tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78353029072807060442024-03-15T10:09:09.308-03:00Growing VersionsMotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.comBlogger918125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-72922991227915763422024-03-15T09:26:00.005-03:002024-03-15T09:52:00.231-03:00Turn vegetable scraps into delicious leftovers<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGpmcDV0Aep1SU2LNZtfnVbBhEsfFOnXVqhzIWLSkwbpV1IFtwPqpuXLg2H8LLCLZpKlcSoKpn3HleIWQFriAPAv88H0cGvU6-xa5357l-z1o9-PQN-IL0PeNjIUUs1HK2op47wS3LZlbTlW18d31COmHyynJbNkYwbVgAPLsbVJN9WWhQbFUSVrUeMo/s4000/IMG_20230613_203731801.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGpmcDV0Aep1SU2LNZtfnVbBhEsfFOnXVqhzIWLSkwbpV1IFtwPqpuXLg2H8LLCLZpKlcSoKpn3HleIWQFriAPAv88H0cGvU6-xa5357l-z1o9-PQN-IL0PeNjIUUs1HK2op47wS3LZlbTlW18d31COmHyynJbNkYwbVgAPLsbVJN9WWhQbFUSVrUeMo/s320/IMG_20230613_203731801.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> She walks out of the room, away from him and the trajectory of the shards of that revolving argument gathering up a plate of half eaten fruit and an inside out sweater as she goes. She enters the kitchen and casts her eyes around the room. She turns the sweater right side out and tosses the remains of the fruit into the compost. The copious piles of plates, crusts of bread and cold coffee ahead of her propel her forward. The sink itself is piled high with pots from the homemade pasta and porridge that had been planned hours in advance yesterday while she half listened to a webinar. <p></p><p><br /></p><p>The heat of the earlier argument dissolves in dishwater. It eases off in flakes as the clear water rinses away the sediment of earlier decisions. The next meal starts to be assembled in her mind's eye, oh yes, we have that salmon in the fridge. We should use that , it will taste good with the leftover bits from yesterday's vegetables- maybe with a sauce? no maybe not, it will just get wasted.</p><p><br /></p><p>The kitchen gradually starts to get reset. The space is primed and cleaned to make way for prepping the next meal. As each surface once covered in stagnant water and swollen crumbs, makes way for air and nothing. </p><p>By the time the salmon starts to steam, the words that scorched her skin have already sloughed off and fallen to the floor to be swept up with the vegetable scraps and seeds. They are heaved into the compost to return and be replanted. The old fruit births new seeds to be cast about, landing hot right back onto her chest from the air. The ventilation is poor in this house. Keeping up with the dust is a battle she feebly fights.</p><p>As the salmon emerges hot from the oven, she places it next to the brightly coloured vegetables on the plate and briefly enjoys the clean surface upon which the fresh juices glisten before gradually congealing.</p><p>He's right. She does care more about having a clean kitchen more than he does. </p>MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-80028182696481005782023-09-21T15:32:00.000-03:002023-09-21T15:32:03.192-03:00Writing it out.Since 2020, I have written the following:<div>-grandiose grocery lists (written on an empty stomach) that often end up getlting left behind at home</div><div>-funding proposals</div><div>-delicately worded emails</div><div>-harried Whatsapp messages</div><div>-a slew of facebook messages (that basically kept me alive)</div><div>-a tinder profile or two...</div><div>-utilitarian text messages</div><div>-heart felt text messages</div><div>-the very occasional love note (on paper) to a friend or a loved one</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFPZyYns-XPpmCCaTvz4yfiFoEqNpLtqOWA_tObtnP_a8kJeYIkWHakDGgnAyvw619EC-HJOLyqUdcQ1Hwl9FSqI7DPy2ObYaT98NnSdagqRrzIQ31DaqD3BH4TwaqhqbA-aJGIz5o1FjecjOQWnMWrj1_fWkXNjzrUjo6eBGdfAfh5lfXTla_r97Gi20/s3264/IMG_20200506_153231163.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFPZyYns-XPpmCCaTvz4yfiFoEqNpLtqOWA_tObtnP_a8kJeYIkWHakDGgnAyvw619EC-HJOLyqUdcQ1Hwl9FSqI7DPy2ObYaT98NnSdagqRrzIQ31DaqD3BH4TwaqhqbA-aJGIz5o1FjecjOQWnMWrj1_fWkXNjzrUjo6eBGdfAfh5lfXTla_r97Gi20/w640-h480/IMG_20200506_153231163.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The things I have not written since 2020:</div><div>-a journal</div><div>-a multi-page handwritten letter</div><div>-a play</div><div>-a sketch</div><div>-a novel</div><div>-more than 2-3 blog posts that I didn't even publish</div><div>-a pros and cons list</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-17724403080752965632023-06-29T09:12:00.000-03:002023-06-29T09:12:21.997-03:00Playing School<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-87828034730687655342023-03-23T15:06:00.000-03:002023-03-23T15:06:05.331-03:00Keep telling yourself that.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We talk to ourselves everyday, all day (and night) for the whole of our lives.<br />
