Life, Stress, and Flowers

I haven’t written in ages. Not that I haven’t wanted to,  but I think I’ve had too much to talk about. And yet, much of the things I NEED to talk about are too personal almost to talk about (you really don’t want to know the gory details, but you will). Then I felt guilty, for not writing. So I hid from it, avoiding the need. Now it’s been months. So much more has happened. I’ll have to spam to get it all out. Expect spewage.

Life: Hundreds of new words, moments uncaptured on film, plus Christmas with lots of pictures.

Stress: Working on the adoption, money or lack thereof, organization (or lack thereof), work layoffs (waiting with bated breath to see if my name is called)

Flowers: Well not lots of flowers, I don’t get flowers. But one new flower: Iris Marie. She’s cute. Hoping to be grandma only this time. Passing her back when she makes a mess.

Alright, there’s my goals, lots to write. Plus I’m thinking of what I want to be when I grow up, with music taking over so much of my life. And oddly enough, took one of those tests (personality or some such) and it said my top career would be – drum roll – yep, Music. They must not know I can’t sing a lick, can only sort of play the piano.  But then, there is more to music than that. Can I? Use my passion for all things music and make a career of it? Is teaching still possible? Or my desire to learn about websites, creating them, designing them.

Well, you never know. I’ve still got a whole ‘nother life to live. Anything could happen!

Cold Feet, Warm Tortillas

Gran’s place always somehow seemed magical. From the circle of flowers to the faded yellow porch with the maca to rock on. I know now that it was an old, worn-down house, on an old-run down farm. Now it’s condos and tract homes. But I still remember where my tree house stood, where the lamb’s pen and the tire swing were. I still remember cold feet in the mornings and the taste of warm tortillas.

No two rooms were done the same, any carpet was threadbare; the linoleum old and worn, wood floors painted bright aqua, thick in spots where previous paint wasn’t sanded off. Gran kept her slippers beside her bed and never put her bare feet on the floor, but I was young. Old enough to do what I wanted, young enough to not care about the cold.
Continue reading