Rinse & Repeat

Well, I made it to six days of blogging so far!  Or at least, writing sooooomething.  In college, one of the five things I took away from my major in English, was to write something every day. Even if it's just a word.  I don't know why I can't just do that.  I always feel like I need to have 546 words following that one word.  I need to explaaaaain the word. I need to keep you interested in the word.  Geez, I've been blocked for a couple years, for what *I think* has to do with all the shit I've been through and how idon'twannatalkaboutTHAT, when really, it probably would have helped me tremendously to write down the word, "SHIT", underline it, circle it five times, point arrows to it, cross it out, write it again, rip it up, tape it together, rinse and repeat. I think I really need to let it sink in that the ONE word is more for me than you.

Don't get me wrong, I am here to entertain you. I do think about you when I write.  I want to make you laugh.  Share my stuff, cuz when I share my stuff you share yours, and I'm like, "Oooooh, I am not the only one that feels this way, yells at my kids this way, loves this way, makes a fooool of myself this way, etcetera, etcetera..." You feel me? I DO want you to like me.  But dang, I've known for years and years that writing is MY best therapy.  Just like when I'm angry, or sad, or happy...I can't contain it.  It always comes out.  I express myself WAY better in writing than I do talking.  I've been in many conversations where I've felt like saying, "Ah crap, let me write what I just said down and get back to you."

What I'm trying to say (funny) is that most days you'll see the pretty, the fun (my life is a sitcom), but some days, you'll see a tattered, taped up post that says, "SHIT".  I'm really gonna let myself write "SHIT"...more.

dot...dot...dot...

Blog Challenge Today (it makes me write stuff):  Your Five Senses Right Now

I SEE our orchard.  It's beautifully arranged outside the window above my desk.  We have apple and pear trees dripping with fruit that fit in the palm of your hand.  Out there is a hand-me-down trampoline that my kids have always wanted, and now bond over, with flips and toe touches. There's a hammock that sits below a night-sky full, just full of stars that are just out of reach.  The orchard is an extension of our home.  It makes me feel rich.

I SMELL coffee brewing.  One of the most comforting scents of my life.

I TASTE my just-brewed coffee.  Two cups is my cue that the day has begun.

I HEAR quiet.  It's a rare sound in my house. It's the quiet sound of fans whirring, birds chirping. dogs dreaming... Three kids are making noise at friend's and cousin's homes (sleepovers).  Three teenagers are home, cocooned in blankets, taking advantage of a Saturday morning. One man is holding on to the last minutes of rest before another trip. I love this kind of quiet more than I ever have.  I love the chaos of my life, I do, I do.  I wouldn't change a thing.  That said, I absolutely relish the calm.

I TOUCH keys that bring my thoughts to life.  The keyboard is another comfort...this tool. Just like opening a book, turning pages, I never tire of the feel of the keys beneath my fingers. I love letters, real handwritten letters, but I absolutely choose typing, over writing.  There's room for mistakes.  Instant second chances with a "backspace".  I can actually keep up with my thoughts when I type.  I lose my patience with handwriting. Waste paper. Throw it away and walk away. Is it strange that I *feel* more like a writer when I type? I suspect so, but I just let it be strange.

Instagram Challenge:  Books

I absolutely love to read, but for the past year or so, I can't seem to focus long enough to get through anything. Magazines are even tough and that makes no sense to me.  I've been reading, Ask Questions, Get Sales since December.  That one makes sense to me. Let the snore fest begin, but it's like 10 pages (168), I need to get my *stuff* (i feel like i've said "shit" a lot in this post) together. Ridiculous.

I recently ordered Lone Wolf, by Jodi Picoult and Under The Mountain by Sophie Cooke.  Normally, as soon as I would rip them out of the Amazon box, my family would know not to talk or try to make eye contact with me for days.  But there they sit, anxiously waiting for me.

I think it probably has to do with where I am at the moment.  Full-time job, Full-time mom/momager, Full-time girlfriend. 108 residents + 6 kids + 1 boyfriend = MUCH.  I'm pretty sure I'm just exhausted.