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We started talking to ourselves before we knew we were a self, we forget what we said because we forget everything from before...when we were too young and busy developing our brain to remember those early years.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There is still lingering residue of long forgotten conversations I have had with myself as a toddler sitting around in the crevices...sloughing off occasionally into words I tell myself still. <br />
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We talk non-stop, and not just with dialogue. Our goosebumps communicate to us, our tingly feelings, our neurons, our peripheal vision. They are all submitting data into our self and expecting us to react, respond or all to often, expecting what they are sending us will be ignored.<br />
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After all that talking, you'd think we'd know what we think about most things, but occasionally we are stumped. Unless we stop what we are doing and really concentrate sometimes that voice(s) get drowned out. After listening for a while, we are jolted by the pain we are in. By the cirsumstances that our body and voice was trying to warn us about but we just weren't hearing. <br />
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I have been thinking about how sometimes I listen to others more than all the information my own body is telling me put together. Why is that? Who do I trust more and why? Who is talking in my ear? Overriding what I know.<br />
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I think how we talk to ourselves and why we do or don't listen to the answers tells us so much about what we need to know about ourselves.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div>
MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-78110503855439770702022-06-09T17:52:00.002-03:002022-06-09T17:52:25.799-03:00Any how.<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: courier;"><b> <span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;">Those who have a 'why' to live, can bear with almost any 'how'. ― Viktor E. Frankl</span></span></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: courier;"><b><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: courier;"><b><span style="background-color: white;"></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: courier;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Lv2DKPpJ7vM4LXqkyO7zFK-ZiGVgKqDAgVn2-xbCHIlfWad03wbPSGg_UU-BPXxx1MXPtt6FolmDUdBeZ8XNdSPifJDgDCBknrEt1t5F2qR3cX_Dn7en0CSkZLQ-ldyA8rF5BnnboAiSL_hlFnbbNW0r1vXONsV6UQKWZeN8-UFZS23WIpjjkV_e/s4608/20220605_133714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Lv2DKPpJ7vM4LXqkyO7zFK-ZiGVgKqDAgVn2-xbCHIlfWad03wbPSGg_UU-BPXxx1MXPtt6FolmDUdBeZ8XNdSPifJDgDCBknrEt1t5F2qR3cX_Dn7en0CSkZLQ-ldyA8rF5BnnboAiSL_hlFnbbNW0r1vXONsV6UQKWZeN8-UFZS23WIpjjkV_e/w640-h480/20220605_133714.jpg" width="640" /></a></b></span></div><span style="color: #800180; font-family: courier;"><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuFAICvYO2_Zb3n-IEHIb1ffvS-kaJDj6Wfb9FZzQiMVyIlZPWJj_kG5xNQwfgaxhA-JF6qA_GiiwBnC_IsqRxOGhUgu2MhPZZDgUjth7K-N1UYZjW_owDqlFxUXQkOBsUePfzW9M5lmaWBCMMlOPcGyCS_DD6BR5nJfcd-fTn5Unn3wkejm9ziXEU/s4608/20220605_120719.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuFAICvYO2_Zb3n-IEHIb1ffvS-kaJDj6Wfb9FZzQiMVyIlZPWJj_kG5xNQwfgaxhA-JF6qA_GiiwBnC_IsqRxOGhUgu2MhPZZDgUjth7K-N1UYZjW_owDqlFxUXQkOBsUePfzW9M5lmaWBCMMlOPcGyCS_DD6BR5nJfcd-fTn5Unn3wkejm9ziXEU/w480-h640/20220605_120719.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #525252; font-size: 14px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #525252; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #525252; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></p>MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-24226041576942180672021-11-18T21:54:00.002-03:002021-11-18T21:54:11.708-03:00Darkness falls<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBdHHCjXsCIfBXbj31Em99mJ4gVa2iCXuf8L31rVgvcGXsm7tIbmnfJ-GobByNzb_2lHw_fRj9MLqahLrriCUCuobYL0EJ2y6Fsq_waa9Yq7nZDEugX0dRPfUhYA5Cuk1MWGdb2ND-IQ/s4608/20211022_180539.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBdHHCjXsCIfBXbj31Em99mJ4gVa2iCXuf8L31rVgvcGXsm7tIbmnfJ-GobByNzb_2lHw_fRj9MLqahLrriCUCuobYL0EJ2y6Fsq_waa9Yq7nZDEugX0dRPfUhYA5Cuk1MWGdb2ND-IQ/w480-h640/20211022_180539.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Just as the heat releases and the air gets still, the dark starts to settle in. I really resist it. It makes me feel unsettled and a bit cheated when I first notice it gets quite dark by 7, then 6, now 5. I wonder how I will ever find energy to live through the winter or even through the night. And then it dawns on me, light a candle. Find a way. Let your eyes adjust to the dark.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSpCjkVOBwuwbGv5hvrx8TJntH9-99_VBlYJEnmMzBRVsN0oHR2pqlvA6zVWiDE8IqJe0AOogTJdh-cBNeE5w_SfH5KryME1fi_dn6utJtuBUYWhVSgQn9dUt1o9Y0Uwd3dZbR5LrVoA/s720/FB_IMG_1634084615021.