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Is Awesome Just Healthy Insanity?

The correlation between play and production fascinates me.

How in the moment that I reach the focused state of most efficient production, I’m consumed by pleasure.

How the best paid artists in the world, play at work.

How synonymous words remind me of symbiotic relationships, whereas definitions remind me of territory that needs defense.  When I page through a dictionary looking for meaning, the words are flat and seem unhealthy.  It’s like the end of the road to thought is there, whoever wrote the book is in charge, and I’m going to be wrong soon.

On the other hand if I open a thesaurus and browse through the words, it takes me on an adventure of meaning, and who knows where I might end up.  My curiosity is peaked.  I get emotionally involved in the words.  They take on a life of their own.  They don’t shrivel into the cages of preconceived notion, and kill my sense of creativity.

“Work is not the opposite of play, depression is.” –Stuart Brown

 

 

 

 

 

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It Was 1600 Words: You Can Have 300

I value the people who give back.  It’s not as much a tit for tat as a, “Wow, look at that!!”  It’s easier to find the best in me, when I see it in others.

When my friends tell me to take it easy, that anybody can work themselves to death.  The generous few in my life who consistently are willing to put up with my cycles of idealism and dreaming, without stomping me into the dirt with judgements.  Their questions are oblique.  They don’t tear at me like a prideful cleaver.  They sit back and ask me something of honor….and let it steep in their love.

These are the people who act like my dog, or a kid.  When all the hope in my world has gone into the engine of a nasty train of thought, and I look at the memory of them, and see only calm acceptance, or a well-meaning question.  They are the reason suicide is never a viable option for me.  They are the knot at the end of my ropes of disappointment.  They burn the doubts in myself, with faith that what is inside of me, is worth their attention.  These are the people I live to serve.

Maybe I should let go of wishing they were in my age group.  I guess that’s one of the main reasons I love blogging.  I don’t know how old you are, and I don’t really care, but it gives me a chance to cultivate and share the sentiments I value most, from the wisdom of those people. I am thankful for my family, my friends, my honorable customers, and my readers here.  For the several who make the difference by reading and encouraging me consistently, and the many who just stop by to see which way the wind is blowing.

Refreshed Oil Lamp

Thankful for safe harbor.

Packing the bags with hope.

Anchor lines whisper on the gunnels.

Sail hems mended to almost blend in.

Slap of chop echoes in the belly of the keel.

Port masters will only glance as a fresh shave.

Storm clouds on the horizon are beckoning wind.

Coats of paint baked to a cure in the hot sun.

Tying the tiller to sleep on the deck.

Forecasts of bathing in a bucket.

He thought I was land sick.

Eyes wide with knowing it.

As truth in a blue sky.

Letting go in clouds.

A lamp-lit bow.

 

 

 

 

 

Attitudes are Contagious

Yesterday I was reading my feed, and I came upon two bloggers that were struggling with Trolls.  I’d like to contribute to their momentum, by encouraging them to keep on keeping on, regardless of haters.  670I hope this can help WordPress remain a safe place for them to share their thoughts, and I fully encourage anybody who wants to help me do so.

TK & HFCT, only let the people into your garden that won’t step on the flowers.  I see how much effort you share with the world on your blogs, appreciate the courage that it takes for you to write as you do, and it pissed me off that you’re getting negative feedback.

Ouch!  I just got a message from TK, and it was pretty embarrassing.  I had to look up “IRL” to understand why I was anxious…..and now I’m just disgusted!!  Its only happened to me twice that I know of, but the insidiousness of feeling hunted in real life is ugly, and the perpetrator of it deserves a rock upside the head as far as I’m concerned.  Sorry gal.  That’s toxic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Party and Me: A Thousand Miles Away

Will you see me in the lick of flames, in the center of the mandala of brick? I wonder if you’ll burn one of the Christmas tree’s I gathered, in celebration of my love for the return of the sun? Will the short burst of flame into the sky pass as me? Will you hook up a blower to the vents, and drink to me in the make of a white hot flame?

Who is there to mow, sweep, mop, and lay the table settings? Is there enough ice in the coolers? I wonder if that person will be there at the end of the flames, to poke and prod the coals to black. I hope the chairs get moved back in honor of me missing it, and the shovel comes out, to throw a cloud of the party’s finish into the sky.

I wonder if you choose to see me in the arch of the arbor, and the path of rocks laid down? Do you look at the sprinklers popping up, and visualize a fountain that is me, in the rainbow curtain of water flying out? I have left my art behind to represent me, and I hope it’s good enough.

The celebration is for a man. He taught me to dig, to plant, to break, to fix, and to make. He taught me how to love to sweat for free with bleeding hands. It seems fitting that I’m not there. The infrastructure left behind in the wake of my makes, is his to own and relish. Its a party I’m missing, because as I write this, my tears are billowing on the edge of my lids.

I can’t contain my gratitude for him, in a smile. I think of him when my gloves go on, because he would grunt at me impatiently, and use bare hands in muck to get it done. When my back hurts from lifting rocks, and the truck sways while braking from a load that overflows, I blame his style in me.

When I’m wearing clothes that are torn and sullied with things I had forgotten were there, he comes out in the eyes of other people judging me, and I grimace in the stench of it. When the sound of my truck makes people stare, I know I’m learning his lessons again.

If my knuckles are bleeding, and my hands become one with the tool in a cramp, I pound harder with satisfaction that my body is giving out, because he taught me how. You can’t buy what he is in a store, as work into play isn’t for sale. A good friend of mine said, “It’s better to wear out than to rust out”, and he is wearing out.

He’ll read this and know that his party is a thousand miles long, in me. As the stars shine into the light of day tomorrow, I’ll be watching over the people without homes in a church, so they can sleep in a dream come true. Shine on.