Sunday, July 14, 2013
Humanity's Quest: Setting the Tone
Humanity's Quest: Setting the Tone: It's a Sunday and "Begin the Beguine" is playing on my tiny CD machine. I have the volume cranked up considerably. With time...
Humanity's Quest: A Moment to Reflect
Humanity's Quest: A Moment to Reflect: My daughter and grandsons are away for the weekend and I have a moment to reflect on my life's path - especially since my last marriage ...
Setting the Tone - My Montana
It's a Sunday and "Begin the Beguine" is playing on my tiny CD machine. I have the volume cranked up considerably. With time alone I looked at the Facebook pages and saw that my new found love in an author, and his character, had posted a great photo of his pickup truck precariously perched on a one-lane mountain pass without any room to maneuver. Craig Johnson writes with ease and intelligence, bringing Sheriff Walt Longmire to life. Obviously, Johnson has many admirers and I dare say of both genders. I enjoy getting a feel for a book before beginning to read and submerse myself in the texture of that creative reality. Johnson's first of the series hosts a neat surprise package at the end, much like the "Easter Egg" following a movie: this proffers a readers'guide with an introduction, interview with the author, and questions for discussion.
Viewing that picture posted by Craig Johnson, I remembered my magnetic draw to this land of Montana. "Longmire" exists in a Wyoming setting, much like that of my home. Although I was born in Oregon, my parents were North Carolinians and we returned to their stomping grounds immediately following my brother's birth, when I was two. They were of corporate stock and much more sophisticated than I. Probably the reason I left North Carolina after living in various states and returning "home" when my mom became a widow and moved to be near her family.
Following the matriarch of our family's passing, my much loved aunt, I found myself lying in bed before starting the day with my two young daughters, just staring at one of my aunt's paintings of a bluff in the West. Maybe I had to wait for most I loved to have left this plane of existence to decide to runaway and join the circus of this life. I decided it was time to explore my connections to this land...to My life. Literally, I threw a dart at the map and did some research, settling on a transition to Montana.
Partings can be tough - I'm a soft touch even when I returned my daughters to their dorm rooms, I cried as if there had been a death in the family. But, in this case, the move was adventure! My daughters and I climbed into the cab of the 27-foot Uhaul with 90 pound dog at their feet, cat-in-carrier behind my seat, and car-in-tow and headed that-a-way.
The few years after my aunt's death left rifts in our extended family and upset bonds between my mother and me as we had worked as executrix to the estate. The estrangements overflowed to that link between my brother and myself, too. I decided it was time to see what there was to see; to let old hurts go; and to explore creating this grand undertaking of possible risks.
Settling into the cab of that Uhaul the first day, I thought, "oh, Lord, what have I done?" My daughters each had CD's and headsets and scenery galore. By the end of our fourth day, the interior seemed like a suite and we hired local fellows to unload the truck. Adventure along the route? There was some. I pulled into a motel parking lot only to discover I was totally inept at backing the trailer. The powers that be smiled and I hired a nice garage attendant to rescue us and we were off once more. Storms hit our route with flooding and the guiding spirits offered alternate pathways. Climbing onto the hood of the truck each morning, my daughters handed me oil and antifreeze to fortify this steadfast companion.
We arrived at our new home, just down the road from a feeder stockyard in the heat of June. Aroma? There is nothing quite as memory fixing. The sky was as huge as the expanse of this wide Montana and the sky seemed to go on forever. The altitude is so high that the clouds make shadows on the ground! It was AND is glorious!
Working in Billings, the drive to Shepherd was relatively short. Hiccups in the economy struck my agricultural lab and it closed. We sold and I bought a place with a single-wide trailer, roomy hunting cabin, garage, outbuildings, and 25 acres in Roundup, still employed in Billings almost 60 miles away. The treacherously long mountain skidding to and from work had me rethinking locations in this state. Neighbors are a huge blessing. Once stranded in Billings with car trouble, they transported my daughters to the grocery store and offered a range of help. Changes developed and we moved to Anaconda where I could buy a home outright. I love Land, but going it alone with wells, frozen and high-centered roadways,automobile travail, and power outages in hip deep snow suggested a small town might just be an option.