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="720" height="115" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSpCjkVOBwuwbGv5hvrx8TJntH9-99_VBlYJEnmMzBRVsN0oHR2pqlvA6zVWiDE8IqJe0AOogTJdh-cBNeE5w_SfH5KryME1fi_dn6utJtuBUYWhVSgQn9dUt1o9Y0Uwd3dZbR5LrVoA/s320/FB_IMG_1634084615021.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-47962592805493205702021-07-22T10:45:00.000-03:002021-07-22T10:45:24.630-03:001 passenger<p> It started last year. I did not think about it too much beforehand, however, I found myself on a solo overnight trip to my friend's beautiful place in Cape John.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtxPfIapKRb_gha5fsrQvgbAyl1xM4wm1-rSsu66LZ6ebAycCm1FnunGZjDX4IAp8sam7W_zBVsNRr4xQ4wZ211Mh7EyQprlyFH4cSveYSElOLHULfdo9PDGgxm1zqyxFwN97N149dmg/s3264/IMG_20200722_130106857.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtxPfIapKRb_gha5fsrQvgbAyl1xM4wm1-rSsu66LZ6ebAycCm1FnunGZjDX4IAp8sam7W_zBVsNRr4xQ4wZ211Mh7EyQprlyFH4cSveYSElOLHULfdo9PDGgxm1zqyxFwN97N149dmg/s320/IMG_20200722_130106857.jpg" /></a></div><p>It was the right kind of trip in every way. Being alone had so many great benefits. I pleased myself exclusively. I went shopping in a second hand clothing store. I went swimming when I felt hot. I sat and stared at swaying grasses for as long I needed to. I ate cheese and crackers and the only time I cooked anything it was to make coffee.</p><p><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPhoxTI9LX3wi0TeKPeQxTA3uW5OuVpeSZDHleYAXZVXYYQEVsxqwiAGue36njK3A22CnQLmQM15c2MHPmZYgiJXyyOLaDov1_Jy6iabeJ1DXCNK4JJF-zrn4EpyOdlIfgvzhmVTkatNs/s3264/IMG_20200722_143003753_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPhoxTI9LX3wi0TeKPeQxTA3uW5OuVpeSZDHleYAXZVXYYQEVsxqwiAGue36njK3A22CnQLmQM15c2MHPmZYgiJXyyOLaDov1_Jy6iabeJ1DXCNK4JJF-zrn4EpyOdlIfgvzhmVTkatNs/s320/IMG_20200722_143003753_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This year, I had a night by myself in a cute little trailer by a very still and shallow lake.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4B_1SVcDKibhZdGCqBHIA9BsQj3inDl0i4xFcf6shaDrPOiJU2wy1dIoQe_zptAO8AVUOogRSz6o8VmU7syP-3GtTLoTermJi4yX9BvzLPHN7Onumhbmg5SP5NAkgzkwOcJcuG62sUUE/s3264/IMG_20200722_161442314.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4B_1SVcDKibhZdGCqBHIA9BsQj3inDl0i4xFcf6shaDrPOiJU2wy1dIoQe_zptAO8AVUOogRSz6o8VmU7syP-3GtTLoTermJi4yX9BvzLPHN7Onumhbmg5SP5NAkgzkwOcJcuG62sUUE/s320/IMG_20200722_161442314.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I forgot that I had promised myself the year before to always have a vacation day/night by myself each year.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXmyFuFKUfUKJPLdncZhFQnObkaqlxFX7GTjmDugq_JpGnOwJUbPmncbnf_GTsqgvLZvUycGwjqCO6PEufNBmh9zAoWE0EDoZQGf3L3J1aOrZvj5HsU47l4VsRhEmzfL5psIDi53sGrgM/s3264/IMG_20200722_185505832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXmyFuFKUfUKJPLdncZhFQnObkaqlxFX7GTjmDugq_JpGnOwJUbPmncbnf_GTsqgvLZvUycGwjqCO6PEufNBmh9zAoWE0EDoZQGf3L3J1aOrZvj5HsU47l4VsRhEmzfL5psIDi53sGrgM/s320/IMG_20200722_185505832.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;">I won't forget again. </blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ1Y9a3K6afqk3_5VQKjXqEo-NaAIrxsBoQpxKJ5v8Iaon4HrP2HbY39TUiMX7ROkaiivpQzi5049uKaUEp2dAEoCL4R3yEYmewG_eiBFrYr9ktMcU38xA5CMdwargmZMqOfoglU90jiw/s3264/IMG_20200722_185500689.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ1Y9a3K6afqk3_5VQKjXqEo-NaAIrxsBoQpxKJ5v8Iaon4HrP2HbY39TUiMX7ROkaiivpQzi5049uKaUEp2dAEoCL4R3yEYmewG_eiBFrYr9ktMcU38xA5CMdwargmZMqOfoglU90jiw/s320/IMG_20200722_185500689.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUnD1MgrvAWHVzo308vyhyphenhyphene_L8Gzwm_f5GfQl_ayrIp8W6Pzraf5wtRV-m4tZG8_S80cBjfVCLgf79L-jMSJ5uHDBG9Zaa05o1Qz9Jo8zbcYe6ecMUMtipLBOTtxZqNB0m9JgUrWOewc/s3223/IMG_20200723_060247029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2239" data-original-width="3223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUnD1MgrvAWHVzo308vyhyphenhyphene_L8Gzwm_f5GfQl_ayrIp8W6Pzraf5wtRV-m4tZG8_S80cBjfVCLgf79L-jMSJ5uHDBG9Zaa05o1Qz9Jo8zbcYe6ecMUMtipLBOTtxZqNB0m9JgUrWOewc/s320/IMG_20200723_060247029.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBb_cdVGDRchPDUgKAaXkhSG_cGtiCULCJAB4prKgfJRRE9fEUHvPlwvMSnIR3EMwfowjAeCO4t1XBcEnDcIN6envn6_lrQJU3WdGM7XHDAmYf-Hm2c5kE5dG_BhERCP6sW_qifqrHLo/s2592/IMG_20200723_161819375.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBb_cdVGDRchPDUgKAaXkhSG_cGtiCULCJAB4prKgfJRRE9fEUHvPlwvMSnIR3EMwfowjAeCO4t1XBcEnDcIN6envn6_lrQJU3WdGM7XHDAmYf-Hm2c5kE5dG_BhERCP6sW_qifqrHLo/s320/IMG_20200723_161819375.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPrYTHw934tlBeqxz-0rKq3nj1ImNEQlcitLkv1rT_NO_-Ao1UkG8lxdX7AzDOR0t2BCVanvUWhDj5l8vWbazEqojT9nW0JLSfH2vZYQ77YTuK7eb3YJHqFkibkqspOivzmxCOzUw7zho/s3264/IMG_20210716_204103967.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPrYTHw934tlBeqxz-0rKq3nj1ImNEQlcitLkv1rT_NO_-Ao1UkG8lxdX7AzDOR0t2BCVanvUWhDj5l8vWbazEqojT9nW0JLSfH2vZYQ77YTuK7eb3YJHqFkibkqspOivzmxCOzUw7zho/s320/IMG_20210716_204103967.