Ikea couch to watch the next installment of "The Face" that awaits me on my DVR. There are worse things I could be doing; so this particular vice is, in my opinion, a healthy one. It keeps me sane. 

And sanity is necessary to good writing. And good writing gets the bills paid. And paid bills includes paid cable bills, which means more of "The Face." It's good to have goals, isn't it? It keeps you muddling on.

Escapism

There's a lot to be said for lack of focus. Or maybe it's just me. Today, I'm so unfocused that it's distressing––I have too many things to do to feel this scattered. I'm terribly happy about the fact that I have a full list of assignments, but none of them seems to be taking any particular shape at the moment. I'd call it writer's block, but can I call it that if I'm actually writing right now? Hmmmm...interesting thought. 

As I sit here in my home-office away from my home-office, I'm chugging coffee, trying to warm up both my brain cells as well as the body that holds that brain––non-functioning though it might be at the moment. For some reason, every public place in the free world seems to feel the need to run their A/C at maximum, never once considering that their patrons might actually welcome the idea of tolerable thermostat settings. Some of us actually think better when we're not tying to thaw out, but I guess maybe we don't count. We're the minority, perhaps, but still.

But I digress. This was not actually what I intended to be writing about for today's post, but sometimes things have a mind of their own, don't they? The mind runs away with itself, taking the fingers with it and whipping across the keys to compose something entirely unintentional. Sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes a bad one. Whatever the case, it is an unescapable part of reality.

Speaking of escape...I am now the proud owner of a Ford Escape. In all the torrential rain activity that plagued my sector of the map last week, my car was part of the toll. And while the thought of being able to get a different car in place of my Suzuki was an appealing one, the way that it happened wasn't quite ideal. Normally, the purchase of a new car is a planned one, not an emergency one. But God was certainly watching over me as I made my search, and everything went much more smoothly than I could have imagined. It was an amazing blessing, a silver lining at the edge of the rain clouds. Fittingly enough, the Escape is the color of a storm cloud––a rolling reminder that life is full of storms, but faith will see you through them. You only have to believe and pray. And remember to be thankful for the miracles God can work, even in the middle of all the storms.

Selfie-ish

I recently read an article that said the 2013 Oxford Dictionary word of the year was "selfie." Interestingly enough, it seems to say something about the zeitgeist, as we become a culture increasingly obsessed with being our own publicists. Even those among us who really don't have anything momentous to report seem to be pinging Instagram and Twitter with selfies that put us on full display. 
     
Maybe I should modify the pronoun of "us" to one which excludes me, as I've never had the desire to put my pic out there. In fact, I usually have to be threatened under penalty of death to let anyone take my picture; and I absolutely abhor the results of pretty much every picture I've ever had to take of myself. Unlike all the seasoned selfie snappers out there, I haven't perfected the art of the pose. I always come out looking less-than-glam, but that could simply be due to the fact that I'm not photogenic.
Whatever the case, my own camera blunders are not the point.

The point is that the article, in that one simple declaration, highlighted a very sad fact about the way people think. The importance they place on their own desire for recognition. A selfie is––in many cases––a shameless display of selfishness. It's the assumption that every little thing you do must be documented and seen. It's the desire to make others notice you and envy you.

Granted, there are certainly times when pictures are appropriate; but the onslaught of random shots pinging through the air at every moment, unseen in their journey to social media sites, is generally unnecessary. 

Maybe we should stop taking time to snap so many selfies and look around to see what other people are doing. To see what they need. And maybe, just maybe, there will actually be a camera-worthy moment in there. Create a memory, rather than a perfect pose. 

Things will be a lot more real, and a lot less selfish.

Tell Me a Story

As a writer, I'm naturally inquisitive...Or maybe, I'm naturally inquisitive, which is why I'm a writer.

Whatever the case may be, I've always been a people watcher, a listener, someone who loves to hear other people's stories. Personally, I think other people are fascinating. You never know who the seemingly ordinary people next to you really are, where they come from, what they've seen...until you start listening. 

And when you start listening, people certainly seem eager to tell you their stories.

