i think i can stave off death if i don't sleep.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
It is what it is
Acceptance for me, is a very difficult concept to . . . well, accept.
I watched my father rail against a world that didn't respond to him favorably, if at all. He argued, he screamed, he stood on his proverbial soapbox and wailed that life wasn't fair. He was left bereft with only his principals and list of injustices to console him. And he never got what he wanted.
As a parent, I've told my son repeatedly not to engage in certain behavior because it doesn't get him what he wants. That all he is left with are consequences for his behavior. . . and his tower of principals and list of injustices to console him.
As a woman in her mid-forties, I'm only now starting to learn that life spits out situations that we can't always control. As my friend once said, it's not what happens to you, it's how you respond to it that matters. I've spent many, many years fighting the fight and wanting to win. . . only to be broken like waves on rocks. My parents, my biggest behaviorial influencers, never showed me that you do your best and therein lies the victory, not in the favored results.
For if I could do that, I would be able to accept what comes my way, do the best I could and let go of the rest.
But I'm still learning.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
I watched my father rail against a world that didn't respond to him favorably, if at all. He argued, he screamed, he stood on his proverbial soapbox and wailed that life wasn't fair. He was left bereft with only his principals and list of injustices to console him. And he never got what he wanted.
As a parent, I've told my son repeatedly not to engage in certain behavior because it doesn't get him what he wants. That all he is left with are consequences for his behavior. . . and his tower of principals and list of injustices to console him.
As a woman in her mid-forties, I'm only now starting to learn that life spits out situations that we can't always control. As my friend once said, it's not what happens to you, it's how you respond to it that matters. I've spent many, many years fighting the fight and wanting to win. . . only to be broken like waves on rocks. My parents, my biggest behaviorial influencers, never showed me that you do your best and therein lies the victory, not in the favored results.
For if I could do that, I would be able to accept what comes my way, do the best I could and let go of the rest.
But I'm still learning.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Whatever the weather, we'll weather it together
I've lived my entire life in the Midwest and weather becomes a thread of our lives.
"Remember the winter of 1979?"
"How much water did you get during the rain of '05?"
"Geez! That was a bad one."
"Valentine's Day 1990-it took me four freakin' hours to get home!"
The weather shapes our experiences, our lives. We catalogue momentous occasions via the weather. I sit in my backyard at the end of August. The heat has dissipated. For this summer, at least. I can smell fall in the gentle breeze, feel the air turning cold. I hear the crickets much clearer now that the din of the neighborhood air conditioners have halted.
This is always a sad time to me. The hopes of the summer have been squashed by now. The reality of the few weeks of fall we now get...not a proper fall...rather a milder prelude to winter. Another summer gone. My garage is still unpainted; the outbreak of rust spreading like cancer on my railings. Cut-short expectations.
But what can I do? Luckily, I'll see another one next year. . .
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
"Remember the winter of 1979?"
"How much water did you get during the rain of '05?"
"Geez! That was a bad one."
"Valentine's Day 1990-it took me four freakin' hours to get home!"
The weather shapes our experiences, our lives. We catalogue momentous occasions via the weather. I sit in my backyard at the end of August. The heat has dissipated. For this summer, at least. I can smell fall in the gentle breeze, feel the air turning cold. I hear the crickets much clearer now that the din of the neighborhood air conditioners have halted.
This is always a sad time to me. The hopes of the summer have been squashed by now. The reality of the few weeks of fall we now get...not a proper fall...rather a milder prelude to winter. Another summer gone. My garage is still unpainted; the outbreak of rust spreading like cancer on my railings. Cut-short expectations.
But what can I do? Luckily, I'll see another one next year. . .
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
The latest toll: 33 DAYS, 31 DEATHS, 303 INJURED
City of Chicago Police Supt. Jody Weis said in a recent statement after a weekend of gang violence injured many and yet again killed a helpless bystander, that the CPD was going to communicate with gang leaders via the Web and make it clear that if they don't keep their gangs in check--the CPD will make their life a living hell.
The latest toll: 33 DAYS, 31 DEATHS, 303 INJURED
'Cuse me???? You are conversing with gang leaders in the most passive way possible and you are warning them they need to curb their thugs or you're going to crack the whip? Am I wrong in assuming the CPD was SUPPOSED to be doing that anyway? And you know how to reach them? Why not arrest them, then? And please don't give me that bullshit speech how police just hate arresting people because the judges and lawyers let the criminals back out on the street so, what's the point.