Now both my daughters are adults and following their own adventures - my youngest married a terrific fellow this past New Year's Eve and my oldest has found a great guy a couple of hours away. Once again I find myself free to "look newly." AND at the ripe old age of 60!
Following the utter heartache and anguish of being taken and left for dead by my ex and his clan, the journey of matrimony that I had believed would be my "last Tango" with romance just might have been such - but romance with living is something else entirely.
For the first time in decades, I awoke to the realization that I want to be "Longmire." No, not a sheriff, but a person of decency and integrity even as I seek new horizons from the stance of a loner-of-sorts. So many of my months had centered focus on plain survival, aiding my family; and now my two dogs, cat, and I have our tiny house which holds love and memories. Once again after many years, I listen to that inner voice reminding me that the "best may be yet to come." I am honestly without a particular road map, but I surely am returning to life, just as the character, Longmire. It's time to rebuild, to find that joie de vivre.
I had felt that the trek through the bowels of the Twilight Zone in my last marriage to a psychopath and his taker-clan might define me as a person. My months and years following, seemed consumed by the quest for answers and comprehending my own culpability. I feel akin to this character of Longmire in this "return to the land of the living." In a way, I, too, have scripted the "package at the end of my particular ordeal" and have just maybe seen what I needed to evaluate. The new fleshing-out of my own character's texture allows for the memories while forever expanding with possibility.
Now I sit in a sphere of economic adjustment and no wherewithal to locate that "ranch" for myself. Maybe it will come in the form of experience or a coloring of distinguishable vitality. It's funny that my sense-of-humor has remained intact. Without the physicality of a new excursion, I am looking from the me of now, that-a-way.
Viewing that picture posted by Craig Johnson, I remembered my magnetic draw to this land of Montana. "Longmire" exists in a Wyoming setting, much like that of my home. Although I was born in Oregon, my parents were North Carolinians and we returned to their stomping grounds immediately following my brother's birth, when I was two. They were of corporate stock and much more sophisticated than I. Probably the reason I left North Carolina after living in various states and returning "home" when my mom became a widow and moved to be near her family.
Following the matriarch of our family's passing, my much loved aunt, I found myself lying in bed before starting the day with my two young daughters, just staring at one of my aunt's paintings of a bluff in the West. Maybe I had to wait for most I loved to have left this plane of existence to decide to runaway and join the circus of this life. I decided it was time to explore my connections to this land...to My life. Literally, I threw a dart at the map and did some research, settling on a transition to Montana.
Partings can be tough - I'm a soft touch even when I returned my daughters to their dorm rooms, I cried as if there had been a death in the family. But, in this case, the move was adventure! My daughters and I climbed into the cab of the 27-foot Uhaul with 90 pound dog at their feet, cat-in-carrier behind my seat, and car-in-tow and headed that-a-way.
The few years after my aunt's death left rifts in our extended family and upset bonds between my mother and me as we had worked as executrix to the estate. The estrangements overflowed to that link between my brother and myself, too. I decided it was time to see what there was to see; to let old hurts go; and to explore creating this grand undertaking of possible risks.
Settling into the cab of that Uhaul the first day, I thought, "oh, Lord, what have I done?" My daughters each had CD's and headsets and scenery galore. By the end of our fourth day, the interior seemed like a suite and we hired local fellows to unload the truck. Adventure along the route? There was some. I pulled into a motel parking lot only to discover I was totally inept at backing the trailer. The powers that be smiled and I hired a nice garage attendant to rescue us and we were off once more. Storms hit our route with flooding and the guiding spirits offered alternate pathways. Climbing onto the hood of the truck each morning, my daughters handed me oil and antifreeze to fortify this steadfast companion.
We arrived at our new home, just down the road from a feeder stockyard in the heat of June. Aroma? There is nothing quite as memory fixing. The sky was as huge as the expanse of this wide Montana and the sky seemed to go on forever. The altitude is so high that the clouds make shadows on the ground! It was AND is glorious!
