On Hope

pt. 3

Of course, I know it to be impossible to live without hope completely.
I know this by the frequency of which I shave my legs.

I am sick today, and still I shaved.
This, my friends, is hope in action.

Come rub my back and read children's adventure novels to me.

Bleak midwinter.

It's hard not to fall into the arms of winter blahs. There's so much
going on, and so many things I need to get. But I want to stay curled
up in this sunny spot on my bed with talk radio playing quietly in the
kitchen.
Last night I had an unsettling experience made more unsettling this
morning. My sanity, and memory are being called into question.
I know I make a load of stupid mistakes. But this, if I am wrong is
very hurtful to somebody else.
I hope, for the sake of the situation, that I am wrong.
But that would make me probably crazy. Like, for real.

So I will think about christmas lights. I will remember driving in the
car, competing with Sara and Jonathan how many sets of lights we could
see. Our parents made us count quietly to ourselves. Sara always
counted the most. She probably cheated.
We always accuse her of cheating, but I don't think she really did.
She's actually very smart and was able to figure things out faster
than the rest of us.
Sorry Sara, for teasing you about cheating.
I used to keep a string of blue christmas lights in my room because of
a Weakerthan's song. Now I hate the blue ones most of all. Those LED
lights make me feel carsick and woozy when I look at them.

Maybe I got that mixed up.

Maybe grace is in hope, and grace is in disappointment too.
Weaving in and out.

Now grace.

Now grace is something I can get behind.
There is movement in it.
There is hope in grace, and disappointment too. (the two are never far apart)
I would rather have grace stitched on pillows, but that would be
redundant because grace already exists in my pillows.

On Hope

pt. 2

I suppose that "Hope" is a simpler, sweeter word to have stitched
pillows than, "Life kind of stinks sometimes, there's nothing you can
do about it right now, so the best you can do is try not to get too
bummed out on it."
It would take too long to needlepoint.
Yes, hope is more practical.
But it means the same thing.
Like we need a reminder on our couches.

But then, I am not such a fan of objects telling me what to do. Like,
maybe I want to have tea in the mug that says hot chocolate on it. I
don't want to eat eggs off a plate that says spaghetti! on it. I feel
weird putting anything but sugar in the canister that says sugar. It's
so restricting.
I also don't like to have lined pages in my journal for the same reason.

Maybe that's why I don't like hope. It's too restricting. Too simple.
Too pat. There is no movement in it because you are chained so tightly
to the thing that requires you to hope.

While I agree that it is important to sit quietly in our struggles. I
know we need something to cling to while the storm blows and we lose
our footing.

It's just that in the meantime, let's be brave! Let's put one foot in
front the other, trust our bodies. Trust that we will be caught . That
we are still carried, even by rougher seas.

See that? Mixing metaphors all over the place. Storms and rocks and sea.
Sorrows like sea billows roll....you know the rest.

On Hope

pt. 1

I have discovered that we are much more comfortable when hope is
removed from the equation, and replaced with action.

I do no think that hope is the lovely thing we are taught it is in
Sunday school.

Hope has it's practical uses, but it's no way to live everday. It's
too connected to misery.

It's a waiting thing. It's what you do when there's nothing else to do.

It's an excellent last resort, but I will not have it stitched on pillows.

Little big things

-The time Becky had a dart in her calve, I can see the shape of the
drip of blood so clearly.
- When everyone died during Olden Days, and left me alive, to live and
play alone. That feeling still haunts me.
- Something about the red bike and a broken pane of glass. I think I
lied, but I honestly don't remember if I actually lied, or just felt
like I was getting in trouble for lying.
- Anytime Dad swore. Didn't happen that much. This one time, his voice
broke as he said "fuck", and I knew it was serious.
- The house full of cousins. Beds made of folded up comforters and
miss-matched bed linens. The smell of coffe in the morning.
- Reading. Oh the agony of just wanting to play outside after dinner,
and having to stay and take turns reading from the King James version!
I always imagined that the smell of the sofa cushions was from
people's butts, and farting on the couch.
- Panda bear ice cream.
- Staring out the backseat window and suddenly realizing that I am me,
and these people are my family, and the digital time display was
something real. And I snapped in and out of my body a lot. I still do.
- That picture of Cinderella dancing with Charming in our mailorder
book. That room looked so beautiful, and I wished she had brown hair,
like me.
_ The awful spare room in Grandma and Grandpa Light's basement. The
weird window that filtered light through the storage room, and the
wood paneling that looked like a thousand eyes watching you.