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAOUDggzv-kKl5chyphenhyphenpZLjhyphenhyphen3LHk4N0Om9jxAdVGO_tW0pk0cGfB9U-D37Th70gtpDNuJsRZ31x8cD8hGC6h3Ov-gEGSqS_P_KnrbjsBYWhe4VSdTtiOp9HmOqnZ85t-OuvvZ8dKGC1fqs/s3264/IMG_20200723_161515021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAOUDggzv-kKl5chyphenhyphenpZLjhyphenhyphen3LHk4N0Om9jxAdVGO_tW0pk0cGfB9U-D37Th70gtpDNuJsRZ31x8cD8hGC6h3Ov-gEGSqS_P_KnrbjsBYWhe4VSdTtiOp9HmOqnZ85t-OuvvZ8dKGC1fqs/s320/IMG_20200723_161515021.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-78374547983413951312021-03-25T09:57:00.001-03:002021-03-25T09:57:14.511-03:00Do not google your emotions.<p> Have you ever felt compelled to google mystery symptoms in the middle of the night?</p><p>I have. I know I am not alone. What is this rash? Is this bug a bed bug? Does this fever mean I am dying or just slightly ill?</p><p>These questions loom large in the dark. We are urged not to do this, that instead, we should ask a health professional (or accost one at a social event). "Nice to meet you, how are you with moles? Have I got one for you!"</p><p>This is how I have been feeling about emotions lately. Due to global reasons I do not need to mention, I have spent a lot of time apart from others. I still talk to my friends and family every day, but it is rare right now that we are actually in the same room doing stuff together. I cling to those fleeting moments of closeness like no one's business and get nourished by them long after we have to go back to our respective cubby holes, but the constraints on those times are real.</p><p>As a result, I am starting to realize that even emotions are becoming like strange symptoms to me.</p><p>The other night I was struck by a feeling. A feeling that felt bad but I was unsure what to call it. It was late at night. I didn't want to wake my friends to help me untangle the mystery. What am I feeling? I need words. I need a conversation to excavate and extract the precise source of my dismay.</p><p>I mulled it over in silence. Heart attack? Panic attack? Indigestion? No. No. No.</p><p>So I started googling <i>emotions</i>.</p><p>I started with sadness, but no. That wasn't it.</p><p>I moved onto disappointment. Yes! Disappointment: "a form of sadness that arises from a gap in our expectation and reality."</p><p>There was a time when I did not need to google this of course. My "symptoms" were predictable and anything out of the norm was almost instantly recognizable. I had context and friends and oodles of time side by side with my friends to boil whatever "it was" down. Right now, the time together is so focused on making sure we are okay and debriefing that there is little time to actually feel stuff and experience things that might produce more feelings.</p><p>In various states of confinement, the emotions I have are toggling between anger, sadness and guarded hope. All the other in between feelings lost their names. </p><p>Now that that particular emotion I had in the late late night has a label, I am aware that I am probably feeling all kinds of things that I haven't bothered to label.</p><p>The light starts to break at dawn and the pain in my chest subsides.</p><p>This time alone is scary sometimes, but also I am learning new things about myself. </p><p>I don't need google for that, but sometimes it is there for me when no one else can be, such is the state of life right now.</p><p>Soon, I am looking forward to a evenings full of words that I have currently forgotten about, but know are out there somewhere. I look forward to feelings I forgot about sneaking in an taking me off guard, not just disappointment, but also , joy and giddiness. I walk towards evenings spent experiencing stuff that make me feel things more than disappointment, anger and guarded hope. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYtPwFLTiYiLU8cscxgfbuJBqu3QLrnWUa3-_rf973hK74x8AAtdek_0WGJq25FAYmmtKjF8VregVn4HEWsskmv5LlEHQBO24J6UYiUybI0TfPXA01ye2JRFrGd24A31gysYtzHgrYhg8/s1414/IMG_Snowfall_20201225_215019_processed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1414" data-original-width="1414" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYtPwFLTiYiLU8cscxgfbuJBqu3QLrnWUa3-_rf973hK74x8AAtdek_0WGJq25FAYmmtKjF8VregVn4HEWsskmv5LlEHQBO24J6UYiUybI0TfPXA01ye2JRFrGd24A31gysYtzHgrYhg8/w640-h640/IMG_Snowfall_20201225_215019_processed.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-1660268189568021212020-10-11T07:55:00.003-03:002020-10-11T08:27:58.781-03:00Surface tension<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJlBj-oE6F58s1kt55g7ByNJ0vN0genit0x1YJxSjyNZq2ui4iP0WN7Z_w2o6YvgmbmHcFVx1sUTsgFQKyuiBJt_B0DZuJkOr0wedM-N3kkSxFoE4DgmLGQv1My_0fDOPslTnhLxIjrA/s3264/IMG_20200905_104906138.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJlBj-oE6F58s1kt55g7ByNJ0vN0genit0x1YJxSjyNZq2ui4iP0WN7Z_w2o6YvgmbmHcFVx1sUTsgFQKyuiBJt_B0DZuJkOr0wedM-N3kkSxFoE4DgmLGQv1My_0fDOPslTnhLxIjrA/w640-h480/IMG_20200905_104906138.