Freeing Up Precious Brain Space

One of the most challenging things about writing a blog, is thinking about who is my audience. Who is taking the time to read my random thoughts, and are they worthy of being read?

I am conscience when I write, reminding myself I don't want to hurt anyone I love or care about. That would never be my intent, it is just not who I am.

I write what comes to mind, and writing the words sets them free from consuming my thoughts. Maybe in a weird way, it frees up precious brain space. Unfortunately, as much as I try not to sanitize the words I write, I know it can't be avoided if I am putting it out there for the world to see. Oddly, it is easier to think of strangers reading my blog, than my friends and family.

Imagine, someone you have never met finding and reading your journal. Now imagine, someone you know, finding and reading your journal, and reading your private thoughts about them. Big difference.

It is never my intent to hurt anyone, these are just my random thoughts, nothing more. Just freeing up some precious brain space.

Love is Love

Why am I so fascinated with romantic books and movies set in another time period?

It arouses my curiosity to another time and place, but what I always come back to the is idea that love is love.

No matter the time, the place, the characters or the setting.

Love is constant.

Unrequited love. Passionate love. Romantic love.

Love is love.

Fear of the Playground

I had two horrible playground accidents as a child. I am not sure how old I was when the first one happened, but I think I was maybe 5 or 6 years old. My family was visiting my mom's cousins and all the kids walked to the local school playground for the afternoon. There was one of the old-fashioned, really tall slides made completely of metal. I remember climbing really, really slow up the ladder portion of the slide. When I got to the top of the slide, I remember just standing there thinking about being up so high. I wasn't afraid of the height, I just remember feeling emptiness and space around me.

And I remember falling. Falling, backwards towards the ground. Not sure what happened when I stood at the top of the slide, maybe I closed my eyes to feel the wind on my face, I don't know. I still remember the feeling of falling, and how the air rushed around me, and I felt breathless. I don't remember hitting the ground.

Apparently, I passed out when I landed. The children in the group walked me back to my great-aunt's house, and I played inside the rest of the day.

The second accident occurred when I was about ten years old. On the school playground, during recess, I was sitting on the parallel bars when I lost balance and hit the back of my head, just above the nape of my neck on the other parallel bar. I don't remember the actual accident, but I do remember the pain. I was taken to a hospital and observed for a concussion. I distinctly remember reaching around to touch the back of my head and it felt, the best, but yet the grossest way to describe it, spongy. Apparently, it was filled with blood. Even today when I touch the back of my head, I can imagine the pain I felt as a fourth grader.

So how did my two playground accidents affect me as an adult?

I have very few vivid memories of my childhood and I suspect it is partially as a result of these two accidents. I can look at pictures and my sister will tell me stories of our childhood, but I can't honestly say I remember the actual event.

The other impact it had is my fear of my children getting injured on playground equipment. Although they are all older now, when they were younger, it was very hard for me to watch them play at the playground. There was a park we use to go to once a year up north that still had an old, large metal slide and I still remember Madeline climbing up the ladder, and how I felt dizzy watching her.

But I kept my fear inside, because I do remember how fun it was to slide towards the ground on the shiny metal. To let them enjoy the fun of slides, swings and monkey bars, and not to let my fears spoil their fun, Ben willingly took them to the playground.

I Love Andy Warhol

A year ago, our family took a trip to Indianapolis to see a Titanic exhibit at the Indiana State Museum. And although the exhibit was touching, I was so excited when we visited the Indiana Museum of Art, and the staff was preparing for the Andy Warhol exhibit opening the next day.

Although everyone in the family did not want to see the exhibit, I convinced enough members of the family, to stay an extra day so we could go.

You see, I love Andy Warhol.

His art. His quotes. His hair. He was a master at marketing his art.

Not that I would surround myself with the art of his world, I just appreciate it. I don't think I stopped smiling throughout the entire exhibit. I think I was just in awe to be near his work.

I think some people are surprised that I do love Andy Warhol because his work is so extreme compared to my taste. But how can you not smile when you are standing in front of a silk-screened Marilyn Monroe?

Yes, I love Andy Warhol.

Did She Have Passion?

"You know the Greeks didn't write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died. Did he have passion?"

- Jeremy Piven, in the movie, Serendipity

Passion. Does everyone have it? Or, do some spend their entire life trying to find it? Or, is even more likely that we go through phases in life, and our passions fluctuate with the years?

I think most people, if asked, will adamantly say they have passion. Some may define it in their passion for their career they have chosen in life. For another, it is the children they have brought into the world, or their family life. For someone else, it may be their talents.

So going seriously against the mainstream, at a risk of shocking the conformists of the world, I am prepared to share what could be perceived as a negative opinion.

I can honestly say, deep breath here, at this stage in my life, I don't really know anymore what my passion, in the sense of personal passion, really is. Would I be considered a unpassionate person? I don't think so. Just honest.

You see, maybe I don't think of just one thing as my passion. I would like to think I am passionate about everything I do. I often tell family and friends that I can't multitask since I like to give 100% to what I am doing at at given time.

Maybe your passion can only be defined after death. Someone else will look back at my life, and they will define what I was passionate about. They get to pick.

I like that idea.

The Smell of Fall

Although people who live in Michigan have a tendency to complain about the weather all the time, I for one, appreciate the changes of the seasons. The autumn months are beautiful with the changing color of the trees, and considering my olfactory senses are strong, the smell of the air. Although there are still many green trees, some are already starting to drop their leaves. The leaves on the ground just adds to the sensory experience of being outside, and the crunching sound reminds us that Fall is here.

Temperatures are a bit unpredictable, as for the last few days the thermometer is reading close to 80 degrees. The end of this week is suppose to be in the low 60s. Sunrises and sunsets are phenomenal - and the moon at night and in the early morning hours is beautiful. This morning when I was taking the boys to school, we walked out to the driveway, and the sky was clear. The stars were bright and I pointed out to Benjamin the belt of Orion over our roof top.

Although I sympathize with the people who only like the summer in Michigan, I choose to embrace the change, maybe because I love the smell of Fall.

Growing Pains

It is always so exciting to me to hear my children's point of view. Having three teenagers at different stages in life, gives me the unique opportunity to share their exposure to different forms of literature, opinions, movies, current events and politics.

My daughter took center stage at the dinner table today, sharing her thoughts on Martin Luther, history of the Catholic Church and leadership, along with her opinions of President Obama.

My middle son shared his reading of the short story "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson, the symbolism in the story along with his opinion of teaching of health at school.

My youngest son was quiet at the table this evening. I was standing in the kitchen yesterday morning and when he walked by I noticed a change in his height. Could he already be almost as tall as I?

Every birthday, the height of each child is recorded on a board and they sign their name next to their height. Yesterday, when we measured his height, I realized he has grown close to two inches in three months.

I guess when your body is busy growing, you don't have the extra energy to share your thoughts. Or maybe, his sister's chattering was non-stop at the table and he couldn't get a word in. Either way, I missed hearing about his day.