At least, they do with me...Which would make me a really great bartender, I guess, if this whole writing thing doesn't fly. (So far, so good...)

Anyway, I'm constantly reminded how much people want to be heard. They want to know that they matter, that they're not alone, that they're special. They want to know that, in the millions of people out there, they are still important.

It's actually one aspect of my job that I love––making people feel heard. Even if I'm just quoting women I've met randomly in the mall when I'm out trawling for sources to use in my articles––like what they look for in a mate, how they find the perfect pair or jeans, or what they have on their bucket lists–-the look of absolute joy that creeps over their faces is rewarding for me. It's amazing to see how transformative it can be, how excited they get at the idea of seeing their words and their name in an actual magazine. I love it, and it reminds me why I do what I do.

People find out you're a writer, and they come to you for all kinds of things––the company they work for is throwing a big to-do, would that be something the magazine would want to cover? Or the more personal––emotional stories about what they've been through with a spouse or a child. Potential human interest pieces that they just want to have someone hear, to have attention brought to whatever issue they feel so deeply about. They don't have the words, but they know that you do. You're a writer, someone who can give their voice life. 

For me, their trust in my abilities is a gift in itself. Hopefully, I pay it forward in ways that matter.
After all, we all deserve to be shown that our lives have meaning, that we are special, that our stories are being told.

Take a look at the person next to you, and when they start talking, listen.

You might learn something. And you'll both end up reaping the rewards.

Gimme a Break

More than a tiny gasp of shock and horror escaped me when I saw the date of my last posting. And though this should, in all reality, not come as a shock to me anymore, it always seems to hit me with a tidal wave of guilt and then a smaller wave of absolute amazement at how quickly time passes. Ironically, I seem to spend inordinate amounts of time lamenting the loss of time. 

I know well by now that even with my best intentions laid out for the week ahead of me, blogging generally falls to the bottom of the list and gets a bit lost in the shuffle of things that seem more important and actually pay my bills. I also know that, as a non-bill-paying part of my day, I can "afford" to let it slip through the cracks as a frivolity. 

After all, this gig doesn't net me anything beyond a few minutes with my own free-flow of creativity, right? But who's to say that isn't just as valuable? No, it may not be bankable, but sometimes the ROI (return of investment) of taking a few minutes to focus on something that makes you feel a little more in tune with yourself, with what makes you tick and what makes you happy––a little bit of a vacation for your brain––is worth it.

Heck, there are even scientific studies to back it up. Taking a break for your frazzled brain's sake is a good thing, not something to feel guilty about. Taking a break isn't an indulgence––it's a necessity. And it's one that I seem to have forgotten how to do lately. I'm allowing deadlines to dictate far too much of my day, and I often feel like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. Though I may not always have the clearest picture of just what very important date I'm late for, I'm late! Late, late, late! Or maybe I'm about to be? The sound of a clock ticks loudly in my subconscious, a constant warning of...something. 

Obviously, I'm not the only one who feels this way, so driven as a culture are we by our schedules. We run ourselves ragged with work and unnecessary commitments, busy, busy, busy. But we have 581 "friends" on Facebook, and everyone knows what we had for breakfast because we send out Tweets with the speed and frequency of an eye-blink.

But really, no one knows you...and not even you know you, because you're too busy to find out. Who are you? What makes you happy? What makes you feel relaxed and fulfilled? Take a break––let your mind wander. Make the next peek at the calendar a little less-gasp inducing. 

 

Casting Shadows

I glance at the calendar and gasp. The month is almost over! Not that I have any fondness for February, mind you, but still. There are so many things that I intended to get accomplished this month that are STILL there on my to-do list. 

I was going to have my taxes done.

I was going to take some things to the consignment shop.

I was going to have lunch with so-and-so...

I was going to blog every other day.

I was going to pick a crafty project and finish it.

Obviously, you know where this is going.

"Was going to" being the operative phrase and all, you might have guessed that none of these things are the things that actually got crossed off my list.

I did get to cross a few things off (yay), but I let these slide through the cracks and am now feeling an enormous sense of guilt. 

