Suffocating the Light- Ignite the Blaze

Sometimes I feel suffocated by my own sense of responsibility. This once free spirit who would fly off any weekend, anywhere has had her wings clipped by the unforgiving shears of adulthood.

But I thought I was an adult then. Making my own money, seeing music live that nourished my entire soul, driving off into the sunset with great friends and big dreams...

Here I sit today, staring into a gray sky which has been gray for weeks never-ending.
Like the kind of gray that slowly creeps into your subconscious and reminds you of everything you've sacrificed; reminds you of those sunny days outside with, quite literally, not a worry or care in the world, beer in hand...
...where did that life go? Where did that girl go, because thinking about running off for a weekend with a small bag and CD case gives me major anxiety.
That money could go into savings, for a house, for kids, for college for kids we don't have that we're not sure we even really want(ok maybe we do but still)...
These are the things that plague my mind in my spare, or anytime really especially when they sky is a constant shade of light and dark gray, sun up to sun down.


Gray Sky. Gray Soul. Omnipresent suffocation, up on the mountain of responsibility. My how thin the air is....

Seriously though, how do I change this?

I have made some purposeful steps in manifesting what I want out of life. Weaving together the delicate silver strands of hope, talent, desire, bliss, freedom, creativity.

....God, I miss feeling wildly creative.

I've taken to reading a lot. Thinking that these stories plucked from someone's mind's eye, will ignite the flame of my creative soul, waking her up, to stay...not to spark and sputter and then eventually suffocate in my perfectionist's need of holding myself to unbelievable standards.
I get that from my mother.
We can never live up to our own expectations... shit how can anyone else?

When I was wild and free, and life started to catch up with me, I thought that to truly be happy I just needed to be completely, and financially responsible.
Bills paid.
Apartment clean and organized.
Healthy home cooking.
Sturdy Monday through Friday job, with benefits- 401K for extra points.
Very little debt.

Here I am.
My bills are paid, my apartment is normally in perfectly organized working order, I am housewife extraordinaire in the kitchen, and my job has been very good to me in so many ways-  oh and by 2017 we should be out of debt.

but I'm not feeling it....
not feeling the bliss, the excitement of adventure.... not feeling this life that I've created, no matter how great it really is.

I want a creative position. I am so appreciative of my job, but I am a writer, a creative being full of technicolor dreams bursting out of me at my best.
This is dulling my my shine. All of it. My suffocating responsibility is snuffing out my light, so how do I turn it into an ignition of my blazing fire?

I'm not done... I can't be done. I have A LOT more to say. Fuck you if you think you've peaked, self, you surely have not.

I wanted to make a difference.
Whenever they asked me in school what I wanted from my life, I always said "I want to make a difference in this world"- even then, I was a little PositivePolly kinda gal.
I've carried Polly with me through all of the amazing sunrises, and sunsets that would melt your heart with beauty, and she's probably the one who takes my hand and helps me cross through the gray skies...

I refuse to think that the death my mother, 8 years ago, snuffed out my light- her death has changed so much in my life and changed so much about me....but, I didn't die with her, I live in celebration of her. I am all of the good things that she had to give to the world, without all of her regrets...

Get out of your own way... isn't that usually the reason we plateau after a great crescendo?

Just a Dream- Morning Free write

Writing in the darkness is easy. You're sitting in a room surrounded by the absence of light, coffee- or whiskey, in hand where the only light in the room is the glow from whichever device utilized.

I remember time when writing in the darkness involved no light, no glow, no technology. You relied on how quickly your little hands could create the world unfolding in your mind- pausing for hand cramps, and being distracted by how messy your handwriting gets when the inspiration is pushing out at the tips of your fingers.

We've come a long way- typing 70 uninterrupted words per minute gives the brain time to catch up- space to create the story thats been nothing but thoughts up until this moment.

Its the effortlessness of the backspace and tease of delete that you need to watch out for - they can remove your last thought before you even know it. Wiping out a story line, a life line, within a moment's time. Then there's the editor that lies within.... she's so critical and keeps track of how far off track you've gone or how long its taken you to write that perfect sentence.

About that perfect sentence, its one within hundreds of the book- but you care, and craft, and find the perfect wording to reflect the images in your mind. Going through each punctuation carefully, making sure the pauses in your minds eye conversation convey exactly the timing of whats being said without losing all meaning in the dots and lines and shapes......

Really, the story is the easy part...right?
Painting pictures and scenery with words, making sure you capture the pink and blue of the sunset just as perfect as you see it-or the years of layers of dust and dirt on the train in the subway. Those are the pieces that bring the reader to you; the pieces that paint your story in their mind.

