Christmas and Family

Yesterday was Christmas. I've created a tradition of cooking the holiday meal for my family - whoever happens to be around at the time. Aunts, Uncles, cousins - friends of the family; whoever. It began long ago, even before Steve left, but it became even stronger after that. Family are those people in this world who know us best, despite our quirks, oddities, dysfunctions. My family are no different than every other family, except they are mine, and I am theirs - we are each other in so many ways, and different in so many others. My family, I am grateful to say, treat me with warmth, affection - love, above all. They make me feel special and appreciated. It makes my heart so happy and full. My husband did not love me enough to stay in spite of the fact I gave my marriage and our life together my entire heart and soul - for over 20 years. It was not enough for him, sadly. It was for many years, but in the long run it ended up just not enough. When the best of what you have; who you are; of everything you have to give is not enough, it is soul shattering. I was broken into a million pieces. But my friends and my family helped stitch me together. They rally around me still, and they succeed in showing me that I am worthy of love; of appreciation. Family are the root of who we are. We are born into each other forever, even if we sometimes try, we cannot lose those bonds. I am so fortunate to be part of a huge network of aunts, uncles - cousins. My father was blessed with 12 siblings, and all together there are over 40 of first cousins. They all have so much to do with who I am today. Thank you, God.

When we were growing up, my cousins and I, the majority of us spent Christmas evening together. We had huge Fields family gatherings all together at my grandfathers house; the house my father and all of his siblings grew up in; It was huge, dark, old, and it was the old homestead on the corner of Bridge and Homestead in Phoenix, New York. The old wooden house burned in the mid 70s and my uncle, who lived with Grandpa at the time, bought a new double wide modular home for them both to live in. The house was placed on the same old foundation, and the basement was still the same. The new house was much smaller, but we all still gathered in that house - 13 older siblings and spouses, all their offspring; friends of the family - it was a chaotic, frantic mess; 60 plus adults and children in one modular home for the evening! I can still remember the feel of all those bodies in one place, turning sideways to get by people, the noise, the heat - the smells; the feeling of completely belonging to each other, despite the chaos. The tables, kitchen - every surface was laden with food, drinks, presents, coats, hats, boots, scarves. My cousins and I still talk of those old days with warmth and passion - those were the days that formed so many of us. We gathered at Grandpa's on Christmas night, in each other's houses throughout the year for birthdays, graduations, weddings, births - deaths. We gathered at the lake for family reunions for weekends of celebrations. We gathered and we celebrated all of life's moments together, good and bad. There were arguments, laughter, loud voices, laps to sit on, necks to hug. There were copious amount of food, alcohol, coffee - cigarette smoke. There was always such a welcoming air and presence to all of our family gatherings, and there still are. Even as the Fields family grows and expands, that core group dwindles and the special gatherings are never as loud or large or intense, but they are still special. I think that is one of the reasons that I started having family gatherings here at my house - a longing for those far off gatherings at home in Phoenix. After I left home for Florida and Steve and I began our own holiday traditions, part of me always longed for those huge family events. I missed so many of them living so far from home. I know that as my cousins and I grew into adulthood our parents began slipping away from us, one by one, and the heart and soul of our family shrank little by little with each death, Now all that is left of my many aunts and uncles are the youngest two; my dad and my Uncle Gary. Aunt Betty and Aunt Carol are two of the spouses left to us, and we treasure the four of them, each and every one of us. We can never recreate our past, but those formative years stay with us. I think my holiday celebrations now are a way to pay homage to those days of youth, and as a way to say thank you to all of my family, far and wide - for being my family, for being part of my tribe; for loving me and for allowing me to love back. Family is the heart and soul of who we are, always.

Thank you, Amber, for creating this video of Chrismas Past -
Fields Family Christmas

My Not So Perfect Life

I read this book from Net Galley in exchange for an honest review. It made me laugh out loud and was just the light-hearted kind of book I needed for that particular moment in time. Sophie Kinsella has a way of turning our deep-down fears of personal inadequacies into laughable moments. Life in the big city was not all it was cracked-up to be for Cat (Katie), but she hated to throw in the towel and move back to the country. When her father and step-mother ask for her help, Katie believes she can help, but fully intends to stay just temporarily. This is the story of how our perceptions of people and places are not always based on truth. Katie faces her own truths and discovers herself along the way. I appreciate the chance to read it very much. 