The latest toll: 33 DAYS, 31 DEATHS, 303 INJURED
I used to work at downtown Chicago hospital. I worked with every ethnic sector and came in contact with the extremely wealthy and the poorest of the poor. I learned so much about human nature how the world works during my time there.
A soft-spoken Hispanic man in his twenties worked with me. One day, he shared his upbringing in the gang-filled Logan Square neighborhood (before the gentrification began). He shared how his mom made it her mission to keep him from joining a gang and from romanticizing/fantasizing about gang life. She succeeded.
However, he told me there were unspoken "rules" to be followed. You had to show the gang bangers respect; remember to say "hi" as you pass them on the street, etc. He told me he did so, so that they wouldn't mess with his mom. He didn't have to join the gang, he just had to show them props.
And for the cops? They know exactly where the gang-bangers are, he said. The bangers wave to the cops if they seem them patrol by. Gangs gather on the street corners doing business. "The cops could erase the gangs any time they wanted to. Any. Time, " he said. They just won't because they're afraid of getting hurt. And even more chilling, is the fact that their families don't live in those neighborhoods--so it doesn't affect their quality of life.
Can you imagine, he asked. No more gangs. Then we wouldn't have to be afraid.
The latest toll: 33 DAYS, 31 DEATHS, 303 INJURED
The latest toll: 33 DAYS, 31 DEATHS, 303 INJURED
'Cuse me???? You are conversing with gang leaders in the most passive way possible and you are warning them they need to curb their thugs or you're going to crack the whip? Am I wrong in assuming the CPD was SUPPOSED to be doing that anyway? And you know how to reach them? Why not arrest them, then? And please don't give me that bullshit speech how police just hate arresting people because the judges and lawyers let the criminals back out on the street so, what's the point.
The latest toll: 33 DAYS, 31 DEATHS, 303 INJURED
I used to work at downtown Chicago hospital. I worked with every ethnic sector and came in contact with the extremely wealthy and the poorest of the poor. I learned so much about human nature how the world works during my time there.
A soft-spoken Hispanic man in his twenties worked with me. One day, he shared his upbringing in the gang-filled Logan Square neighborhood (before the gentrification began). He shared how his mom made it her mission to keep him from joining a gang and from romanticizing/fantasizing about gang life. She succeeded.
However, he told me there were unspoken "rules" to be followed. You had to show the gang bangers respect; remember to say "hi" as you pass them on the street, etc. He told me he did so, so that they wouldn't mess with his mom. He didn't have to join the gang, he just had to show them props.
And for the cops? They know exactly where the gang-bangers are, he said. The bangers wave to the cops if they seem them patrol by. Gangs gather on the street corners doing business. "The cops could erase the gangs any time they wanted to. Any. Time, " he said. They just won't because they're afraid of getting hurt. And even more chilling, is the fact that their families don't live in those neighborhoods--so it doesn't affect their quality of life.
Can you imagine, he asked. No more gangs. Then we wouldn't have to be afraid.
The latest toll: 33 DAYS, 31 DEATHS, 303 INJURED
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Send out the life preserver, please
Why is it that I spend so much of my time floundering? Barely treading water? My head has been down so many times I don't think I know how not to struggle.
Am I creating this? Choosing this? Hope not. Cause as Amy Mann sang, "It's not going to stop 'til you wise up."
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Am I creating this? Choosing this? Hope not. Cause as Amy Mann sang, "It's not going to stop 'til you wise up."
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Swimming under the stars
My son and I have a tradition of buying a pool pass at the community pool. We have spent many lazy days hanging out at the pool and gorging ourselves on cheese dogs and electric-colored snow cones. One summer, we spent our evenings after dinner checking in an hour or two before it shut down for the night.
I love the sounds of the pool. Children's laughter sprinkled about. Different languages bouncing off the water like music. The blaring whistle of the teen aged lifeguards issuing their "stern" warnings. The thud of bodies jumping off the concrete. Splashes followed by squeals.