I know, I know...a quick peek at my own blog archives might remind me not to beat myself up for these things yet undone. But who am I kidding? My inner-self critic is whacking at me like a blindfolded three-year old up to bat at the pinata. 

I wanted my February To-Dos to become Ta-Das.

I wanted so much more from this hatefully abbreviated month.

Maybe that's something to remember, though.

Three whole days get chopped from the calendar. 

Three.

That's three whole days that I should give myself grace for, three days that aren't my fault. I didn't waste them. I didn't piddle them away foolishly.

But even if those three days did actually exist and none of the remaining things for February were accomplished, To Dos needn't be sources of self-flaggelation.

Why?

Maybe we should take inspiration from that famously frustrating mascot of February and make like the groundhog. And yes, I'm very well aware that Groundhog Day officially came and went a long time ago; but hear me out: It seems highly doubtful that he allows the pressures of the calendar to dictate his To Do list. Rather, I imagine he crawls up to the entrance of his hole every year and thinks, "If it happens, it happens." 

No pressure, no expectation. And no sense of guilt if it doesn't "happen."

It just is what it is––no more, no less.

So the month ends in mere days, and my list is still full of To Dos that most likely will not become To Dones.

If it happens, it happens. 

I don't have to let those undone things overshadow everything else.

Here's Your Sign?

Much to my dismay and in spite of all my best intentions, I realized this morning that I've let far too long a time slip through my fingers without penning my latest post. Somehow, the week flew by with nary a moment to allocate to you, my o-so-loyal readers (all one of you <insert smiley-face emoticon here>). 

In the midst of my self-flagellation over my neglect, I further realized that there might be some people out there still holding their breath, wondering what might have happened after my post referencing the very serious thought I was giving to the possibility that I would take the leap and try to catch my "One That Got Away." 

Let it out and breathe. 

After more thought and some very convincing encouragement from a friend of mine, I decided to be proactive. I picked up the phone and called him at work. Success! Contact was made! And he sounded happy to hear from me!

Breathe.

After a few moments of banal and friendly conversation regarding his upcoming move, I suggested that we grab lunch or coffee when he had a free minute. Yes, yes––we should. When he had a free space in his schedule. 

Weeks later, with a smattering of innocuous text messages exchanged, no free space seems to have opened. Coffee is still un-drunk, lunch has yet to be chewed. And so I sent another text. This one a little more weighty, asking if he wanted me to leave him alone and abandon the idea of "catching up." I ended the text stating that I didn't want to be "That Girl." And the text screen remains blank, void of a reply.

Is that lack of a response, in the end, a response? Do I let The One That Got Away maintain his getaway?

At this point, I'm trying to remember that there are signs; and we're supposed to read them. I'm trying to remember that things happen for a reason. If it's supposed to happen one day, it will. But for now, the screen is silent. 

It's his turn now.   

Dreams of Gold

When I was little, I used to watch the Olympics with great anticipation. 
Not every event, of course.
No, for me the Olympics was about two things: gymnastics and figure skating.
You could keep everything else, as far as I was concerned.
Those two events held a special place in my child-sized heart, keeping me glued to the television whenever I was near one that was broadcasting them.
No matter that we didn't own a television in my house that had access to anything other than the VCR. We had no cable and therefore, no reception for anything other than snow. And not placid white snow. I'm talking the kind of snow that used to happen when the world of technology was confined to analog TV, a frustrating site accompanied by an explosion of sound that is nearly impossible to describe, other than...explosive. Like a rocket taking off. A strange sort of white noise, I suppose.
Still, somehow, someway, I nurtured an obsession for figure skating and gymnastics through those occasions when I was able to view the Games at a friend's house.
I would watch as triple axes and sow-cows were executed with ease and grace, holding my breath until blade met ice in perfect delivery.
I would marvel at the speed and agility of the girls who tumbled and flipped and bounced through the air as they completed routines that had taken them years to perfect. 
I wanted to be them, to do what they did, the way that they did it. 
I wanted their poise and their strength.
To me, it was utterly inspiring.
And so I dreamed I was a gymnast as I cartwheeled in my backyard or balanced myself on two-by-fours stacked together along the flower beds. My imagination turned the smooth concrete floor of my garage into my personal rink, and I became a queen of the ice as I smoothy swiftly skated circles on my roller-skates, loudly blaring Celine Dion and Mariah Carey.
I dared to dream, in the way that only a child can.
I miss that dreamer sometimes.
Where did she go, and what made her leave?
Was it the natural progression of time and the realization that dreams don't always work out?
Was it that I grew up and abandoned dreams like those, replacing them with dreams that seemed more attainable?
Where do the dreamers we once were go? 
What are we so afraid of?
As the Olympics play out, take inspiration from them. Let them remind you that you were created by a dreamer––and that you were made to dream.
Dream big. 
Go for the gold.