Working in Billings, the drive to Shepherd was relatively short. Hiccups in the economy struck my agricultural lab and it closed. We sold and I bought a place with a single-wide trailer, roomy hunting cabin, garage, outbuildings, and 25 acres in Roundup, still employed in Billings almost 60 miles away. The treacherously long mountain skidding to and from work had me rethinking locations in this state. Neighbors are a huge blessing. Once stranded in Billings with car trouble, they transported my daughters to the grocery store and offered a range of help. Changes developed and we moved to Anaconda where I could buy a home outright. I love Land, but going it alone with wells, frozen and high-centered roadways,automobile travail, and power outages in hip deep snow suggested a small town might just be an option.
Now both my daughters are adults and following their own adventures - my youngest married a terrific fellow this past New Year's Eve and my oldest has found a great guy a couple of hours away. Once again I find myself free to "look newly." AND at the ripe old age of 60!
Following the utter heartache and anguish of being taken and left for dead by my ex and his clan, the journey of matrimony that I had believed would be my "last Tango" with romance just might have been such - but romance with living is something else entirely.
For the first time in decades, I awoke to the realization that I want to be "Longmire." No, not a sheriff, but a person of decency and integrity even as I seek new horizons from the stance of a loner-of-sorts. So many of my months had centered focus on plain survival, aiding my family; and now my two dogs, cat, and I have our tiny house which holds love and memories. Once again after many years, I listen to that inner voice reminding me that the "best may be yet to come." I am honestly without a particular road map, but I surely am returning to life, just as the character, Longmire. It's time to rebuild, to find that joie de vivre.
I had felt that the trek through the bowels of the Twilight Zone in my last marriage to a psychopath and his taker-clan might define me as a person. My months and years following, seemed consumed by the quest for answers and comprehending my own culpability. I feel akin to this character of Longmire in this "return to the land of the living." In a way, I, too, have scripted the "package at the end of my particular ordeal" and have just maybe seen what I needed to evaluate. The new fleshing-out of my own character's texture allows for the memories while forever expanding with possibility.
Now I sit in a sphere of economic adjustment and no wherewithal to locate that "ranch" for myself. Maybe it will come in the form of experience or a coloring of distinguishable vitality. It's funny that my sense-of-humor has remained intact. Without the physicality of a new excursion, I am looking from the me of now, that-a-way.
"A man's got to take a lot
of punishment
to write a really
funny book." ~ Ernest Hemingway
Saturday, July 13, 2013
A Moment to Reflect
My daughter and grandsons are away for the weekend and I have a moment to reflect on my life's path - especially since my last marriage to a man I believe to be a psychopath and his taker-clan. Many writings on blog sites appear to come from rather lofty presences who don't struggle with the mundane activities of putting food on the table, taking care of health concerns, and dealing with money issues. Or perhaps, if they are like me, we simply have distanced ourselves from these trials. That may be an error because while in the midst of anguish and serious financial decay, I thought I was totally alone in this vortex.
My now ex-spouse, having left me at ground zero in the management of money, appeared to live WELL in capital letters. His invalid mother, part of the taker-clan, was cared for and supplied with needs and extras by the ex-spouse. She would let me know of their marvelous culinary expeditions - all while I struggled to pay for the barest minimum of groceries. Moving back to my house which I refused to sell to fuel his clan's dreams, I was unable to ask for societal aid due to his income within our "married" state.
I chose - and it was my decision - to work for a pittance to aid my daughter by supplying child care as she, too, scrambled arduously to regain her footing in life after being abandoned by her spouse. The feeling of sheer horror took new dimensions under the shame of naiveté in believing the promises of being reimbursed during the continual flow of crises. The wake-up evaluation came from working pro-se to offer my side of the equation in the divorce proceedings. The time in providing reasonable exhibits was honored by the clerk of court, but totally ignored by the judge's law clerk. Because I had been left without transportation to make the trek to the courtroom of venue, the ex's word was accepted as truthful. It appeared under his testimony that our marriage had been short and without financial devastation to me. Much to my surprise, the paperwork showed that we had been "separated" for over a year. I had found no attorney willing to work with me. My economic plight could not have been appealing, nor was the fact that my now-ex was in the midst of bankruptcy proceedings.