I hope I have a receptive soul.

I love the smell of poplar trees.
I didn't realize it until the other day when I was crunching through
some leaves. The smell reminded me of Berlin.
It was spring when I was there, and the poplar kernels had fallen on
the path along the canal. I remember really isolating that smell.
Peppery and sweet. It reminded me of being a kid at the Canyon Meadows
house.
We had a big poplar tree in our back yard, the kind that was easy to
climb. It's gone now, but it was good tree.
In the fall, our yard was covered in those big yellow leaves. What joy
it was to gather them up and lay in a big pile of that peppery
sweetness. The cold prairie afternoon biting at our cheeks and
fingers.

I am reading about lonliness and solitude. Meditating on it, because
that's what Henri Nouwen demands when you read his writings. I love
him.

"From now on, wherever you go, or wherever I go, all the ground
between us will be holy ground."

The hill.

They have bulldozed the hill by Science World.
The hill we rolled down that night in 2008. Remember drinking
Jameson's and rolling? Four bodies. Arms and legs and arms and legs
and arms. A messy laughing pile at the bottom. Reminding me that it's
ok to not be dignified sometimes.
Or the day we talked for hours about Harry Potter. Or the day we just
sat and read on blankets in the sun. Or just by myself when company
wasn't sought or found.
Anyway, that hill is gone now. It's just a pile of dirt and diggers.
Progress can't be stopped.
They were carrying away a big tree on a flatbed truck. It looked tied
down, restrained and very unhappy. Poor tree. Poor hill.
And I think about Cat Stevens songs.

There's a good story about Danny Boy on an episode of DNTO. Podcast that shit.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow, or when the valley's
hushed and white with snow.

I have watched Return To Me three times this week.

Also, I am baking bread, but the dough isn't rising, so I suppose this
is a foray into dismal failure.
I'm not bovvered.

Thinking about long journeys.
Thinking about Christmas.
Missing places like Rome.
Drinking nice french red wine alone in my apartment. My shelter.
Drawing a lot of inspiration from Winnie the Pooh.
Getting ready for romance. (another foray into dismal...whatever.)
My nails are painted a colour called "are we there yet?"
Old friends are close.
New friends make me laugh.
Middle friends are giving me sourdough starter, which I may have broken.
I need bread making tips. Sugar and egg and soy free bread making tips.
Officially a grown-up because I have recently purchased cleaning
supplies that I am very excited about.
Also, pressed play on Return To Me (again).
I am obsessed, and you can judge if you want. I don't mind, and I don't care.

Reflections on the movies.

One of the benefits of not having a day job, is weekday afternoon
matinees. So on this grey day, I took myself to see 50/50.
Vancouver is a good town.
This movie was so obviously filmed here, they made no effort to hide
it, yet it took place in Seattle. How weird it was to see the Space
Needle in the skyline at Hastings and Cambie. And then the main
character laments never having gone to Canada. Funny.
I liked how the Astoria was made into a cool nightclub too. If you
don't know, the Astoria is a very divey bar on East Hastings.
I liked the movie. It reminded me of Lisa. I cried, of course I cried.
I liked seeing my neighborhood in the movies. And my favourite sandwich place.

However, I was enraged by the previews. Hollywood is once again taking
a good story and totally fucking it up. The Three Musketeers is such a
good story. If they just stick to the adventure that is, and keep tiny
Hollywood hunks out of it, it could really be wonderful. The story
will speak for itself. Instead they are throwing in some steampunky
balloon ships and explosives and some high-wired female assassin.
Alexandre Dumas must be doing summersaults down there.

Pepper pickle.

George and Linda lived at the top of the cul-de-sac.
They had a big house, and a lovely garden. I spent many hours helping
them in the garden. I learned what dill and thyme were, and hens and
chicks.
I don't remember how we became friends. But they seemed to take a
particular shine to both me and Jonathan. And we loved them.
The first time I ever saw the internet was in George's office. I
didn't understand it., but he seemed to think it was amazing. The
computers were still black with green pixels. Remember those?
Linda gave me pottery lessons. I learned how to make pinch pots, and
we even threw things on the wheel. I remember how that room smelled.
Especially when the kiln was on.
On tuesdays we would read aloud. More like, she would read. I remember
Linda crying when Prince Caspian died. There is some scene about a
thorn in Aslan's paw. She cried.
George taught me about long division when I struggled with it. Linda
taught me how to make pickled peppers. My fingers smelled sweet and
spicy for days.
We moved away when I was twelve or thirteen, and eventually lost contact.
I was heart broken when I heard that they got divorced.. I didn't
really believe it. I still don't really believe it. They are just
always ever George and Linda to me.
In the garden, George whistling.

