The other night I dreamed an entire book or movie plot. I woke up and realized it and thought - wow, go start writing that down. But life as I have imagined it beckoned.
It was not like any plot I would consciously contrive. It was such a patent plot that it seemed quite sellable - not that I am an expert in that area.
I seem to be expert at creating a life so full of trumped up obligations that I can never suffer the agony of defeat since I can not ever begin to create. What is that? Ah, but what sort of declamation am I creating here and now?
So, perhaps I did not find that particular movie worthy of further attention. Perhaps it was merely an exercise in creating. A riff.
Wouldnt it be great if we had little secretaries to transcribe all the stuff running in our minds? Well, maybe not all of it. Heh. I guess if I just make a habit of writing some stuff down, it could grow....
I hear my daughter is on a new writing jag.
When I was young, my dad, my foster dad, that is, always urged me to write. He said I had a certain something far greater than his own, a gift, say, and that I darent not waste it. But ahh, thus far, I did. Now I see my daughter and her gift. Well, truly, all my children have such talent. But this particular daughter wields the pen mightily, fearlessly and deftly. I do not push. No, no. I have never pushed. I hope. And yet is not pushing just as bad as too much pushing? Ah, who will know these answers in time?
In time. That is when we will know them, eh?
Well, the point is, she is writing and that is wonderful.
I think living our own lives fully, honestly, bravely, sensitively, sensibly, with senseless abandon (a light spice of senseless abandon) is the best way we can help our children. And example is the greatest guide. And yet I dont quite mean guide for I do not wish to guide my children. I wish to set them free to explore, to live, to wonder, to love, to create, and most of all to glory in simply being.
I am truly rich. It is so easy to look at one's life and regret, to measure and compare, to wallow in what if's. And yet truly, my life is so rich, so full, for I have three wonderful children, all of whom are kind in their souls. All of whom are bright and clever and sharp, and also deep and thoughtful. I have a life partner who is kind and clever and brave and strong and talented and generous and loving. Who sparks the essence of me. Who many look up to and who for some reason appeared in my life one day, promised to stay and then did.
I have my own fine self. One who has endured life's usual trials and emerges now, still confident, still alive, still learning and sharing and growing wise.
Now my silver trophy wisps fly about arrogantly, daily proclaiming my arrival in cronehood. A glance in the mirror reminds me to live today. For it is all we have.
Life brings us strange gifts and all too often we look past them, wondering where the heck the good stuff is. Like the gift of my tenant Kelly. She wants to make a baby quilt with me. yes, I say, yes, lets do that. All the while hankering for that elusive time to myself. That time to myself I wander about in constantly, shunning all others. Like the gift of my friend Donna. She comes around, calls, emails, suffers my rebuffs, my selfishness. She wants to sew with me too. dont I profess to love sewing? And here is the dream of a lifetime, my own sewing clache. Clache? Buddies? Like the gift of that husband I mentioned, my dear friend Kevin. Who supports me in anything I desire, anything I strive for, long for, reach for, be that art, crafts, a home, solitude, slovenliness, activity, gluttony, abstinence. He says yes, yes, yes, Rita, I trust you to make good decisions for yourself.
Ahhhhhhhh.....