But nothing equals swimming at this time of year when fall begins creeping in and the nights get cool and the veil of darkness casts a longer shadow. We hit the pool and don't leave until they close at 8 p.m. Nothing equals the feeling of swimming outdoors when twilight hits and the sky switches from baby blue to pink and purple. The moon and her sisters, the stars, appear. While in the pool, the water warms like a cloak. And the night air hitting your body and senses as you leave the warmth exhilarates.
Walking to our car in the dark with our soaking towels slapping around in our bags and the evening air tickling our wet skin and hair, there's no feeling like it.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
I love the sounds of the pool. Children's laughter sprinkled about. Different languages bouncing off the water like music. The blaring whistle of the teen aged lifeguards issuing their "stern" warnings. The thud of bodies jumping off the concrete. Splashes followed by squeals.
But nothing equals swimming at this time of year when fall begins creeping in and the nights get cool and the veil of darkness casts a longer shadow. We hit the pool and don't leave until they close at 8 p.m. Nothing equals the feeling of swimming outdoors when twilight hits and the sky switches from baby blue to pink and purple. The moon and her sisters, the stars, appear. While in the pool, the water warms like a cloak. And the night air hitting your body and senses as you leave the warmth exhilarates.
Walking to our car in the dark with our soaking towels slapping around in our bags and the evening air tickling our wet skin and hair, there's no feeling like it.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
I love him
I love him.
I really do.
He is my anchor.
He grounds me.
All seems right when he's around.
Will he ever know how much he means to me?
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
I really do.
He is my anchor.
He grounds me.
All seems right when he's around.
Will he ever know how much he means to me?
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
It all started with those damned yellow signs
The narcissism in our country grows exponentially daily with Facebook and Twitter and blogs at our disposal. We no longer "need" each other so we concern ourselves with our rights, our thoughts, our feelings....
Where did it begin?
I am almost certain this obsession with ourselves began with those ubiquitous, benign little stick-up diamond-shaped yellow signs heralding "Baby on Board." Yes, it at first, probably prompted drivers surrounding the vehicle to drive more carefully. . . but shouldn't we be doing that anyway. . . not just for cars carrying children? Aren't we all precious cargo, I ask?
However, this expolded into a parental attitude as if we should all get out of the way when a child was concerned. I remember many soon-to-be helicopter parents traipsing about with humongous strollers barking "stroller. STROLLER!" demanding any common pedestrian to get the hell out of the way.
Those of this ilk began buying behemoth SUVs, mostly not knowing how to drive or park the aforementioned SUVs. The intent being. . . get out of my way. Now.
Am I surly? Bitter? Perhaps. But these are MY feelings. . . take heed. Hey, that might make a great stick-up diamond-shaped sunshine-yellow placard.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Where did it begin?
I am almost certain this obsession with ourselves began with those ubiquitous, benign little stick-up diamond-shaped yellow signs heralding "Baby on Board." Yes, it at first, probably prompted drivers surrounding the vehicle to drive more carefully. . . but shouldn't we be doing that anyway. . . not just for cars carrying children? Aren't we all precious cargo, I ask?
However, this expolded into a parental attitude as if we should all get out of the way when a child was concerned. I remember many soon-to-be helicopter parents traipsing about with humongous strollers barking "stroller. STROLLER!" demanding any common pedestrian to get the hell out of the way.
Those of this ilk began buying behemoth SUVs, mostly not knowing how to drive or park the aforementioned SUVs. The intent being. . . get out of my way. Now.
Am I surly? Bitter? Perhaps. But these are MY feelings. . . take heed. Hey, that might make a great stick-up diamond-shaped sunshine-yellow placard.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wish I had a camera
It was all right there. Unraveling in front of me. Like a play.
Walking toward me confidant in her size 2 skimpy casino waitress uniform the young girl shined in her physical perfection.
Looking away from me, stood the haggard older woman wiping down the outside of the casino elevator doors wiping sweat from her brow.
They crossed each other. I wondered if the one would turn (eventually) into the other.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Walking toward me confidant in her size 2 skimpy casino waitress uniform the young girl shined in her physical perfection.
Looking away from me, stood the haggard older woman wiping down the outside of the casino elevator doors wiping sweat from her brow.
They crossed each other. I wondered if the one would turn (eventually) into the other.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Growing up, giving it up
I've spent years unraveling the tethers born in my childhood. Or trying to. I still try. I guess I will my whole life. For many years, I've thought that I would hate my parents forever. But as a parent myself now and unwrapping the layers of my own parented self, I gain different perspective.