Find out what it means to me.

I will respect you from the start, but once you lose it, you have to
earn it back.
And if you demand it from me, I will respect you even less.
Respect is not a right. And while we all have bad days when steam
blows out our ears, if you give it time - or even say sorry, you will
find respect still there. It's the constant demanding and the talking
talking talking that wears me out.
Respect, and even LIKE is found in humility, not the weilding of power.
No one likes a brute.
This is why I try not to talk to my boss, who is writing me up for not
checking my email everyday.
It's because I can't stant the constant barage of emails about
cigarettes. I choose to let them stock pile and read them all at once.
Unfortunately, I missed emails about a staff meeting.
My bad, I know. But I said sorry.
If a man worries about becoming a joke, he should try not to be one.

The best weather.

This is the nicest weather, the kind where you choose the sunny side
of the street.
The sky is more blue, and you are just comfortable in a cardigan. The
trees, I'm sad to say, though it makes them more lovely, are turning
rusty.
Acorns are on the ground, and chestnuts will be soon.
When I remember how it was this time last year, I am entirely grateful.
Grateful that I'm not in my bathtub trying to get a grip on my stupid
fucking heart, which is where I spent most of last September.
There is a reason why thanksgiving happens when the sky is bluest and
the apples are crispest and the trees are yellow and gold.
So thanks to the trees and sky and even to bathtubs.

Whale of a Tale.

There are good stories out there.
There are good stories in here. The problem is capturing the stories.
Finding words and phrasing and proper punctuation.
I love listening to stories on the radio.
Voices that crumble at the sad parts, and laugh a little when the
story gets embarrassing.
I have a friend who spins amazing yarns. He knows they're good
stories, but he won't write them down.
There is something so comforting and wholesome about a good story
telling. Kindergarten without pictures, but maybe there will be
snacks.
Mark Twain had a huge mantel over his fire place. It was filled with
pictures and objects, all lined up along it. On one end there was a
painting of a cat, and at the other end, a picture of a girl.
To tell stories to his children, they would start at one end and weave
a tale involving every object on the mantel, until they reached the
other side.
I love that story. You can imagine it.
But then, it was Mark Twain; the best spinner of yarns...ever.

It is the things we keep hidden that have the most Power.
I have been thinking about this quite a bit. Everyone has an
undercurrent of something powerful and dark.
We give these things their power, and they take it from us.
It's an unfair relationship.

It takes a certain amount of courage, I think, to expose nasty,
sniveling, dark, truths. But they are just hungry naked things.

French Milk

I think I like coffee more for the ritual of it, than for the caffeine
of it. And now I am living ritual free in the mornings, and I don't
quite know how to get out of bed.

Paris planning is getting underway.
The emails have started.
Emails are both convenient and frustrating. It's hard to say what you
want without sounding like a whiney baby. And it's hard not to get
annoyed at the language other people use sometimes.
Sisters.

Got tipped 5 euros last night. Gonna put it in a shoe box.

Bought this really sweet book called French Milk. It's about Paris.
Food, mostly.

I have decided that if this new way of eating is a lifelong thing, I
am breaking it for Paris.
There is no way I'm going to Paris and not eating chocolate croissants
and a cafe au lait for breakfast at least every other day.
I will just have to wear a beret. (just kidding)

One thing I know.

I know you love me by the time you touched my nose and asked me if I
wanted to come with you to the hardware store.
You didn't hug me or cuddle me or tell me that there's plenty of fish
in the sea. You didn't tell me about The Master Plan or time heals all
wounds.
You just touched the tip of my nose though it might have been snotty with tears.
And we went to Home Depot. I wanted to hold your hand like how I used
to at funerals. Squeezing so tight.

So you don't have to say it.
I just know.
And thanks.

Some little thoughts that cycle through my head.

- Hope has got nothing to do with it.
- Whatever. It was cute and funny. We would have had a nice time.
- Boysclub.
- Gravlax gravlax gravlax.
- It's better to be good than it is to be right.
- Picking up your signals, but you're still on the wrong channel.