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1836127864?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

River glass and the passage of time

It’s hard to believe it is already so late in the year. My great-grandmother’s voice always resonates in my mind when I think thoughts about how quickly time flies. I can remember being in her apartment one afternoon after school and for some reason the topic came up. I don’t remember her exact tone of voice, but her words stay with me, all these years later – when you get older time seems to go faster and faster and one day you blink and wonder how you came to be this old person. Her apartment was never sunny and bright. The sun rose and set at odd angles around her place, so I remember it as being dark; black and white almost, although I know it was not somber. That memory probably lies within the photo I took of her sitting at the window overlooking Cherry St. – her face was bathed in filtered sunlight and the lines on her face were so striking to me; she was beatific. The expression on her face says she was lost in thought, or in a memory. She was approaching 80 then, her husband had been gone for close to 25 years; my grandmother – her firstborn daughter - may have just passed away; she died when I was 17. From time to time her words echo in my mind; those afternoons spent in short visits to her remain part of the fabric of my teenage years.

The date was not on my mind as I decided to record my thoughts this morning, but as I typed the date and realized there are only four more months left in this year, my mind’s eye blinked, then the memory of Grandma Hooker came to mind. The thoughts first on my mind were waking to a dream of walking in a river with several of my friends. It was just a shallow river, flowing lazily in the late summertime. It was peaceful, calm, serene. They were standing on the banks talking, bantering, lost in their own conversations and I was searching for river glass. Searching for glass is a passion of mine. There is something in the hunt itself; something soothing and thrilling all at once to discover little moments of the past in the form of shards of glass – broken bottles, glasses, even dishes, polished with a soft edge, once whole, then discarded, lost, broken down with time, water, sand, and rocks. River or sea glass are little pieces of someone’s life, even if it was just a bottle of beer someone drank and tossed in the river or ocean. It doesn’t matter, it somehow becomes special with the passage of time. It’s kind of like a quest for antiques; they assume a character; a history; and if they could talk they could tell a part of someone’s life story.

But my dream - It was a soft slice of time; a moment of quiet and tranquility. Such are the moments I collect and use as a balm for my soul. I am a seeker of silence, of simple moments, of peace, serenity, quietude. It’s not always possible in our world full of noise and distractions. Many of us feel the need to fill all of our moments with something; a distraction, a sound, an activity. Maybe such moments make some people feel alive, with purpose, or action. I am discovering more and more that I like quiet, and I am finding the world more and more noise filled. Waking from such a dream this morning was something substantial or symbolic. There is probably some implication that dream interpreters might find – it was definitely a seeking dream (most of my dreams are searching dreams where I look for someone or something). Maybe it was just as simple as what I was searching for was just a few moments of peace and tranquility in a life full of activity and not nearly enough quiet time for reflection or for myself. I had such moments this summer, although they were spaced farther out than I would have liked. Maybe the dream is just a reminder to me to appreciate those few moments of silence as they come, and to treasure them as I do bits of river glass, or even moments of memories of loved ones who have passed on.

I Liked My Life

Book Review - Good Reads

This is the story of Madeline, her daughter Eve, and husband Brady. Madeline has died, but it does not stop her from trying to find her replacement in her families lives. Maddy watches and guides her family from where she is - somewhere in-between heaven and earth. As Maddy's death unfolds, we learn the backstory of her life and that of her friends and family. Both Brady and Even struggle to discover what hidden secrets Maddy had, and how she could have been so vastly unhappy without their knowing it. Both characters search deep into their souls and discover truths about themselves that are unsettling, yet enable them to grow into the lives they are meant to live.

Each life has a turning point - many turning points. Eve and Brady find themselves wishing to go back to any moment in time and react differently; live differently, speak differently. Their epiphanies are full of prose, poetry and words of wisdom; self-discovery moments they are guided to by Maddy from her place watching over them. One of the most beautiful pieces of prose is given to Eve by Maddy's sister Meg in the form of "Maddy's Truths". Such great words of wisdom.

As with every wonderful work of fiction the plot twists and turns, leaving the reader guessing at the truth until the very unpredictable ending - I did not want the story to end. As well as surprising me, it left me satisfied and contemplative all at once.

I have been sitting on this review, deciding just what to say. I read the book twice - I should say I devoured it once, then went back and reread it slowly, savoring it. It is such a unique story, and so well written; Abby's words are magic and beautiful. I am completely in love with this book, and I cannot wait for Abby's next , even though "I liked My Life" will not be on sale until January 2017. I was so thrilled and honored to have received an ARC of this book - thank you Abby, for the gift of your words and story, and for the opportunity to read it early.