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>My vocabulary was the first to go. Simple words would escape me and I would end up searching around for them like I do for my glasses in the dark. I would come back with inadequate replacements. I blamed zoom, I blamed stress. What I never really considered was that maybe I was searching for words when there were none. <p></p><p>Next came the conversation. It dried up. I used to love winding endless discussions like a river with many tributaries, some mountain fed, some coming from deep within the forest. On really exciting days, the rain fell and made the river overflow. However, the river bed's water evaporated. I think about conversations now fondly like I do of childhood pastimes. I cannot seem to reach for anything more substantial than what I am eating. or seeing on the internet or of course the weather. I am boring myself.</p><p>These past several months have felt a bit like musical chairs. The music stopped and I was without a chair. </p><p>I knew there was something really different when my imagination became a closed circuit. Instead of being repopulated with new and interesting dimensions, the rooms of my mind emptied out and decluttered.</p><p>I sit right there on the surface. It is not a stable place to sit. I have no chair. The thin surface won't hold me long, but if I break through, how fall will I fall? Will I know how to swim or will I float right back up to the surface without words or ideas? Or words or ideas I don't know yet?</p><p> </p>MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-2983981580690618052020-09-30T09:10:00.001-03:002020-09-30T09:16:30.354-03:00The words coming out of my mouth<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHN5h7pYEayrKPZj2zJN_m2god5yokpBXl-qgLHuxLm3MmVQlBiNB7JI_rVYMK4h6t01jkLA1uqWYNuw36aLleaQnNeSzVQDKRsdX5cldx5J9eh38KDoYGGWZ5jfgxdsICTA9XEDRwQs/s3264/IMG_20200927_124128553.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHN5h7pYEayrKPZj2zJN_m2god5yokpBXl-qgLHuxLm3MmVQlBiNB7JI_rVYMK4h6t01jkLA1uqWYNuw36aLleaQnNeSzVQDKRsdX5cldx5J9eh38KDoYGGWZ5jfgxdsICTA9XEDRwQs/w640-h480/IMG_20200927_124128553.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>These days I wear a mask. I don't wear a mask all of the time, only when I am indoors or unavoidably up close with people who I don't usually interact with. I wear one when I am ordering things, or buying things or attempting to enjoy some form of public entertainment. I cannot rely on reading others lips. My lips are hidden. We ask each other to repeat. We move our eyes or our whole heads to try and enunciate more clearly. <p></p><p>I say fewer words, more carefully chosen words behind the mask.</p><p>Sometimes that is helpful, sometimes that just causes more confusion.</p><p>I walked into the woods. I did not need a mask. I only saw a few other people and they were distanced. Masks were unnecessary.</p><p>After so much talking and not talking and avoiding talking out loud I am forced to examine when I speak and when I choose not to. This is not a bad thing since I can be an insufferable chatter box, just a new thing for my brain to adjust itself to.</p><p>When I am not standing around in a mask, I am conducting business and friendship behind a screen, I can control my background. I can make it seem like I am talking from a Hawaiian beach or a library in France. No lip reading is required , no lips, just words, spell checked and proof read and strained through power points and algorithms.</p><p>When I sat across from someone in real life recently. an unbidden thought came, insistent. Can't I just email you? A weariness settled down on my bones.</p><p>The effort to regale my companion with interesting anecdotes and keep them grinning with one liners like I usually relish doing overwhelmed me. I resorted to poking fun at our neighbour's haircut, complained about the music. </p><p>I left having said less than I should have, more than I wanted to.</p><p>As I stood on the edge of the forest, the words I wanted to say, spilled out. What I needed to say, what I should have said came rushing past my lips. They rushed out so violently that I could not take them back and they were not filtered by a mask or a screen. They flew with force into the ears of dragonflies and the secret vaults of mushrooms and tree cells, held there in their folds for safe keeping. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-79043628325523305572020-09-28T15:56:00.001-03:002020-09-28T15:56:27.700-03:00Different Stages of your ability.<span style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.03); color: #14171a; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Your whole life you are really writing one book, which is an attempt to grasp the consciousness of your time and place– a single book written from different stages of your ability.”