These have nothing to do with each other. They just pop in there when
I walk the streets or clean my dishes.

Good-bye:

Sugars
Coffee
Lovely poached eggs
Butter
Legumes
Chocolate
Peanut butter
Licorice
Soy
Shell fish
Nuts seeds dried fruit
Tomato seeds
Ibuprofen
Booze

HELLO:

Red wine full of tannins
Plain yogurt
Kefir (nice to meet you)
Tropical fruits
Garlic and onions
Ginger
Olive oil
Mustard
Cottage cheese
Beef
Cabbage and brussel sprouts (ew)

...and everything in between.

Dementors.

I going to outsmart this anxiety disorder. I will slay it a little at
a time until it is that whimpering, quivering, half-dead, Voldemort
thing under the train station bench.
I am smarter than it. It's just my brain. My brain is ridiculous.
Riddikulus!
And the dementors will go along with it.

Spilling Open

Sabrina Ward Harrison is an artist/journal keeper.
A number of years ago, Annika borrowed a couple of Sabrina Ward
Harrison books from the library. I poured over the colourful pages and
scratchings of longings and lists of cute things and writings of
Italy. I loved it.
I decided a couple of weeks ago buy her first book, because I had been
thinking about it. But they are hard to find, so I ordered it from the
nice book place in Qualicum.
I re-read all those words that resonated so much with me. I hoped for
the spark of recognition.
Instead, I was kind of bored. Annoyed that the words, so full of
potential, got lost in the layers of paint and chalk and scraps.
I wondered what happened, what went wrong? Where was my Sabrina Ward Harrison?
Then i realized that she wrote it when she was twenty one.
It makes sense.
I am just not there.
Thank heavens.
I wondered what she's doing now.
It all looks the same.
I am not saying this because I feel superior to this woman. I think
she is making truthful art, and making money at it.
I recognise this all with gratefulness.
I am so glad that I don't feel that fevered urge to define things.
It is a world of answers. The questions no longer bother me. And my
thighs are ok too.

Value 2.

(Concerning my last post)
...
Rather, it is my job and my responsibility to see your value. Your worth.
You are also, the strong young tree.
If I do not see it, that is my blindness.

(Unless you really are an asshole, and if that's the case, I will
probably still find you funny...or handsome.)

Value.

It is not my job, or my responsibility to convince anyone of my value. My worth.
I know who I am.
I am connected so deep, my roots go to the water.
I am the strong young tree.
If people cannot see it, I worry that I am doing something wrong, or
that I am unliked.
But that's just garden variety self doubt. My waivering spirit.
Humaness. Knowing also, my foibles.
My worth doesn't need to be found, or sought.
It's all right here.
A fairly steady hand, a creative mind, a loving heart. A sense of fun,
a sparkly blouse. Gap toothed, a little bald, small shoulders. Boobs,
legs and lips.
I seek the God of pink skies and mountains and pinhole photography. I
will jump in a lake with you. I will eat a feast with you, and we can
recline our chairs and talk late about anything.
I will laugh with you, and cry too.
My value is in these small big things, and in a thousand more.
Yours too.
When we meet in these places, our souls catch fire (a little).
I kindle you, you kindle me.
We make stew over the fire, and we add sprigs of rosemary, and red wine.

Seams

I was delighted to see that my great grandmother did not finish all
the seams on my grandmother's wedding dress.

I hate finishing seams.

Pilgrim

William Pligrim was an English coachman who married a German countess.
It was a long time ago.
It must have been a good story.
Was there a scandal? Was it love?
I am not so sure if it was love because he later in life married his girls off to be any man's wife.
I would like to know this particular story because they were my great (times a million) grandparents on my father's mother's side.
All I know about any story is whatever my grandmother cared to footnote at the bottom of the geneology pages.
And that my grandmother met my grandfather while she was serving punch at a wedding. That story, I know for sure was Love.
I like the idea of descending from a man called Pilgrim.
It kind of affirms my restless spirit.

Beans.

My flavourite combination of Jelly Belly is Juicy Pear, Toasted
Marshmallow, and Buttered Popcorn.