Why in the world would I share that I had to go "on the dole" for a bit? Because everywhere I looked, it appeared my situation was far from the norm. Now, as I have climbed a frightening path toward visual acuity and returned to the land of joy and possibility, I see that my perception was askew. I believe we are embarrassed by our predicament and we need to openly hold that "light at the end of the tunnel" to others who are just awaking to the Alice-in-Wonderland's dreadfully repugnant feel of this screwball turn in life's domain.
Other excursions may surprise us and even leave us urgently struggling with difficulties. But this particular jaunt through the bowels of the Twilight Zone struck at the well of my psyche - hopes, dreams, belief systems, and even the personal description of myself.
Life, however, DOES grow finer, happier, more fulfilling, and even more honorable. This has served as an unbelievable vaccination against a deficiency in worldly wisdom. The credulity that there is goodness in all, for me, had to be examined. This doesn't make the fun-house ride any longer terrifying. Oddly enough, I now feel the "potentiality" of choice and discern deep within my connection to this grand universe of universes that life is meant to be an exquisite quest. Always to learn more about ourselves and boundaries.
Today I love to experience the giddy feel of New Age ok-ness, but I am now a show-me-the-proof kind of gal. Show me the track record. Permit the graph of life's lessons to come forward. This ordeal with someone and his attachments on this eccentric continuum of narcissism-to-psychopathy has reshaped me. Finally, perhaps, I am able to trust that inner voice. It's no longer a whisper, but a siren blaring "look out, Will Robinson!" At long last, I have come to look farther than the hood of my car while driving on that "yellow brick road." Accountability...and for my own selections of option.
Emotions and chaos have indeed taken a rather hefty toll on this old body. As I look at my teeth in a cup, ace bandage for banged-up knee from working as the clan's hired hand, and that ever present mirror's image of Aunt Bea, I am no longer the "wannabe" warrior hoping to make a difference. I AM that legionnaire on the highway to Xanadu. The humor arises in recognizing myself as this outwardly bedraggled specimen. In the movie, "The Mirror Has Two Faces." the protagonist's mother says, "I look in the mirror and I'm old, but I still feel like a kid." I do, too, and that's my soul speaking.
From "Star Trek" Captains, "Engage...left at the first star."
My now ex-spouse, having left me at ground zero in the management of money, appeared to live WELL in capital letters. His invalid mother, part of the taker-clan, was cared for and supplied with needs and extras by the ex-spouse. She would let me know of their marvelous culinary expeditions - all while I struggled to pay for the barest minimum of groceries. Moving back to my house which I refused to sell to fuel his clan's dreams, I was unable to ask for societal aid due to his income within our "married" state.
I chose - and it was my decision - to work for a pittance to aid my daughter by supplying child care as she, too, scrambled arduously to regain her footing in life after being abandoned by her spouse. The feeling of sheer horror took new dimensions under the shame of naiveté in believing the promises of being reimbursed during the continual flow of crises. The wake-up evaluation came from working pro-se to offer my side of the equation in the divorce proceedings. The time in providing reasonable exhibits was honored by the clerk of court, but totally ignored by the judge's law clerk. Because I had been left without transportation to make the trek to the courtroom of venue, the ex's word was accepted as truthful. It appeared under his testimony that our marriage had been short and without financial devastation to me. Much to my surprise, the paperwork showed that we had been "separated" for over a year. I had found no attorney willing to work with me. My economic plight could not have been appealing, nor was the fact that my now-ex was in the midst of bankruptcy proceedings.
