At work, I have one of those "Book-a-Day" desk calendars and each morning, after turning on my computer, as it whirls to life, I remove the previous day's page, read the book suggestion/description and then either add it to a growing pile in my "junk" drawer (yes, I even have one of those at work) so I have a go-to list of books to read, or toss it.
This time of year, however, I can't help but notice the number of remaining pages getting less and less -- and when this happened the other day, two thoughts popped into my head: I want to get another one of these for the coming year, and then -- "wow, look at how much of this year is already gone."
I knew the date, of course, and that the calendar year was coming to an end, but it took that dwindling pile of paper pages to bring mindfulness to the knowledge, and true awareness to just what the passage of all that time has meant to me personally.
The old adage "the days are long but the years are short" came to mind as I realized just how fast this past year has gone by, and all that has transpired.
I marked 11 years at my current job; my uncle died very quickly and unexpectedly; my cousin announced she and her husband of over 15 years are getting divorced; my mother ended up in the hospital after a very severe and dangerous reaction to a new drug she was prescribed for a chronic condition that she suffers from; I turned 50; one of my two cats died at the age of 15, and the other turned 17; several friends and a cousin of mine had children start their first year of college.
I remember very clearly when those kids were toddlers; marking other landmark birthdays (21, 30 and 40) and how far away and old 50 had seemed back then; I had just brought that cat home for the first time; my uncle was one of the healthiest and most vibrant people I knew; my mother had been totally healthy; and going on my job interview for my present position with a mix of excitement, nervousness and hope.
The years are short and things are always changing, and in these days of techie gadgets to wake us up, give us weather and news updates and tell us what the time and date are, I'm glad for that old-fashioned, old-school Book-A-Day calendar that forces me to look at the date each morning and mark, in a physical and concrete way, the passing of time.
The calendar was a gift. You know those gift bins at every department store this time of year loaded with things people would never buy themselves that make gift buying a bit easier for those that don't know what to get a friend, co-worker or family member -- car weather or cleaning kits, bath baskets, coffee and tea baskets, nose hair trimmers, travel kits, flashlights and -- (insert interest area here)-a-Day calendars.
Well, sometimes those "desperation" gifts as we've all sometimes called them, and let's be honest, have purchased for someone at least once, end up being something even more than just practical or useful.
I'm going to wait to see if I get another one this Christmas from someone, and if I don't, I'll be hitting the discount bin somewhere to purchase one for myself, because that gift has been one I used, and ended up getting a lot of enjoyment from -- some great, otherwise unknown books for my reading list -- and a reminder that time waits for no one and is going by every single day.
Sunday, November 25, 2018
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Back in the Saddle
Well, I've decided to resurrect this long neglected (but never really forgotten) blog that I started over a decade ago.
This cyber version of my journal has/had gone the way of my hard copy diaries and journals -- I have several stored away in a chest that I sometimes take out. One thin book can cover over 3 years because of how infrequently I wrote in it. I start each one with the best of intentions: I will write, every day. Or at least 2-3 times per week.
I promise, and I try, and for awhile, I do write fairly regularly. And then -- BAM -- I stop. I don't really know why; perhaps too tired, or after having spent all day at a computer, the last thing I want to do when I get home is write in my now chicken scratch handwriting in a physical journal, or spend time on my home laptop writing on a blog or working on my book ideas. So I don't write; don't record things that happen to be on my mind or happen to me that bug me enough to make me want to write it down to try to make some sense of it.
It's the same excuse I give for not having made any major headway on that book I've been threatening to write since I graduated college. After being at a computer for eight hours at work, I don't want to do the same thing at home. It's a vicious cycle of reality, excuses and procrastination.
But I'm not getting any younger. I turned 50 this summer, and I realize I need to do more with my life, with my time than just work and if I'm ever going to accomplish my ultimate dream of being a published author, I need to write, often and regularly.
I also need to read more. I love to read. I just don't do it the way I used to or in my mind think I do, or should be doing, if that makes any sense. I'm on GoodReads and I have a friend who is married, has three kids, two part-time jobs and is going to school for a master's degree and reads like, two books a week for pleasure; and reads serious stuff too -- history, politics, biographies. It makes me feel totally inferior, because I've always fancied myself to be a serious reader, more intellectual and well-read than most. Not these days.
I have shelves of unread books -- books I was dying to read, and purchased either while surfing Amazon or visiting bookstores. Books I couldn't wait to go home and take out of the bag and start reading. Some I started and never went back to. Others I put aside for when I would have a larger clump of time to read them because I hate just reading one or two chapters and then having to put it down.
