Let Writing Sift Your Soul

Why does it seem like this phase last the longest? That in between feeling. In between jobs, in between growing up, in between lives. It’s a dreadful feeling. You’re apprehensive. You’re on edge. You’re terrified of what is to come and yet you urge it on just to get it over with. It’s suspense.

Suspense in the movies and in books enriches the experience. I try to tell myself that. Remind myself that the length of time is just an illusion. It’s much shorter than it feels. Like the seconds ticking by just before school's out or quitting time at work. Time always seems to stand still.

Yet it feels inescapable. How do we deal with it?

As I feel the anxiety rise up in my throat, I take a deep breath. Breathe. Just breathe, I tell myself. It’s not that bad. Only it is. I’m unemployed, my husband’s contract might run out in two weeks, and my mother-in-law (my other housemate) could be fired any day. I’ll have to run away to Tennessee and file bankruptcy, but still be in debt because of student loans. We won’t even be able to support ourselves further south because it’s only a couple hundred dollars cheaper than Connecticut. But those couple hundred dollars are a couple hundred dollars and its cold up here and I’m just terrified that I’ll actually have to do something I love now that I’ve finally taken the leap and jumped off the 9-5 employment bridge.

That about sums it up. I read somewhere that this is one way to get over your fears. To paint the picture of the worst possible scenario. And then look at it and decide if it really is that bad. To be honest, my picture isn’t much different than my life right now. In fact, some of it sounds better.

I did this once when I was thirteen. I was moving across town and felt like I was losing the only friends I had. I was on my bike for the last time, riding a forbidden two streets away down a busy road. The thought of jerking the handle bars out into oncoming traffic crossed my mind. And I wanted to. But something strange happened. The handle bars wouldn’t move. It was as if someone had their hands over mine in a vice grip and wouldn’t let me turn them.

This gave me one more moment to finish the thought before the cars passed by. It wouldn’t kill me. I would end up severely injured instead and in the hospital. My mom would hate me. I’d be grounded. They’d think I did it for attention. I’d never be allowed to ride again. I’d have my freedom taken away. All these thoughts ran through my head at once.

And so I continued on. Instead, I decided a better punishment would be to make myself live through it. Live through the loneliness, the isolation, the fears; and it was terrible. I cried myself to sleep every night. I wrote poetry that sounded like suicide notes. It was a good thing no one ever saw them back then. They wouldn’t have understood the vow I’d made to myself to live through the pain.

Turns out, it was worth it. Life is full of pain and joy. Freedom and cages. It’s our decisions that influence the path of our lives. It’s worth the adventure, the journey. It’s worth it all for one breathe of joy.

So write. Write down your fears, the terrors that plague you. Get them out. Don’t let them eat you up inside. You’re not alone. Let your writing sift your soul. Don't be afraid of what's inside. Because you're not the only one.

My Buns

Today, I buried the first animal I ever brought home as a pet. His formal name was Mr. Coats, more affectionately known as Buns. He was my bunny. The first time I laid eyes on him, he looked like a furry baby turtle. That’s all it took. He bobbed his head at me in approval. He even approved of my boyfriend at the time too. When I broke up with the boyfriend, Buns kept me afloat. I’d get home late, every night at midnight, and clean out his cage. I’d sit with him, talk to him, and sing to him. We loved each other very much.

Years later, whenever I walked into the room and he heard my voice he’d go nuts. Running all around his cage, fur and pellets flying. We gave him fresh and dried fruits. He hated banana. Don’t ever give a rabbit mushy food. They’ll think you’re rotten.

I had to give him up to my mom and dad to take care of when I found out I was allergic to him. I couldn't tell when he still had his baby fur. That hurt. I wanted to love him till the day he died. But my mother did that for me. My dad would clip his nails and give him new carpeting (he was a high class bunny). My father and uncle build an outdoor cage for him from scratch. It even had shingles on the roof. He did not appreciate it the first time we put him out there. He was furious that we would do such a thing. But we always brought him back in during the winter. Still, he would have preferred staying indoors all year.

He didn't care about grass or wild flowers. The first time we put him outside on a leash, yes a leash, he didn't know what to do. The flowers he loved to eat from the clovers with the purple flowers to the plentiful dandelions around the yard were gone on him once he was on the ground. It could have been the fact that he’d never seen fresh grass before in his life. In hind sight, we shouldn't have been surprised that he preferred the carpeting.

He was like a cat. If you loved him, he loved you. If you ignored him, he was mad at you. If you put him outside away from everyone else, he wasn't going to eat your stinking flowers until he got over the injustice to his life. He wanted to be near you when he wanted attention, to go take catnaps every afternoon, and it was especially fun to chase you up and down the hall, run between your legs, and use you as an obstacle course.

He was well loved. I will miss him even more, now that I can’t go have an asthma attack to hug him. No more red eyes and runny nose from sticking my face in his fur. No more petting his nose. A pet who lets you pet their nose trusts you. Honor that trust the best you can. And love them as much as you can while you have them. They are joy.

Butter Friday

Last Friday, I made butter from scratch with the help of modern technology. One late night of random research on how to make whipped cream lead to how to make butter, which lead to what to do with the byproduct, buttermilk. Why did I do this research? It was there. I was curious. Actually, I just wanted delicious whipped cream, but this is internet research. You can’t have JUST the whipped cream recipe. Inevitably online research ends in strange places. I also know how to grow sugar cane now. But we’re getting off topic. Today, I made butter.

I made butter and it was glorious… and messy. I’m wearing a quarter pound of cream, but it was worth it. It was the best right after I made it. Maybe that’s because I spent 20 minutes standing in the kitchen with a powered hand mixer waiting for what felt like an eternity. Suddenly from the soft peaks of whipped cream to chunky butter MY FOOT. That took a solid 5 minutes after it was whipped cream for it to get remotely heavy. If you don’t notice your whipped cream is done by then, you’re doing it wrong. It only took two minutes to make whipped cream out of one cup of heavy whipping cream. TWENTY MINUTES for butter. There’s a big difference.

The butter was ready just in time for dinner, which we proceeded to drench with butter. I’d wager we used about a half a cup of butter on our potatoes, biscuits and bread. Even the chicken got buttered. It was delicious. I’d do it again. Although, I now understand why someone would invest $400 into a large mixing contraption. (Wouldn’t we all love to turn it on and walk away?) In the meantime, I highly recommend doing that once in your life. The most satisfying part (other than licking your fingers) is squishing it in between your fingers. Why? Try it. Then we’ll talk.

P.S. I got a mixer! It's 30 years old... but I got one. ;D

On Life and Living

We spend our days fighting lions and finding hidden treasures. We fight for what we believe, for the glory is not in the prize but in the struggle. It’s not the crown that brings you glory, but the victory that took you there. The fight for what you believe. The tenacity to continue to rise above each and every obstacle thrown in your way. The universe fights against you, but you continue on. You won’t give up. You won’t give in. Quitting is not an option, there are only deviations in the path. New trajectories found. But you go on. Seeking. Searching. For what to be found? It is a mystery. And at the end of the path, we find not joy in our taking, but joy in our living. It is not the end which brings us peace, but a moment of rest. And then the journey begins again. For we are never satisfied until we are seeking, searching, and living.