Book Review - I've Got Sand In All The Wrong Places

One of the best parts of being a librarian are some of the perks I’ve discovered along the way. As a long time bookseller (close to 16 years; shameless plug – I owe my education and my career path to Barnes & Noble. More of that another time, but BN – seriously? Thank you.) I was familiar with ARCs – Advanced Reader Copies – of books. I’ve been gifted with a few from some of my favorite authors – Jodi Picoult, Dean Koontz, Claire Cook, not to mention many others. I’ve even got an original ARC of a little known book by Stephenie Meyer called Twilight – maybe you've heard of it, by chance? As I dropped back my hours bookselling to fulfill my new full-time career, I found less and less chances to obtain ARC treasures. Until I read about Net Galley one day. Net Galley is an opportunity for me to read ARC e-versions of many upcoming books for free. The “cost” is in order to keep on being gifted with free ebooks, I need to write a (hopefully favorable) review online and share it – through Amazon, GoodReads, blogging, websites, etc. At first it was just great fun – I started requesting and receiving many books. Some were really good, others, not so much. But I also discovered the more I read and reviewed the more perks came at me. Like auto-approval from certain publishers. Again, at first, it was just from publishers who really just wanted to get their books circulating. But one day a major publisher put me on their auto-approved list and more choices opened up to me, and a few more publishers added auto-approval to my profile. Recently I saw a book advertised that looked like a good read from St. Martin’s Press; ”I’ve got Sand in All the Wrong Places” by Lisa Scottoline and Francesca Serritella, a dynamic mother and daughter writing team. I’ve read a few of Lisa’s books but was essentially clueless about the weekly column she and her daughter write. I’ve become an instant fan.

"I’ve Got Sand in All the Wrong Places" is one of the best books I have read in a while. I loved it from the first page and found myself laughing out loud throughout the whole thing. As adult women in the 21^st century, we all essentially have the same cares and concerns about life and living – growing older, dealing with curve-balls, both big and small. Lisa and Francesca offer light-hearted words of wisdom, and their down-to-earth wit prove that life can be taken much too seriously.

There is one chapter with a more serious note; Francesca shares the story of a brutal physical attack. Her vivacious nature allow her to share that story and her ongoing recovery as a victim of a terrible crime. It’s a healing process, and although Francesca and her mother are not certain she will continue to live life as guileless as before her attack, she perseveres and forges on, sharing her story and not allowing herself to fall prey to becoming a cowering victim of fate. I found this inspiring, and I also found (past that chapter) her outlook on life wonderfully refreshing. She continues to move on. That is what this book is about; moving on each day. As women we can either give in to calamitous doom, or we pull on our big-girl panties and continue on with forward momentum. I say Good for you, Lisa and Francesca. Thank you so much for the gift of this wonderful book!

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/26114256-i-ve-got-sand-in-all-the-wrong-places

The Sounds of Silence

This is my first vacation day this summer, and it is starting peaceful, quiet – silent. I have relished my mornings for as far back as I can remember; languishing in the peace and quiet and solitude of my own company; my own aloneness. Even in my marriage, I always appreciated each morning I could wake and have the house to myself and my own devices for just a short while, knowing there was someone who would wake and help me balance that need-to-be-alone trait inside of me . Silence is one of my personal treasures in life. One would assume I chose to be a librarian because of this appreciation in me, but it’s not an easy blanket statement these days. Libraries, once revered for their tomb like silence; books languishing in their peaceful presence lorded over by shushing royalty. Tomes valued and esteemed; treasured and respected for the knowledge to be discovered within their leaves. Libraries with their very existence are a part of American culture and have contributed to the minds of so many great thinkers, inventors, citizens. Knowledge gleamed, comfort derived, cherished for the multitude of what they had to offer inside those nearly sacred, scholarly walls.