I never understood why my father was so hard on us. Why he seemed to expect perfection from his children when he indeed was so flawed himself. Did he really expect highly athletic, talented, beautiful children to spring forth from his loins when he himself never taught us, never encouraged us, never told us we were beautiful, I asked myself.
Yes, he did. In a very weird, strange and ineffective way, he dreamed that his children would be highly proficient at school, socially, musically and athletically--really the ideal for most parents. So when we mirrored he and my mother's negative traits or the byproduct of the crap we grew up with--he became disappointed and disillusioned. And angry. You see, he hated himself. He wanted us to be as unlike him as possible but he had no way of knowing, no skill set to get us there.
For if we were considered all these great things, we would legitimize him. We would heal him and make him whole. Pretty big of a burden to place on four kids who were basically raising themselves, huh?
But as I stood in the bleachers watching my son allow yet another volleyball whoosh past him, I had the epiphany about my dad. My son doesn't like sports. Even though he is blessed with strength and health and amazing talents, he chokes. Ask him to swing at a ball in a street game, he's fine. Yet, putting him in a team uniform seems to lobotomize him on the field.
His two best friends are known as The Smart One and The Nice One. My son has no identity. In fact, it seems his goal to skirt under the radar. This drives me to madness because he is so bright, so funny, kind, caring and pretty cool.
But as I sat in the bleachers with my stomach tight and (yes, I admit it sheepishly) getting angry, it struck me (hard) that if he were the star athlete, or the star pupil, or the most popular--somehow that would give me some creds. For I, just like my dad, don't like myself very much.
Now I realize it wasn't that my father hated us or we disappointed him so much, it was just that he was looking (in all the wrong places) for a way to feel good about himself. I'm not saying it was right or that my behavior is excused, but I am saying I understand.
I've accused my son (to myself) of "sitting in the bleachers and not being in the game" about athletics and about life. Maybe I need to learn to sit in the bleachers and relax. And enjoy. Enjoy him and his uniqueness and give us both credit for who we are.
It's going to take a lot of practice, but I'm willing to try. And that's all I can really do. Do my best. And let him do his best and let that be enough.
I never understood why my father was so hard on us. Why he seemed to expect perfection from his children when he indeed was so flawed himself. Did he really expect highly athletic, talented, beautiful children to spring forth from his loins when he himself never taught us, never encouraged us, never told us we were beautiful, I asked myself.
Yes, he did. In a very weird, strange and ineffective way, he dreamed that his children would be highly proficient at school, socially, musically and athletically--really the ideal for most parents. So when we mirrored he and my mother's negative traits or the byproduct of the crap we grew up with--he became disappointed and disillusioned. And angry. You see, he hated himself. He wanted us to be as unlike him as possible but he had no way of knowing, no skill set to get us there.
For if we were considered all these great things, we would legitimize him. We would heal him and make him whole. Pretty big of a burden to place on four kids who were basically raising themselves, huh?
But as I stood in the bleachers watching my son allow yet another volleyball whoosh past him, I had the epiphany about my dad. My son doesn't like sports. Even though he is blessed with strength and health and amazing talents, he chokes. Ask him to swing at a ball in a street game, he's fine. Yet, putting him in a team uniform seems to lobotomize him on the field.
His two best friends are known as The Smart One and The Nice One. My son has no identity. In fact, it seems his goal to skirt under the radar. This drives me to madness because he is so bright, so funny, kind, caring and pretty cool.
But as I sat in the bleachers with my stomach tight and (yes, I admit it sheepishly) getting angry, it struck me (hard) that if he were the star athlete, or the star pupil, or the most popular--somehow that would give me some creds. For I, just like my dad, don't like myself very much.
Now I realize it wasn't that my father hated us or we disappointed him so much, it was just that he was looking (in all the wrong places) for a way to feel good about himself. I'm not saying it was right or that my behavior is excused, but I am saying I understand.
I've accused my son (to myself) of "sitting in the bleachers and not being in the game" about athletics and about life. Maybe I need to learn to sit in the bleachers and relax. And enjoy. Enjoy him and his uniqueness and give us both credit for who we are.