For Amy

I became a grown-up the night we snuck upstairs and ate angelfood cake
in the family room.
It had been a horrible night. All those people at the house for The
Sing, and the dreadful news from the hospital. Grandpa sitting with
his hands folded, staring into the middle distance. His hair looked
whiter.
Sometimes my dad sits with his hands folded like that. I wonder if
your dad does too.
I don't remember crying too much. I just remember angelfood cake.
Sara cried.
When Glenda came down in the middle of the night, she didn't tell us
to go back to bed, but she sat with us a while.
We just talked about anything. A bit about Grandma, how weird it was
that she was just gone. School, family, I'm not sure what else. I
remember laughing, and how strange it was to laugh and feel the weight
of death at the same time.
It felt important. You and me in our pj's, in the big house full (to
the brim) of sleeping cousins. We were all safe, and sad together.
It WAS important.
So, thanks. It was a good way to grow up.

My voice.

I want to use my own voice, and today it's crackly, a little rough.
I felt it leaving last night, yelling totals over the bar. It gets
lost in higher and lower decibles. It gets swept up into the room.
I don't like the dry ache in my throat, but I love the new timbre in my voice.
It gives words new gravity.
I've been thinking a lot about social networking. About blogging. It's
all of us clamouring to get a voice heard.
We are screeching information over other voices. Over drums and
microphones and amps turned up. Not to mention dudes talking loudly
about motorbikes, and girls oozing over heels and relationships.
There is fun in all that noise. There is good stuff in there.
But I am tired, and my voice hurts a little. And I'm not even sure
it's mine, because I can't hear it over the rumble of the room. And
your total comes to $11.50. ELEVEN FIFTY!!!

This is where I can be found.
Just a voice.
I mumble.

I don't know why I made this any of your business.

I think I am becoming more comfortable with God.
It's not something I've really laboured and thought too deeply about recently.
I feel like the letting go has allowed for some sort of equalibrium to happen.
It's not that I've entered into the Peace That Passes Understanding.
I'm not sure that peace truly exists.
I don't have to name it, or subscribe to aything. This is not required.
I am human.
The God of pink skies and big mountains and pinhole photography, has
quietly slipped in. We commune in silence. God is not audible.
The voice that I think might be God, is a bit of an imp. A Devil's advocate.
But it challenges me, and makes think differently. This (possible) God
is even kind of hilarious sometimes.
And if it isn't God, if it's just me getting wiser, who cares?
The point is that I am comfortable with God.

We are wizards.

Yesterday Heather met me for an afternoon of sitting in grass, eating
Doritos and getting suntanned a little.
Our conversation turned, as it does, to Harry Potter. Heather admitted
that she only read the first book. And that was it.
So I began to tell her all about the life of Witchcraft and Wizardry
at Hogwart's. Chronologically from the start, from the cupboard under
the stairs.
All the way to the end of The Goblet of Fire. Probably took an hour,
and it was fun.
Two adults sitting on the hill by Science World, soberly talking about
Muggles and the Ministry of Magic.. And what a little shit that Draco
Malfoy is.

Proof that we are not made to be alone forever.

When left to my own devices, I can be found sitting at my window in my
underwear, playing an echo harp, while household disaster is all
around, because I decided that sitting at my window in my underwear,
playing an echo harp would be more fun than folding laundry or moving
furniture.

The closest we came to the pot of gold.

We chased it. I don't know where we were when we first saw it.
I think we were maybe up in the woods. I have a faint memory of it
ending in the field by the boys cabins. But I am not confident.
Rainbows are like that, besides, these stories are maybe more about
what I don't remember. I do remember running down the hill, kind of
worried about slipping on the grass.
We scrambled down the beach, where it bounced on wet pebbles, and
finally to the sea. Just beyond our reach.
Breathless and happy and amazed. This was a remarkable rainbow.
I love how grown-ups still love rainbows.
I love sitting on a bus and seeing strangers nudge each other and
point to the sky.
For once, we're not talking about hockey. We're revelling in something magical.

Mango Malibu

There are little details we forget. Like, were the windows down?
It's more romantic with the windows down.
We were somewhere in the Interior. Between here and there. Summer
sunshine pouring throught the (possibly) open windows.
Surrounded by tall grasses and a thousand slender birch trees.
Birch might be my favourite tree.
It was probably Nell's idea to make Mango Malibu Sangria. I certainly
would have never thought of it.
Three girls in the back seat sipping from plastic picnic cups, the
kind with straws attached, the kind that are impossible to clean while
you're camping so you close your eyes and try not to think about
germs.
Paul Simon's Graceland playing loud.
"Diamonds on the Souls of Her Shoes" always takes me back there. Some
country road.
Our brown arms waving, our big mouths singing, our hair (maybe)
whipping in the wind.