Its the best thing about books, the traveling to unknown worlds and lands and meeting people or creatures that you never imagined existed... its why I read and why I write. Sharing emotion that could touch someone deeply, change their lives, be the catalyst that they needed to take that step that they've needed to take for months or years.

The sentence you so carefully crafted healed another layer on top of old scars, making the pain die down a little bit- letting them know they're not alone in how they feel in a quite anonymous way.

This is why I write. To tell the story that someone, somewhere, needs to read.

Its funny how time affects a story- when I began this exercise it was darker in the world, more people were sleeping. Now the gray light of a hazy sunless sky bursts through the big, not quite, bay window - and I feel less alone, as if more people have joined my story as they wake from their dreams....

isn't that what a story is... just a dream?

Snapshots and Silent Movies

Time sure is a funny thing- it has a way of sneaking up on you- stealing your hours and moments, turning them into memories of yesterday.

My memories work like one of those red picture viewers that I had as a kid (ViewMaster 3D to be accurate), where you put the round cartridge with negatives inside and click through the viewer- picture after picture, round and round. Sometimes they were animals on African plains, sometimes they were Smurfs in their perfect little Smurf village- now they're images of my past; people I once knew, places we once were, someone I used to be... all on the same cartridge flipping back and forth in my minds eye.
I hear that some people have video memories, guess I missed that upgrade.

Either way, memories and time have a way of catching up with me right around a specific few times of year. Mother's day, or the weeks leading up to it, is one of them.

I've been sifting through old images from my childhood. Family parties with epic 80's glasses that took up half of the faces of the women in my family. Feathered hair, blue eyeliner, and all of the frosted highlights and perms one could ever imagine possible. High school graduation painted with red and black school colors, nervous teenagers on the brink of the rest of their lives with truly no clue what lies ahead, no matter how hard they try to predict their own futures.
These images bring me to a time I hardly remember, almost as if it were a movie that I only saw once, with the most familiar cast.
The furniture, a funky pastel kind of floral and geometric modern, hand made curtains, because back then just about everything in my life was handmade- she was really talented like that, my mother. Back when she was our shining light of inspiration and fierce feminism.

But life is funny- days turn to weeks to months to decades, and before you know it your life has been stolen away by decisions that you don't remember making; on the fly impulses that could have been thought out better with more resources, more money, more- much more love.

I think if I died tomorrow, will have taken from this life the absolute necessity of love.
Love for yourself, for others, for animals, for mother earth...Just Love {man}.
Now before you  judge the presumably hippie natured revelation...just think about it...

I truly believe its the meaning of life.
To love and be loved. 

There you have it. You never need to take another class or read a self help book again- I have solved the most asked question in the universe.
You're welcome.

To get back on track here, as I flip through these snapshots of my childhood -recitals full of hot colored sequins, summertime heatwaves at Carvel's Ice Cream shop, High School in all its awkward 90's glory- all I have ever done is search for love
.....and love I have found in the strangest of places from the most incredible beings.

The pictures are heartwarming, and in my darkest moments they light my path- glowing imprints on my past that light the halls ahead- eliminating the fear of the unknown. Life is really short, we trick ourselves into thinking that we have all the time in the world, when we really only have today. Once today is over it's becomes a snapshot in our memory ViewMaster added to the collection of the past, filed accordingly to be viewed when I need direction, inspiration, and when I need to remember the love that got me here.

 Be bold. Be fearless.
            Love.


Happy Mother's Day to my mom as she watches over me, to my fearless full of love stepmom- and to all the moms in my life who have stepped in to light my path with their love past and present. I wouldn't be here without you.

Good Morning Tuesday...

Waking up before her alarm was out of the ordinary, but she took advantage of being quite awake in the darkness of the morning.
The coffee ritual had begun; grinding, boiling water, placing the filter inside the cup, just so. It was almost a meditation to begin a day. Each step practiced to perfection. Not a ground spilled, not a drop of water wasted.
...and that first sip.... That's the moment that gets you out of bed in the morning. Deep roasted creamy with a hint of sweetner that she'd been trying to kick for years but couldn't.
Yes... This is how mornings begin.
Coffee and jazz in the darkness, with only the city lights reflecting off the sky.
At this hour it doesn't matter if the day will rain, or if it'll shine.

Soon the morning will wake, the sun will climb sleepily over the mountain and reach to the Pacific, waking everyone on its way...the cars and busses will begin their Tuesday morning routine and today will seem just like yesterday.

 She often wonders if we would even be able to tell one day from the next without phones, watches, clocks, jobs.... Is there a place in the world where days of the week don't matter?
She wonders how people survive their own dark mornings without coffee and jazz....mmm good morning Tuesday...