It's going to take a lot of practice, but I'm willing to try. And that's all I can really do. Do my best. And let him do his best and let that be enough.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
It's All Good
Adversity is a funny thing. It can knock you to your knees leaving you as void as a gutted fish. It can suck you into a tunnel so deep and dark, return is near impossible.
That is how I've been living for about six years; in the vise-like grip of adversity. But regrettably, it really wasn't the weight of adversity my bones were crunching under. It was my own.
"It's not what happens to you; it's how you respond," stated my old high school best friend at a Margarita-filled get together. Fueled by the tequila and angst, I spewed embittered tales of my recent problems (although not really recent... problems. They were there all along .I just chose not to address them).
I heard her words above the din of restaurant patrons and the blaring Latin instrumentals. I heard her. But it didn't seem. . . possible. It seemed more like some great theory to test. Someday.
This is my some day.
I have worked hard facing my fears and knocking down obstacles for a few months now. The self-imposed prison gates have been swung open. Everything is lighter, brighter, even though my circumstances have changed very little. The circumstances don't matter. My choices matter. My reactions matter. The way I approach a problem matters.
In the dim of January twilight, I left the restaurant feeling a little tipsy and a little less stressed, but still committed to the notion that my life sucked. I sucked. Under the glare of July sun, I revel in the results of my hard work.
Nothings changed, yet everything has.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Who Are You? Who Am I?
In a nasty push-me pull-me with my ex-husband as of late, I pondered: what did I ever see in him? What made me think that we polar opposites with opposite morals and lifestyles could ever be united?
I thought I loved him; I thought he loved me. The reality is that neither of us could ever begin to truly love the other for we had no self-love, for one. Second, we had no respect for each other nor for ourselves. We were like two broken pieces of glass looking to create a vase. We shuttered our eyes from the missing pieces and failed to admit that the faulty lines we glued together was bound to shatter the minute normal use was exerted.
I looked over at him. We sat in the mediator's office, maybe three feet separating us. We've had little contact in over nine years (even though we created a beautiful boy) and this was the closest we've been in proximity since then. I stole glances at him from the side, but he retained his steadfast course of looking straight ahead.
At some point, I turned my whole body toward him and addressed him directly. He followed suit. We locked eyes. And although you might be expecting me to say, I saw a glimpse of the boy I fell in love with or something along those lines, I didn't. But I didn't feel an urge to throttle him either. I experienced a strange neutrality.
I felt no hatred, no anger for I felt as connected to him as greeting a used-to-be person once in my life. Like someone you met at a conference. Once. I almost said, "hey, how you doing?" as if we had no real history.
Something passed his eyes, too. I saw it. But I can't quite place it. It differed from the usual filled-with-wrath looks he shoots my way. But I saw it. It happened. Maybe for a second he put down the poison-filled arrows and took a long look at his enemy and realized. . . he was staring at a stranger.
For as much as we were involved, we evolved into strangers.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Bad Viruses = Good Business?
Panicking amid the recent brewhaha of a particularly aggressive malware virus disabling a computer user's ability to open/access any programs or documents, I loomed with furrowed brow over my laptop. The black screen with an annoying flashing underscore taunted me.
Many told me they had been bitten by the bug. It did not send the user's documents/files into oblivion; rather,the painful part came with the $300 bill needed to access and fix the issue.
My son asked, who started these viruses and what did these people get from it. The consensus was just some mean people wanting to screw with people.
Really? What with Lindsay Lohan and Mel Gibson reigning as the new opiate of the people, I think not. Rather, let's look at who benefits from these malevolent initiatives. Best Buy? Office Max? Really, any outlet that services computers would benefit highly from a nasty virus; especially during this economy.
Hmmmmmm.......
Many told me they had been bitten by the bug. It did not send the user's documents/files into oblivion; rather,the painful part came with the $300 bill needed to access and fix the issue.
My son asked, who started these viruses and what did these people get from it. The consensus was just some mean people wanting to screw with people.
Really? What with Lindsay Lohan and Mel Gibson reigning as the new opiate of the people, I think not. Rather, let's look at who benefits from these malevolent initiatives. Best Buy? Office Max? Really, any outlet that services computers would benefit highly from a nasty virus; especially during this economy.
Hmmmmmm.......
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
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