Buying Dirt

Pink 

on 

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Green 

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Dear folks,

 I got into trouble last night.

It was with my blog carrier for “sensitive material.” 

 Hey, I’m a good Jo, and I still believe in free speech, but I overstepped their specifications, and they placed a warning on my blog.

I wasn’t sure which statement set off their bot.  I repeated information that wasn’t true, but I specified that it wasn’t, and it had tickled me before it went away. 

It wasn't the carrier who took it offline. It was me.

For those who read yesterday's post, April 29, I would appreciate any comments. Were you shocked, offended, disagreed, or agreed?

I know readers are reticent to comment on this blog; either it’s hard to do, or they are afraid I will snatch their email. I don’t know, I am just happy all you guys show up💖💗 and whether people put in likes or not doesn’t matter as long as they read my material. I appreciate your time in reading this.💗 I know you have many choices, so that you choose to look at these words warms my cockles. Thank you.💗💗💗💗💗

I am sure the powers that be didn’t object when I got off topic at the end of my post and talked about buying topsoil for the area in our backyard where the grass isn’t growing.

It struck me as my daughter was throwing the bags of dirt over the temporary fence I bought to keep the dogs off my intended new lawn, that our great-grandparents would exclaim, “Buying dirt in bags?! What in the world is the world coming to?”

What if they heard that in the 2000s, we would be buying water, and what about $5.00 cups of coffee?

See how we ease into such things, and soon they become commonplace? We adjust.

The area I am talking about is under the Maple tree where the roots are growing up through the ground. After the leaves covered the ground last fall, the rains came and added to the the lawn's demise.

Now we have a large patch of bare ground.  

I love that Maple tree. It is beautiful in the summer and provides delightfully calming shade—do you bask in shade? (When it is hot enough, we do.)

But can I convince the birds to leave some seeds to germinate, the seeds to sprout, and grass to grow where we once had a lawn?

We’ll see.

This is our life, folks: conditions change, we have at-home challenges, we have world challenges, and here we are trying to find joy in a chaotic world.

It’s probably not all that much different from earlier times.

At least we have indoor plumbing.

 

 

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.