Distractions

 

I drove to the drive-up window of Dari Mart this morning for a half gallon of half and half creamer for my coffee (Not all in one cup). A drive-up window is so handy when you aren't presentable for a grocery store, you want your cup of Jo, and you used the last of the cream last night. (No fake creamer, it has to be half and half. Well, in a pinch, I'll use whipping cream.)

Long ago, when I worked for a dentist, 8 am to 1 pm Monday through Friday, a long morning, I would be starving around 10 o'clock, so I resorted to coffee and powdered creamer. One day, my boss filled my cup with a heap of dental plaster that was the same color as the creamer, stuck a tongue depressor in it with a sign attached: "Coffee gone bad."

I miss that guy.

Back to the drive-up window:  The servers at the window give out doggie treats, and on an auspicious day it might be a piece of bacon or a sausage link—those days renew hope for Sweetpea, as most windows give out dry, stick in the throat dog biscuits that she buries under her blanket.

I gave the lady a five-dollar bill, and she handed me one penny.

I stroked the penny with my thumb and forefinger, and thought of Marie Forleo, who said she always picks up a penny from the sidewalk—to honor money—so it won't be treated as something to throw away.

As I rolled the penny around, I thought, if every person who has clicked on my website paid a penny for it, I would have $10,000. Wish on white Horses hit one million page views last week. And I have all you guys to thank for that. Thank you, thank you for sticking with me.

Of course, that doesn't mean one million people have checked in; it means I have kept at it long enough to chalk up page views.  

No matter—I love my readers.

I try to give you something of worth—we'll see what happens today. 

 

I would like to know how you guys are faring out there. People are perking along, while off in the distance, I hear the sound of freedoms crashing against the sidewalks of the United States.

I want to go on with my life, to believe in the goodness of people, that we care about our fellow men and women ("Red and yellow black and white they are precious in His sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world. We used to sing that in Sunday School.)

The stalwart souls I'm talking about knew that people came to this country in search of a better life.  ("Send us your tired, your poor, your hungry masses yearning to breathe free"). Those stalwart souls fought hard to give Immigrants—yes we can use the word Immigrants, it isn't a bad word, the freedoms they wanted for themselves.

 I remember seeing an ad containing a picture of a beautiful little girl. The caption read: "A brain is a terrible thing to waste."

So, we fought for women's right to read, to be educated, to vote. We fought for Women's right to have equal pay for equal work. Lo and behold, we found that women made good doctors and other professionals. We fought for Birth control and the right of a female to own her own body when men were laughing and answering the question, "Do you have any children?" with a "I don't think so."

“Ha ha, boys will be boys.”

We knew that people came to this country so they could practice their preferred religion without incrimination. Some said, "There are many roads to God. You don't have to be a Christian to love God." Some said that the Almighty Spirit that give us breath is a loving God with no ego problem. He doesn't require adoration or sacrifice. Would He be offended if you didn't believe in Him? The same source that knows about atoms, and Quarks, and how to sling the stars in the sky.

We saw that some of our fellows were mistreated, so we marched, we lobbied, we formed a Civil Liberties Union, we kept on until we had an integrated society.

We had opposition all along, but we kept going. We saw that the immigrants were doing our hard labor, bringing food to our table, and we supported their cause.

We saw that there were Gays among us—as it has been since the dawn of humanity (read the Iliad), and we said, "Let them be how God made them."

We fought against wars we thought were unjust. We fought for animal rights, we fought against the slaughter of wild herds, and for humane animal handling.

We are good people.

And then we forgot.

 

P.S.

You see, how hard it is to go on when there is crashing and banging in the background?

Don't let them do that to you—Don't let them fill your brain with so much noise that you lose heart. And then you forget that there is joy in the world.

When that happens, they’ve got you.

I was going to talk about being an entrepreneur, doing what you want, and getting paid for it. We do need money to live after all.

That will have to wait for another day.