Why in the world would I share that I had to go "on the dole" for a bit? Because everywhere I looked, it appeared my situation was far from the norm. Now, as I have climbed a frightening path toward visual acuity and returned to the land of joy and possibility, I see that my perception was askew. I believe we are embarrassed by our predicament and we need to openly hold that "light at the end of the tunnel" to others who are just awaking to the Alice-in-Wonderland's dreadfully repugnant feel of this screwball turn in life's domain.
Other excursions may surprise us and even leave us urgently struggling with difficulties. But this particular jaunt through the bowels of the Twilight Zone struck at the well of my psyche - hopes, dreams, belief systems, and even the personal description of myself.
Life, however, DOES grow finer, happier, more fulfilling, and even more honorable. This has served as an unbelievable vaccination against a deficiency in worldly wisdom. The credulity that there is goodness in all, for me, had to be examined. This doesn't make the fun-house ride any longer terrifying. Oddly enough, I now feel the "potentiality" of choice and discern deep within my connection to this grand universe of universes that life is meant to be an exquisite quest. Always to learn more about ourselves and boundaries.
Today I love to experience the giddy feel of New Age ok-ness, but I am now a show-me-the-proof kind of gal. Show me the track record. Permit the graph of life's lessons to come forward. This ordeal with someone and his attachments on this eccentric continuum of narcissism-to-psychopathy has reshaped me. Finally, perhaps, I am able to trust that inner voice. It's no longer a whisper, but a siren blaring "look out, Will Robinson!" At long last, I have come to look farther than the hood of my car while driving on that "yellow brick road." Accountability...and for my own selections of option.
Emotions and chaos have indeed taken a rather hefty toll on this old body. As I look at my teeth in a cup, ace bandage for banged-up knee from working as the clan's hired hand, and that ever present mirror's image of Aunt Bea, I am no longer the "wannabe" warrior hoping to make a difference. I AM that legionnaire on the highway to Xanadu. The humor arises in recognizing myself as this outwardly bedraggled specimen. In the movie, "The Mirror Has Two Faces." the protagonist's mother says, "I look in the mirror and I'm old, but I still feel like a kid." I do, too, and that's my soul speaking.
From "Star Trek" Captains, "Engage...left at the first star."
"I am so very proud of you.
Now, as you embark on this new journey,
I'd like to share this one piece of advice.
Always, always remember that adversity is not a detour.
It is part of the path." ~ Richard Paul Evans
Sunday, July 7, 2013
60 minutes an Hour
Ah, time. Its passage is inevitable and toying with the concepts of reverse flow for visitation purposes may not really be desirable.
As an old gal, I noted with some disdain...and then humor that my arms now wave before my hands do. When did this transpire? If I'm honest, I'll admit this to be the very reason I rarely take a gander at myself in the full length mirror of my bathroom. Once upon a time I was svelte.
Now, and I say this with a deep, heavy sigh, I have become "buxom." But not with the woo-hoo, I'm Barbie expression. I AM Aunt Bea from the "Andy Griffith Show!" Or, perhaps, I am my grandmother - in so many ways. My mom and I surely had our differences. She was elegantly trim and epitomized charm and grace; a lover of literature and always was a pianist. Her marriage to my father would probably have provided a great backdrop to those damnable romance novels. Those ditties have caused more than a fair share of angst in expectation.
However, my grandmother cherished great written works and music and still worked her farm with a hand-held plow behind her mule, Nell, well into her 80's. Although I have no farm, I moved to Montana many a moon ago because the land and her culture's style of individualism drew me.
These ladies have provided amazing lessons that I am only now beginning to truly appreciate. Granny loved deeply and this found expression through her country style cooking and open hearth to any guest. Mom, too, offered love from a well spring of depth; and although not the open nurturer of my own thoughts on idealism and patterns I have worked to provide, she brought beauty and dignity to her table of living.
When my oldest daughter asked to accept my offer of moving herself and her two little men into my tiny home, there was adjustment. I adore my grandsons and have seen all three of these amazing beings grow magnificently over this past year. During this same trek of time, my youngest daughter married a terrific fellow. All are gifted with intellect, humor, talents galore, and utter style - unique and uncanny as they navigate this plane of existence.