--
Sent from my mobile device

Then it hit me.

There is no need to be offended.
It's almost always a choice.
And it's silly.

And my head is slowly removing itself from my ass.

--
Sent from my mobile device

Midnight in Paris

If you make a movie that's about Paris, takes place in Paris, has a
scene in Paris, or even hints at the possibility that parts of it
could be Paris, I am going to love it.
Not that anyone is making movies for me.
Anyway, it was a good reminder that Paris is beautiful, that I am a
romantic, and "C'est l'age d'or!"
Throw in some beautiful costumes and clouds of pincurls.

--
Sent from my mobile device

Smallness.

My brother is in town on business. Busy-ness, more like.
He made a window for me last night. It was wonderful.
I revel in alone time with siblings and cousins. My selfishness loves
the lack of commotion of family events, and prefers a quiet bar with a
drink or two. Undivided attention for a few hours.
He challenges me a lot. Intentionally, I think. But gently.
I have to let my family be my family.
I have to let our definitions of success be different.
My life is small. I live here in the DTES with my sewing machine and
weird plumbing. Working at jobs with no benefits. Wearing sensible
shoes.
My impact is tiny.
I am happy.
My aspirations take me to a small house. They take me chickens and big
bowl of soup. My ambitions are to make a super huge quilt, to have a
family.
These things are not on ladders. I am not scrambling over rungs.
So I will pour you a drink. I will ask you about your day. Over time
we'll get to know each other, and our hugs as we meet on the street
will be strong and true.
Our conversations will increase in depth, our inside jokes will ripen
to something so funny we will cry laughing.

Blessedness is not counted by degrees or fancy cars. Thank heavens.

There is nothing romantic about buying a big pack of toilet paper and
walking with it through the Downtown East Side.

For Sarah.

I came home with August and Everything After in my purse. Pillaged
from Marty's giveaway pile.
You had just uncorked a bottle of wine, sitting and knitting or reading .
We pressed play and all those old lyrics came flooding back.
"It's raining in Baltimore and fifty miles east.
The bigtop is crumbling down."
Unembarassed and singing loud. Streatching out the YEAAAAAAAAAAH at
the end of Rain King.
We drank more wine and talked deep into the night.
Things like lonliness and love and God. Things that we always talk
talked about. Mostly boys though, I am sure.
I didn't want to leave that space of true sisterhood.
We went to sleep with our doors open. Counting Crows playing on
repeat, quietly in the living room.
I am not saying that this is the best band in the world, but this is
the story I tell to defend myself.
There was too much love in that little house on East 14th that night.
I think even the harshest critic would have danced the Mr. Jones with
us if they were there.
I will love you forever for being there in those formative years. For
letting me be Wendy Bateman.

Steps.

Remember the time when we were sitting on the Spanish Steps?
It was early April, and the weather was perfect. Not very hot, but you
could feel our noses browning in the sun.
I think it might have been a Sunday.
I was getting ready to leave, we had just a little while to spend
before I had to go get the bus.
There were a lot of interesting people sitting around us. You were
sketching them as Sabrina and I talked about big dreams.
I gave you my sunglasses because you needed them and besides, they
look better on you anyway.
I think about it.
I am certain that details are wrong, like maybe we went back to your
lovely apartment (with the tiniest elevator) to get my bag. Or maybe
we were eating oranges...I don't remember, but why would I make that
up?
That few minutes on the Spanish steps with the sun, and two of the
greatest, most sincere, funniest friends, is one of my my favourite
all-time Thoughts.
I am so blessed in this life to have memories like this peak out at me
from time to time.
Like on rainy Vancouver mornings. Listening to songs that sound like Idaho.

Every two or three times in a while.

I have been missing blogging.
I think it's fun, but can get boring fast.
I hate those conversations that start,"Did you see my blog?"
Gross.
And I can whine.
I have been thinking lately about something my mom used to say
whenever we were bickering or gossiping.
She would ask, "Is that nice? Is it necessary? Is it true?"
These are the guidelines for me still....I hope.
To be fair, no blog is ever all that necessary. It's just that
omitting that part would only be half (or two thirds) quoting my
mother, thus, making it less whimsical.
Heavy on the true, heavy on the nice. Funny sometimes too.
Maybe.