a bad bit of cheese

I'm prone to nightmares. I have been since I was a little girl. I remember vividly a dream I had routinely when I was 6 or 7. A dream so terrifying that I would will myself to stay awake as long as possible, squeeze my eyes tight to keep from seeing the ghosts dance across the walls - knowing and yet not knowing they were cast by the few passing cars. And, eventually, falling asleep only to wake drenched in terror. I missed a bit of school because of them - school I loved but was too exhausted to get to for a few days. And then they passed. Maybe my parents prayed over me at night. Maybe I learned more self-soothing techniques. I do remember laying in bed and trying to think about happy things - Snoopy cartoons and silly, happy songs, mostly. 

I still do that. 

When I remember. 

Of late, the nightmares have been back. For years and years I guarded against them - was careful not to watch supernatural or murderous or otherwise scary TV shows and movies. Tried to keep my 'sleep hygiene' routines. But, somewhere in the last year, they came back. Different from the nightmares of my childhood, but just as vivid. Just as lingering. And just as likely to colour my days. 

It's harder now. You can't just call in to work and say 'I'm not coming in, I had nightmares.' You can't just sleep with the lights on when someone else is in the room. I wish, in this instance, I had a less powerful imagination. I wish that when I woke up the specters didn't linger. And I wish that the stress and worry that causes them would just move on. No, not move on - evaporate. This isn't a tide we want turning again and again. 

And, I wish I didn't believe that dreams are, on some level, messengers. That they return until you know what they are saying. I think that's the most upsetting part - the dread, laying in bed, craving and fearing sleep. I wish that, like my transcendent friend Scrooge, I could write my wraiths off as a bad bit of cheese, roll back over, and go back to sleep. 

back to school

Every September I write about how every September still feels to me like a restart. This September is no different. After a three-week blog hiatus, I am back only with the caveat that today I am also beginning, at long long last, Julia Cameron's The Artists Way and that will take precedence for the next 12 weeks. I intend, for once, to do it as designed, so we'll see how that works out. 

And, STG and I are, also at long long last, starting a regular yoga practice - both classes and at home practice. We both want to work on our physical fitness, but also reduce our stress, calm & connect our minds & bodies, and expand the realm of 'intimacy' by sharing more experiences and interests. I'm excited to be starting anew with yoga. I got a lot out of my brief hot yoga experience, but think something less ... intense ... will be sustainable in the long term. 

And, I'm really interested in taking a personal interest course of some kind. I'm not sure what - maybe a language. Maybe another creative course like painting or drawing or ... I don't know. Maybe piano lessons. I was leaning towards Spanish, but also don't want to take on too much at once, and have other plans for the money (like any number of trips) so that's up in the air. But it's there ... calling to me. 

And, it's time once again to get a little more serious about eating better. About moving more. About stopping the middle-age spread that just keeps on spreading. I am less and less satisfied with my body of late. Not as angry/sad about it as I was, just unsatisfied. All of which takes more time than grabbing whatever food falls out of the cupboard and into my mouth, and more time than sitting on the couch in a very forgiving (and very unflattering) bath robe. 

So back to school. Back to learning and growth and life and the end of entropy. Back to giving a damn. It's time. 

hiatus

STG and I are on holidays for two weeks, and I left my laptop at home. The further away I get from it, the less I want to be online, even via the 'pocket-computer' (aka iPhone) that is my main means of communication.

It's been coming for a while & happens pretty regularly - at least once a year. I contemplate closing down my twitter account. Minimizing access on Facebook. Deleting my blog. Being online gives me hives, and being offline makes me antsy.

I've lost my way in the many faces of me - these online personas that people sort through to try to see in what i say who they already think I am.

And so, I'm declaring a brief hiatus. I have little doubt I'll be back & blogging better than ever as of September 1. And in the meantime, I'll be offline doing all those things I do that give me a voice to do what I do here.

See you in September.

the demon drink

This was back in the day. Back when the world was black and white. Back when my mom could do little right and my dad could do no wrong. So, you know, not all that long ago, really. And, it was an exciting time, once I got over myself. 

It was my first trans-continental trip, and my first real international flight. Africa was as foreign and mysterious as a journey could get, and it started with a three-day layover in London. Oh the pageantry, the history, the shopping! 

As I mentioned, this was back in the day. Back when you dressed up to take a plane. When tickets came in multi-parts with red carbon. Back when stewardesses were stewardesses and brought around free drinks on little shiny trays. 

My parents were not drinkers. They had been adamant about this fact, and could quote chapter & verse against the dangers of alcohol. They sometimes had a wee glass of wine here or there, but for some reason I forgot that. So I was horrified and deeply offended when I noticed mid-flight my mom’s tell-tale red nose and endless giggle, and the cheap plastic wine glass in dad’s hand. 

I don’t remember if my indignation flashed immediately or built in a slow burn over the cold Atlantic, but by the time we landed at Heathrow, I couldn’t even look at them. 

This was back in the day. Back when I had the mad skills of a moody teenager in ignoring, glaring, huffing and walking either three steps ahead or three steps behind. Somehow, I managed to spend our first 24 hours in London not laughing at their jokes, acknowledging their wonder, or speaking directly to them. Maybe they attributed it to jet lag. Or perpetual moodiness. Or, maybe, having raised two other teen girls, they didn’t care to wonder much at all and were glad of the silence.

__________________

My apologies - I am 17 words over tonight. Apparently tonight is not a night for killing your darlings. 

Write on Edge Prompt: 

This week you had the choice of three Olympic-inspired prompts. In case you missed them, here they are:

The 100 Meter Sprint

100 words on a conflict, competition, or game.

The Road Race

300 words on a topic of your choice. The only catch? Your setting must be London, Beijing, or Rio de Janeiro.

Synchronized Diving

Partner up with another Write on Edge writer. You each have 450 words to write about a conflict between two characters; each writer should represent a single character’s point of view.

wordless wednesday 15