Bowled Over?

The game day came and went, in my little bubble at least, without fanfare. My remote didn't stray to the lower regions of the channel register to take a peek at the score or the half-time festivities. I don't know what commercials caught the most attention or caused the most ruckus. 

The morning after, the only reason I know about the score and the continental divide that separated the winning and the losing is because it's been all the buzz on the morning radio talk; and you can't go in a store or cafe without someone making mention of it.

Call me un-American, I just can't get into it. Still, I know there are plenty of people who are. I know plenty of people work their entire weekend game-plan around the game...and to each his own. I don't really understand their fascination any more than they understand my fascination with watching people open baskets of strange ingredients and competing to make something not only edible, but inspiring––all in the hopes of making some money.

That's the point––everyone has different interests and passions. Everyone has different dreams and goals. All of these people who keep us, the viewers, entertained and glued to our television sets and mobile devices for the latest episodes and play-by-plays started off with a dream, a vision, a goal. They were inspired by the people they watched. Think about the ripple effect of that. 

It's amazing, really, how much the words and actions of someone can change the future, simply by changing one life. It's awesome and scary all at the same time, if you ask me. Sometimes it happens without our awareness, as we quietly go about our own lives, thinking no one is watching or that no one really cares. But people see. People hear. They learn to dream and hope––or they learn to give up.

I don't know about you, but I want to be someone who inspires. Someone who shows others that, scary as it might sometimes seem, dreams are worth chasing. That they deserve to live their passions and light the world on fire with their talent. I want to score the goal and do the stupid end-zone dance...
I want to go to Disney World.

A Strange Sort of Sandwich

I was telling a friend of mine the other day that I've found myself in a "sandwich generation" of sorts. Not the kind that they talk about in AARP Magazine or on the morning talk shows. 
Nope. 
At thirty, I'm not working out plans to take care of aging parents at the same time as I'm chasing down rugrats of my own. 
The sandwich generation to which I'm referring would be the one where, at thirty years-old, I'm being propositioned by eighty year-old men and asked out on dates by twenty year-olds. One is too young, and the other...well, I'll just say they're too old and leave it at that.
I'm sandwiched between age groups.
And sandwiched between being creeped-out and flattered. 
It's definitely an odd place to be, and not really one I'd given much consideration until now.
Especially since, when I got married, I thought I was done with all that.
True, the validation would have been nice, since that seems to be the slippery slope of married life––you lose that feeling of being attractive to other people, so you start to wonder...
But now––as a widow––if I get asked out, I have a choice. 
Not that I get asked out much. 
In fact, so rare is the occurrence that it's newsworthy.
But I digress.
I'm at an odd place in life, for sure. 
An odd, unexpected place.
Which, strange as it may sound, leaves me somewhat hopeful.
After all, sometimes it's being at the unexpected places at unexpected times that brings us unexpected joys and gifts.
We never imagined this life, so we could never have imagined the possibilities it would bring.
I don't know about you, but I have a pretty colorful imagination, but even my sense of the sensational is stumped by all the twists and turns my life has taken since I began my plunge into the pool of life as a writer. 
I could never have written this.
Six years in, and every day is still a surprise.
Sometimes its stressful, sometimes its blissful.
However my days unfold, one thing is sure: I'm sandwiched in the emotions of agony and ecstasy, often caught between fear and faith.
What does your sandwich look like?