I'm also a slow reader. I like to savor words and sentences and descriptions. Oftentimes, when I hit a particular phrase or description or a particular well-written passage while reading, I'll stop and re-read it -- one, two, even three more times. Or I'll stop and simply look out the window or at nothing in particular and think about what the author was trying to convey. So, yeah -- I do need large clumps of reading time because I like to savor and digest and remember.
I'm in a book club and when I shared that with my fellow members, they laughed, although one friend did say, "I can actually see you doing that."
Another friend said she is a fast reader, and when we've read lengthier books with lots of description, she has no recollection of it, because, she admits "I just skim through those parts. I mean, I only care about the main plot and storyline, I don't need to know what their house looked like or whatever."
That seems unimaginable to me. Why even read a book then? But, to each their own. And I can't criticize because she's reading a helluva lot more than I am right now.
So this weekend, as I was trying to organize some things around my apartment, my eyes fell on many of the books I wanted to read but still haven't gotten to. Some are loaned from friends, some I purchased, literally, YEARS ago, when they were on the best sellers' list. And then I thought about this long-neglected blog, and book(s) I want to write and even started to write -- I have 10 chapters of one -- but somehow never get around to keeping up with or continuing.
Part of the problem, is I've become addicted to TV. I upgraded my cable service about a year ago from the basic package and so now have way more options. I also now get Netflix, and Amazon Fire TV. And I don't regret that. There is a lot of good TV out there now, shows that educate and make you think. Some really amazing shows. And thanks to Netflix I've become a documentary fan -- so I am learning stuff. I'm just not doing the reading and writing I do love to do; once I set my mind to doing it.
I thought of just starting fresh and doing a whole new blog. But I figured hey, this one has some history, and there are some posts I really like a lot. And when I logged back in, I found a draft of one I had started years ago, and never published. I don't even remember writing it, or having remembered my grandma's neighbor Veronica enough to have written a post about her, but in reading the draft, I remembered those two days I wrote about and it occurred to me that that is why I should be doing this.
I love to write, I love to read, and I love introspection and this is a great way to get all of those out. So here I am -- back in the saddle.
I'm not going to promise to write every day, or even to write a certain number of times, because I think that makes me feel like I have to do it and then it's like a job and I resent it and procrastinate and then stop.
Instead, I will vow to write when something I want to commit to permanent record or memory or send out to the Universe strikes me. Which is often; more often than I've written about here in teh past.
I also now have several of those long-ago purchased and borrowed books on my living room table, and am making a commitment to read every day, even if it is only a chapter or two. My goal is at least one book a week.
After setting them aside, I did pick one up and read 100 pages, and as I was engrossed in the story, I looked up from it for a moment and realized how much I was enjoying the process of reading. No TV, no music, just me and a cup of tea curled up on the couch on a dreary, cold and overcast day. It is a simple pleasure I had forgotten how much I enjoyed and which takes me out of my present and gives my imagination and cerebral side a much needed workout, instead of just feeding my work fatigue with spoon-fed info from TV.
I got the same feeling of pleasure after logging into this blog and reading some old posts, publishing that old draft, and putting into words -- concrete,published words -- a new post that will hopefully, this time around, be a true blog and a springboard for more creative writing and publications.
This cyber version of my journal has/had gone the way of my hard copy diaries and journals -- I have several stored away in a chest that I sometimes take out. One thin book can cover over 3 years because of how infrequently I wrote in it. I start each one with the best of intentions: I will write, every day. Or at least 2-3 times per week.
I promise, and I try, and for awhile, I do write fairly regularly. And then -- BAM -- I stop. I don't really know why; perhaps too tired, or after having spent all day at a computer, the last thing I want to do when I get home is write in my now chicken scratch handwriting in a physical journal, or spend time on my home laptop writing on a blog or working on my book ideas. So I don't write; don't record things that happen to be on my mind or happen to me that bug me enough to make me want to write it down to try to make some sense of it.
It's the same excuse I give for not having made any major headway on that book I've been threatening to write since I graduated college. After being at a computer for eight hours at work, I don't want to do the same thing at home. It's a vicious cycle of reality, excuses and procrastination.
But I'm not getting any younger. I turned 50 this summer, and I realize I need to do more with my life, with my time than just work and if I'm ever going to accomplish my ultimate dream of being a published author, I need to write, often and regularly.
I also need to read more. I love to read. I just don't do it the way I used to or in my mind think I do, or should be doing, if that makes any sense. I'm on GoodReads and I have a friend who is married, has three kids, two part-time jobs and is going to school for a master's degree and reads like, two books a week for pleasure; and reads serious stuff too -- history, politics, biographies. It makes me feel totally inferior, because I've always fancied myself to be a serious reader, more intellectual and well-read than most. Not these days.