--Nadine Gordimer</span><div><span style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.03); color: #14171a; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjmP3WuYgcnPPRe_CehY6HyB9_uFniLzWz3p89AHWilfVuxHYv_wxKS8kyZ22enZ4pKZ9nBppWNWly8oW_1efIBi-DWX_9UQgmXBDi3iuRmyOktqdSIAsHMCwLWQINphMI-ZKheA4_qss/s3264/IMG_20200923_075618436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1851" data-original-width="3264" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjmP3WuYgcnPPRe_CehY6HyB9_uFniLzWz3p89AHWilfVuxHYv_wxKS8kyZ22enZ4pKZ9nBppWNWly8oW_1efIBi-DWX_9UQgmXBDi3iuRmyOktqdSIAsHMCwLWQINphMI-ZKheA4_qss/w400-h226/IMG_20200923_075618436.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.03); color: #14171a; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-27496961973189855592020-08-24T14:20:00.000-03:002020-08-24T14:20:21.486-03:00Out on the line.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtOkUpM-4k0zo007rP0ftp6ipwhztHRz4R7IHcTYEAXq6dolZDxn-kIV7nQBsJi_O4tLNBgYpmVK-nATVrGCKgG4FQiQjtilV-eH5V_TXVDICPvcY7Mhyphenhyphen6j0jqHg3ypY9ueE3FlheDU0/s3264/IMG_20200730_075546692.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtOkUpM-4k0zo007rP0ftp6ipwhztHRz4R7IHcTYEAXq6dolZDxn-kIV7nQBsJi_O4tLNBgYpmVK-nATVrGCKgG4FQiQjtilV-eH5V_TXVDICPvcY7Mhyphenhyphen6j0jqHg3ypY9ueE3FlheDU0/s640/IMG_20200730_075546692.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> I have been so lucky in so many ways. I have only experienced tiny specks of physical and emotional pain in my life.<p></p><p>Luckily that pain has been either episodic or limited and I have been able to manage it with drugs, or crying or writing or wine or chips....or something.</p><p>This summer, a decade of holding my head the wrong way, typing, scrolling, stressing and driving all ganged up on my neck and said...we are holding you hostage until you address this. However, when it first started, the pain didn't explain it just attacked. And attacked. No position relieved it. No drug touched it. It went on and on. I could not sleep. I could not hold a book or type. I drove with difficulty. Swimming in the ocean gave me enough pleasure that I temporarily forgot it. I couldn't drink to forget it though or massage it enough. It just kept going. </p><p>I tackled the pain like I tackle everything, blindly and in a chaotically forceful way. This pain refused to be massaged away. It turns out this pain needed to be heard. Line by line by tedious line. The first thing that indicated I had a problem was my arm. It throbbed sharply, the nerves jabbed me in my dreams. My first lesson about pain delivered in this brutal way is that it had been created much like a ball of yarn gets tangled, through carelessness. As I was forced to stop and unravel that yarn....it led me to understand it had nothing to do with my arm, but my neck. And it had nothing to do with my neck, but how I cared for myself in the past years. Stop, it patiently and (longwindedly I might add) orated. Stop. Hold yourself. Pay attention. Your finger is connected to your neck, your shoulder and your elbow are intertwined. Your heart and lungs have something to tell you. Come down on your knees, beg us to explain it all to you.</p><p>Gradually, oh so gradually, the yarn's knots are getting loosened and the knitting, the thinking and the dreaming (and typing and driving) begin again.</p>MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-68637860900653506502020-06-12T08:50:00.002-03:002020-06-12T08:50:26.490-03:00Daymare<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As I slept, I dreamt that I found shelter inside a house. I was "escaping" impending lightening. However, the lightening found me. It struck the house and I stood inside the house and watched the roof be lifted right off. I stood there, not afraid, thinking, wow, I have never seen a house's roof come off while I stood inside it (or outside it for that matter).<div>
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I was strangely not terrified. I was observing this fairly exciting event as a passive onlooker even though I stood in middle of that wrecked house. Mentally I knew that a roof being ripped off a house by bad weather is not good, but I did not feel stressed.</div>
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When I woke up, I was gripped by fear. The residue of that dream and others that had already faded remained and kept me pinned to the sheets.</div>
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My subconscious is working overtime. It is patiently painting a picture for me in my dreams and gripping my heart when I am awake forcing me to remember seeing the sky through a roofless house.</div>
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MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-11985699952309558402020-03-23T20:10:00.002-03:002020-03-23T20:10:35.089-03:00The Naked Eye<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivcjk3gK7FsKc3vygIkrlSxcEVXSritcwEStUO5Skln0E2LSiwVCruIW7U6XYKpWCp3HY0xcUV9L2xQdvX0wI4DDh2ApPdD9unHE8-JYh_SC306XShu4ANo9VPSNklhrf6rt3uEyQpI7A/s1600/IMG_20200222_153055321.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivcjk3gK7FsKc3vygIkrlSxcEVXSritcwEStUO5Skln0E2LSiwVCruIW7U6XYKpWCp3HY0xcUV9L2xQdvX0wI4DDh2ApPdD9unHE8-JYh_SC306XShu4ANo9VPSNklhrf6rt3uEyQpI7A/s640/IMG_20200222_153055321.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
It cannot be seen by the naked eye. So, we have to trust the experts--the people who have devoted their careers to seeing these things for us. This weather that approaches, the coming storm, the looming march of an invisible force bears down on us, they forecast for us.<br />
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There is something very scary about trusting that much. We do it sometimes--when we fall in love, or meet our children. Letting go of so much of what we know of ourselves takes a lot of..something.<br />
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As our lives change in ways we never quite imagined, even after watching all those movies about pandemics, we lean into our shelters. Shelters that are not always safe for some of us and wait for the storm to pass.</div>
MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-66641737820453199222020-03-07T12:58:00.000-03:002020-03-07T12:58:53.765-03:00Breakthrough<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgarzFwJC-WGakrKnQF4LvXGuY0ZauSN5V4wWYhkk4ZZyU4q6iQnQ6FilJz72tS4FUxHGE3nStvPfIa3V1wC4MY_s-ElToHzYZeoltBDafhXano_3jAT9W_VLbzqCVPtl2swRz2Z1gMoU8/s1600/IMG_20200222_152711766.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgarzFwJC-WGakrKnQF4LvXGuY0ZauSN5V4wWYhkk4ZZyU4q6iQnQ6FilJz72tS4FUxHGE3nStvPfIa3V1wC4MY_s-ElToHzYZeoltBDafhXano_3jAT9W_VLbzqCVPtl2swRz2Z1gMoU8/s640/IMG_20200222_152711766.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
I had a breakthrough. The breakthrough had me. I broke. I let myself shatter.<br />
I tried everything to protect myself from breakage. I created lots of padding around myself. I distanced myself from sharp objects. But all the while, the thawing continued. The breaking point came closer. The hairline fracture ruptured and two, three, four pieces fell away.<br />
After the break, the heat of the sun. The sun I could not feel before. The warmth of my friends, my family reaching across the shards to gather me in their arms.<br />
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MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-62193228086813281802020-01-13T17:54:00.004-03:002020-01-13T17:54:43.948-03:00That gap<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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That gap, the one between you and I, between here and there, between now and then can seem so large. Centimetres can still cause missteps, broken ankles, misunderstandings. Centimetres add up to metres, to kilometres. Distances comes in so many lengths.</div>
MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-80394206407567818932019-11-16T16:42:00.005-03:002019-11-16T16:42:45.350-03:00Shadow Boxing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lately I've been conscious of all the fighting vocabulary I and many others use.<br />
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Fighting a cold, battling cancer, uphill battles...I reject the phrase "fighting cancer". It is just not a fair statement. It implies that there are winners and losers and blames the loser. <br />
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I am also all too aware of all the conflicts I have within myself and between me and others. I accept that conflict is natural. It is a part of life. What is not natural is fighting the wrong thing.<br />
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Over the past few years, I've been living with more conflict than usual and it is only now that I understand I am not always fighting against the right thing. <br />
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In fact, some fights just weakened me as I "pounded" away at what I thought my problem was. <br />
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Fighting is not fun, but it is not necessarily useless. Am I fighting a shadow? Am I hitting on doubt and thin air? Who is my enemy or is there even one?<br />
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Only pick a fair fight, and that includes any fights you have with yourself.<br />
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MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-31398502882298952412019-09-18T09:51:00.002-03:002019-09-18T09:51:35.885-03:00Lower Gear<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRocKJEXj-c6sSzkbKvJNafKYTMckRAi7gGQ8OWwCfJclceR98vhyphenhyphen-Swnt8gl5Glj-eMCWMbXvHxODdCgVjHN6i0vUgei5knO4PNeLLFar9UhLFHeKvWJBSyybGiEjApl4WqcV7Wiid8c/s1600/IMG_20190918_092956862.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRocKJEXj-c6sSzkbKvJNafKYTMckRAi7gGQ8OWwCfJclceR98vhyphenhyphen-Swnt8gl5Glj-eMCWMbXvHxODdCgVjHN6i0vUgei5knO4PNeLLFar9UhLFHeKvWJBSyybGiEjApl4WqcV7Wiid8c/s640/IMG_20190918_092956862.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
They could slip past me at this point. At this stage, they might slink up the stairs to their rooms, build forts and worlds until it is time to leave.<br />
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They could have and have already begun to hide between the covers of a book or get sucked into an extracurricular activity that doesn't include me or get surrounded by a web of friends. <br />
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If I weren't so tired, worn out from my labours of the first few stages, I might not notice. Nodding off on the couch, bingeing on another world created for me might keep me comforted just enough.<br />
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So, I deciding to slip into a lower gear. Clear more space on the calendar, empty the toy box and replace the toys with empty space and spare parts that might just tug them back for a while longer.<br />
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Lower gear is not as tiring. I still feel like they are picking up speed in another direction and don't want me to follow, but there are just enough times still when I can still walk along side them, and watch the car slide off the track, over and over.</div>
MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-55101015384110458672019-06-20T11:09:00.002-03:002019-06-20T11:16:23.756-03:00Church of Spines<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I was in need of redemption.<br />
I felt on the wrong side of things. Weepy and weak, unbalanced.<br />
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I was just about to bury the feelings with take-out coffee when I decided that I would go to the library instead.<br />
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It was the first of the day, usually caffeine is all the spiritual balm I require.<br />
But today was different, it was just one more day, on top of so many days ....<br />
I browsed. I picked out books about crime in Northern countries.<br />
It was not church, but it felt closer than I have felt in a long time.</div>
MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-12299544139168008902019-02-21T21:29:00.001-03:002019-02-21T21:33:33.298-03:00dainty companions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-82721192972705592952019-02-11T11:05:00.001-03:002019-02-11T11:05:08.254-03:00You just have to ask<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: #f2f3f5; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My daughter sees and, so far, experiences, a world where women and men are equal. Her mother runs a business. Her doctor is a girl. When she was little she said, "you know mama, even boys can be doctors". Things are changing, but in my experience, and virtually every woman I know, there is one area that has not changed even a little bit, in our homes. She, miraculously, hasn't had to deal with the stress/threat of street harassment or subtle demotions due to gender. However, she has a mother who is still labouring under sexist expectations of her role in her own home, I've tried hard to shield her from it. But she will learn. I really wish she didn't have to. I kind of treasure this time before SHE KNOWS. I am protective of her naivety.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f2f3f5; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;">We have lacked the language to put our frustration into words. How can sexism in the home exist? It is 2019. It is not MY job to clean the toilet. it is our job. It must be my personal problem. A flaw in my upbringing, in my character, a lack of organisation. Why am I cleaning the toilet 100% of the time? That is probably because I love clean toilets more than he does. That is probably because of my OCD. That is probably because I have PMS and need an outlet. Stay out of mom's way, she is in one of her "toilet cleaning" moods.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f2f3f5; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"If you wanted help with the toilets, you should have just asked." </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f2f3f5; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is 2019. Cleaning the toilets is my job. Making sure they are cleaned by others is also mine.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f2f3f5; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My darling daughter, may you be free of having to ask. May you be free to choose openly and freely what needs to be done and how.</span><br />
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MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-8329772512003982552019-01-12T12:33:00.000-03:002019-01-12T12:35:30.646-03:00Joking<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As the little children in my lives continue to grow, my humour has changed. I started parenting full of jokes. At first, it was self-deprecating zingers to cope with the overwhelming scope of my new job description. As my children began to emerge and begin talking back, I tended to give into humour that was a little on the ridiculous side. I would hear their lament, sometimes from their position sprawled on the floor of the grocery store and rally them with quips to get them up and out the door.<br />
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Their ardent, earnest queries like, will you pick me up? were often met with jokey gambits like ...oh no sorry, I packed your sleeping bag so you can sleep here all night. After a while, this approach ( as hilarious as it was to me) came to irritate my kids and they would vehemently command me not to joke. As time slipped by, first my daughter, then my son started to become sarcastic and quick witted and my wit began to dim.<br />
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As their humour turned more caustic, they will tear an episode of Caillou to shreds, I measure up every situation a smidge before I throw a joke into the ring. I finally recognize how fleeting their time with me is and I want them to trust what they bring to me will not be hosed down with a joke.<br />
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We have our silly moments, but they are now the showrunners. There are times the wisecracks are so fierce and unrelenting (never mean, just testing) I have to take a break and switch activities or insist that they think of something kind or neutral to say.<br />
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Now when I am with littler friends, I am gentler. I respond back just as earnestly as they tell me a story or explain something to me. I put them in charge of the jokes and I am, if I do say so myself, a great audience.<br />
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Hilarious, but not my idea.</div>
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MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-65483887456187415192019-01-02T10:41:00.003-03:002019-01-02T10:41:54.669-03:00Driving in cars with girl(s)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My daughter and I kept our new to us tradition of starting the new year driving somewhere and taking pictures, talking and listening to music.<br />
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The car unleashes an intimacy that is difficult to achieve elsewhere. There are no brothers or fathers or noise except the noise we make.<br />
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There is no need to hold back but also no need to talk.<br />
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I treasure these drives. Who knows how long they will last? Not long, if breastfeeding/sleeping on my chest/mispronouncing words is anything to go by.<br />
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MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-4769528907521361032018-11-29T20:00:00.002-03:002018-11-29T20:00:30.133-03:0015 minute vacation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #f1f0f0; color: #444950; white-space: pre-wrap;">Itchy to be somewhere else, anywhere else for a little while. Needing a fresh perspective and a breath, period</span><span style="background-color: #f1f0f0; color: #444950; white-space: pre-wrap;">? May I suggest a 15 minute vacation. Travel times can vary, but they can be as little as one minute. A package deal may include a quiet rock to sit on, a warm drink and no precipitation. Where did you take your last one</span></span><span style="background-color: #f1f0f0; color: #444950; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre-wrap;">?</span></div>
MotherOfGooseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07897193025832394521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7835302907280706044.post-31325202088069890812018-11-21T10:05:00.005-03:002018-11-21T10:07:20.677-03:00Losing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Losing too is still ours; and even forgetting<br />
still has a shape in the kingdom of transformation.<br />
When something's let go of, it circles; and though we are rarely the center of the circle,<br />
it draws around us its unbroken, marvelous curve.<br />
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