My oldest daughter has found a gentleman counterpart to her road of discovery and will be moving a couple of hours' drive in the months ahead. At first I (and my youngest daughter) found ourselves in a bit of shock. We tightened our family ties and battened down the hatches when our loved one and the children were abandoned by her ex-spouse whose biography is a litany of irresponsibility and grievance about his inability to make an accountable life. The upset wasn't that we wanted her to remain stagnant. For me, it was not only change, but now, altering my "identity."
With the passage of a small segment of chronological moments, my youngest adult daughter and I have pulled back into our own worlds - still including those we love. Each being not only has a right to experiment with this grand fabric of experience, but to undertake amazing exploration. I believe it defines us.
I forever remember the line from the movie, "The American President." "It's ALL about Character."
I just located a marvelous presence from author Craig Johnson's books, Sheriff Walt Longmire. The streaming TV miniseries, "Longmire" came into my awareness and I am in love. Because "character" is the byword of this most unusual persona. Human with frailties, baggage, trials and tribulations, but forever a host to a distinctly complex set of the attributes of decency and integrity.
Even the "old broad" I now am KNOWS that I want to be "Longmire" when I grow up.
As an old gal, I noted with some disdain...and then humor that my arms now wave before my hands do. When did this transpire? If I'm honest, I'll admit this to be the very reason I rarely take a gander at myself in the full length mirror of my bathroom. Once upon a time I was svelte.
Now, and I say this with a deep, heavy sigh, I have become "buxom." But not with the woo-hoo, I'm Barbie expression. I AM Aunt Bea from the "Andy Griffith Show!" Or, perhaps, I am my grandmother - in so many ways. My mom and I surely had our differences. She was elegantly trim and epitomized charm and grace; a lover of literature and always was a pianist. Her marriage to my father would probably have provided a great backdrop to those damnable romance novels. Those ditties have caused more than a fair share of angst in expectation.
However, my grandmother cherished great written works and music and still worked her farm with a hand-held plow behind her mule, Nell, well into her 80's. Although I have no farm, I moved to Montana many a moon ago because the land and her culture's style of individualism drew me.
These ladies have provided amazing lessons that I am only now beginning to truly appreciate. Granny loved deeply and this found expression through her country style cooking and open hearth to any guest. Mom, too, offered love from a well spring of depth; and although not the open nurturer of my own thoughts on idealism and patterns I have worked to provide, she brought beauty and dignity to her table of living.
When my oldest daughter asked to accept my offer of moving herself and her two little men into my tiny home, there was adjustment. I adore my grandsons and have seen all three of these amazing beings grow magnificently over this past year. During this same trek of time, my youngest daughter married a terrific fellow. All are gifted with intellect, humor, talents galore, and utter style - unique and uncanny as they navigate this plane of existence.
My oldest daughter has found a gentleman counterpart to her road of discovery and will be moving a couple of hours' drive in the months ahead. At first I (and my youngest daughter) found ourselves in a bit of shock. We tightened our family ties and battened down the hatches when our loved one and the children were abandoned by her ex-spouse whose biography is a litany of irresponsibility and grievance about his inability to make an accountable life. The upset wasn't that we wanted her to remain stagnant. For me, it was not only change, but now, altering my "identity."
With the passage of a small segment of chronological moments, my youngest adult daughter and I have pulled back into our own worlds - still including those we love. Each being not only has a right to experiment with this grand fabric of experience, but to undertake amazing exploration. I believe it defines us.
I forever remember the line from the movie, "The American President." "It's ALL about Character."
I just located a marvelous presence from author Craig Johnson's books, Sheriff Walt Longmire. The streaming TV miniseries, "Longmire" came into my awareness and I am in love. Because "character" is the byword of this most unusual persona. Human with frailties, baggage, trials and tribulations, but forever a host to a distinctly complex set of the attributes of decency and integrity.
Even the "old broad" I now am KNOWS that I want to be "Longmire" when I grow up.
"Talents are best nurtured in solitude.
Character is best formed in
the stormy billows
of the world."
Johann Von Goethe
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