I have shelves of unread books -- books I was dying to read, and purchased either while surfing Amazon or visiting bookstores. Books I couldn't wait to go home and take out of the bag and start reading. Some I started and never went back to. Others I put aside for when I would have a larger clump of time to read them because I hate just reading one or two chapters and then having to put it down.
I'm also a slow reader. I like to savor words and sentences and descriptions. Oftentimes, when I hit a particular phrase or description or a particular well-written passage while reading, I'll stop and re-read it -- one, two, even three more times. Or I'll stop and simply look out the window or at nothing in particular and think about what the author was trying to convey. So, yeah -- I do need large clumps of reading time because I like to savor and digest and remember.
I'm in a book club and when I shared that with my fellow members, they laughed, although one friend did say, "I can actually see you doing that."
Another friend said she is a fast reader, and when we've read lengthier books with lots of description, she has no recollection of it, because, she admits "I just skim through those parts. I mean, I only care about the main plot and storyline, I don't need to know what their house looked like or whatever."
That seems unimaginable to me. Why even read a book then? But, to each their own. And I can't criticize because she's reading a helluva lot more than I am right now.
So this weekend, as I was trying to organize some things around my apartment, my eyes fell on many of the books I wanted to read but still haven't gotten to. Some are loaned from friends, some I purchased, literally, YEARS ago, when they were on the best sellers' list. And then I thought about this long-neglected blog, and book(s) I want to write and even started to write -- I have 10 chapters of one -- but somehow never get around to keeping up with or continuing.
Part of the problem, is I've become addicted to TV. I upgraded my cable service about a year ago from the basic package and so now have way more options. I also now get Netflix, and Amazon Fire TV. And I don't regret that. There is a lot of good TV out there now, shows that educate and make you think. Some really amazing shows. And thanks to Netflix I've become a documentary fan -- so I am learning stuff. I'm just not doing the reading and writing I do love to do; once I set my mind to doing it.
I thought of just starting fresh and doing a whole new blog. But I figured hey, this one has some history, and there are some posts I really like a lot. And when I logged back in, I found a draft of one I had started years ago, and never published. I don't even remember writing it, or having remembered my grandma's neighbor Veronica enough to have written a post about her, but in reading the draft, I remembered those two days I wrote about and it occurred to me that that is why I should be doing this.
I love to write, I love to read, and I love introspection and this is a great way to get all of those out. So here I am -- back in the saddle.
I'm not going to promise to write every day, or even to write a certain number of times, because I think that makes me feel like I have to do it and then it's like a job and I resent it and procrastinate and then stop.
Instead, I will vow to write when something I want to commit to permanent record or memory or send out to the Universe strikes me. Which is often; more often than I've written about here in teh past.
I also now have several of those long-ago purchased and borrowed books on my living room table, and am making a commitment to read every day, even if it is only a chapter or two. My goal is at least one book a week.
After setting them aside, I did pick one up and read 100 pages, and as I was engrossed in the story, I looked up from it for a moment and realized how much I was enjoying the process of reading. No TV, no music, just me and a cup of tea curled up on the couch on a dreary, cold and overcast day. It is a simple pleasure I had forgotten how much I enjoyed and which takes me out of my present and gives my imagination and cerebral side a much needed workout, instead of just feeding my work fatigue with spoon-fed info from TV.
I got the same feeling of pleasure after logging into this blog and reading some old posts, publishing that old draft, and putting into words -- concrete,published words -- a new post that will hopefully, this time around, be a true blog and a springboard for more creative writing and publications.
Veronica
Veronica -- not a very popular name but one made famous at least for a bit thanks to Elvis Costello and his 80s hit -- Veronica.
I never had a real connection with them, although, I remember once, when I was only maybe 4 or 5, my grandmother had fallen walking up the inclined yard that was my grandparents' and not being able to help her myself, I yelled to Veronica, who happened to be out in her backyard that day.
By the time she made it over to the fence that separated her yard from my grandparents', my grandmother had been able to get herself up and was walking toward us.
No help was needed (thank God!)
I never gave much thought to Veronica. She was my grandmother's neighbor. She was nice. She worked at J.C. Penney's. Years later, when I was an adult, I caught a glimpse of her working behind the counter. As I walked by, our eyes met, and a glimmer of recognition passed between us, but neither of us acted on it.
I met her gaze, then looked away, and continued on my way.
She turned her attention back to her customer.
I LOVED my grandmother and as an adult, would have loved to have gotten an outsider's view of her. I blew it. Veronica could have provided the link that is missing. And the one chance I got, I blew. How I wish I had had a conversation with Veronica that day.
It's too late now; she and her husband have both passed on. But recently, upon hearing the song that bears her name, I recalled that day as a young child when I went to her for help and that day as an adult when I saw her, recognized her, but didn't take the opportunity to say hello, and perhaps reminisce about Grandma.
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