 

 

 

 

 

Why do Writers Write?

 

Why do writers write?

To impart wisdom?

To stroke their ego?

Steven Pressfield says, "Nobody wants to read your shit."

His point is to keep after it up until it isn't shit.

Barbara Kingsolver's writing advice is: "Don't be afraid to write a bad book."

Her second piece of advice is "Keep revising it until it isn't a bad book."

What if people write as an invitation to share, to join forces?

Reading and sharing are opportunities for all of us to see that we're all in this (soup of life) together. We are all unique in the way we are put together, with genes stirred into unique combinations. (As with us. Surprise — you have a red-haired child.) Plus, we have our conditioning, conscious heritage, and life experiences that help shape us.

So, here we are.

Yet, while we are unique, we have similarities.

We all know we're going to die.

We've all had a childhood, good, bad, or indifferent.

We all have dreams, ambitions, longings, and questions.

 

And then there comes a day when we realize it's up to us.

It's up to us to choose which spot on the political spectrum we stand. 

It's up to us to decide whether to follow a religious concept, or do we unthinkingly follow the one we were born into, or had forced upon us? 

It's up to us to make a living. 

It's up to us to find a mate and, before that, to decide if we want one for ourselves or are afraid to buck the social norm and go it alone. 

It's up to us to choose to have children, or if we get them by surprise, it's up to us to care for them.

 

And it's up to us to create the best life for ourselves we can.

Whoa, that's a lot of choices; no wonder we often feel frazzled.

And then some of us desire to express ourselves on paper. (Or screen.) Sometimes we don't know why. It's a compulsion, like the idea that if you don't cut your hair, it will all end up snarled inside your head until your brain doesn't have a chance to breathe. (Brains breathe?) You get my drift.

I like travel stories. If you had a wonderful trip, ate exceptional food (cuisine, if it was fancy), and had experiences that made your toes curl, I want to hear about them. You know, the idea is that the hero goes out into the world to gather knowledge and to bring it back to the tribe. (Or bring food for the feast.)  

Long ago, after our bellies were full, we sat around a campfire and listened intently as our warriors, hunters, shamans, or scouts told us about stalking the beast. They told of risking their lives, or of saving their brothers from quicksand.

Why do you think we love stories so much? 

They are shared experiences, knowledge, and entertainment. 

During our brief stint living on the Big Island of Hawaii, on several occasions, we took ourselves to lunch at "The Ponds Restaurant" in Hilo. We liked to go there because they had windows overlooking the pond; really, it was a small lake fed by ice melt off the mountain. From our seat by the bank of open windows that looked out over the pond, we could look down and see brilliant orange, gold, or spotted white and charcoal Koi fish, large as whisky barrels, anxiously looking up to see if any food was forthcoming.

My grandson was one year old, and the proprietor liked to give him food for the fishes. "But first," she said, "you must ring the gong three times."

We never tested the necessity for three rings, but the fish knew that the sound of the gong meant food.

So, my little grandson would ring the gong, then drop fish pellets over the window ledge, and watch the flurry of excitement as the fish ate their food. Then, we settled down to ours.

On one occasion, I read a sign on the restroom wall:

"Life wasn't meant to be well-ordered. It was meant to hold chocolate in one hand and wine in the other while yelling, "Whoopie, what a ride!"

So, I write that quote here, and you read it in China. A while later, you travel to the US, and while sitting at Point Loma Seafood in San Diego, you share the quote with a friend. She decides it's worth re-telling and writes it on her blog.

A million people read it.

You just had the opportunity to "change the quality of the day" ("the highest of the arts," so wrote Walt Whitman) for one million people.

And I didn't know what I was going to say when I began this blog and wrote that beginning sentence, “Why do writers write?”  That is the fun of writing; it helps us to remember.

From a fellow traveler on this adventure called life.

 

 

P.S.This blog hit One Million all time page views last week. Whoopie for all you folks that checked in.