Silence is not what libraries are about these days. Today’s libraries have felt the need to change along with society. They are now social gathering spots, a place for teens to meet, for tutors to instruct children on lessons outside of school, to have knitting clubs, astronomy clubs, makerspace for budding young scientists to explore robotics or building things; 3D printing to help them create even more plastic in our already over-plasticized world. Libraries are hubs of the community; they are places where homeless seek shelter for a few hours, for persons from all walks of life come to use computers and free Internet, since nearly every job application, unemployment, social security, home improvement, or other (imaginable or) unimaginable need can be discovered through the world wide web of information. Many libraries have taken a page from retail bookstores and offer coffee shops and book sales. As a whole, libraries are not about quiet and silence, or really even about seeking knowledge in the traditional sense. So, no, I did not become a librarian for the silent factor. I do miss that in the library. In my (not really distant) past I spent hours on end searching the bookshelves (before I even knew they were called “stacks”) for any book that caught my eye. I could pull it off the shelf, skim a few pages, decide to read further, or re-shelve it and start my quest again. Now libraries and librarians have to “weed” books to make more room on already empty shelves. They weed out books that might be old; which can make a little sense for non-fiction based topics. But they also weed fiction that might be sitting on a shelf waiting for discovery – because it has not been checked out in too long a period. We are such a disposable society. There are books in museums that are hundreds of years old – valuable beyond measure. Someone took time centuries ago to treasure that book, to hand it down throughout time, appreciating its value, its worth, its contribution to society. I fear for the books written in the last century. I fear that in their plenitude someday they will be not be plentiful; because they have been weeded, discarded, placed in dumpsters to be incinerated because someone deemed them irrelevant - plus they took valuable space on already too empty shelves – space required to remove more bookshelves in order to add more seating areas, more computers, and more gathering spots.

But. This started as a topic on appreciation of silence, not as a tirade against the societal change of libraries throughout time. I did not become a librarian for the silence. I value the quietude of my home; of its contribution to my soul to help me regenerate and recharge my internal battery.

I appreciate silence in places like mountains, waterfalls; the ocean. Silence, for me, is not the absence of noise. Here in the silence of my house I can hear things – the birds outside singing their morning joy, the sound of the swishing of the overhead fan; the hum of the refrigerator cooling my food, even the high pitched whine being emitted by the lamp on my desk. Silence is the lack of clutter of noise. Of tapping, or sighing; snuffling, shuffling, engine sounds, radio, television – of hundreds of other sounds made by mankind. I can breathe deeply, exhale and know that each time I do so my heart and soul become a little more aligned again, that my internal rhythms begin to sync again.

A few years ago I went to Death Valley with a friend. I did not like it there. It was hot, dry; dusty. But more, it was despotic to me. I felt as if God’s hand was pushing down on me, that I was being dominated and diminished in a too large sky, in a too large expanse of something. As far as the eye could see there were rocks, dust, dirt, tumbleweeds, sand. To the eye, it was pleasing in a very strange way, but the nature of it was stifling. I told my friend it was as if my body was reacting to it – like maybe I was one of those settlers trying to cross it 150 years ago and I did not make it out alive. My reaction was terrible and strange and a little bit frightening. It stayed with me, and I still recall it. However, what I truly fell in love with in Death Valley was the silence at night. The world changed. It became less about the heat and oppression, and more about the wide open beauty of the night sky. Such a huge contrast. The day, blinding white, dry, hot, dusty; a little unfocused because the eye can see so much further than can ever be comprehended and mirages take over visual focus; everything shimmers with heat and dust and brightness. But the night; cool, calm, serene - silent. I long to go back to Death Valley for the night alone. The blackness was cool and beautiful; crystal clear. And the stars – in my life I have never seen so many stars. I had no idea there were layers and layers of stars in our night sky. I have been a star gazer all my life, and the night holds much beauty for me. The night and the sky in Death Valley is incredibly, indescribably magnificent. The silence is huge. There is not residual sound, there is not static light – the lights of Las Vegas, of Los Angeles can be seen as a dim, very low quiet glow from Dante’s View, a 5400 foot high outlook overlooking Bad Water Basin and the lowest point in the continental United States; 280 feet below sea level. Upon leaving Dante’s view (there is only one way up and one way down), driving back toward the canyon  we stopped at a parking lot, and the glow of those distant cities cannot be seen; no light, no sound can be heard; we were alone in the night, no persons, houses, cars – nothing was there except an empty lot, trees, and the sky. If a car approaches it can be seen and heard miles before for it arrives. Not many people wander the valley at night. The silence was complete and it left me wonder-struck. It is one of the most beautiful experiences with silence I have had in my lifetime, and leaving there caused a physical ache in my soul.

This morning’s silence is not so intense, not such a treasure, but it has value of its own. I can feel my heart and soul smiling as I breathe deeply, let my body relax into its own rhythm and patterns. I have absolutely nothing pressing, no deadlines, I have no must-do list for the next 45 days. Today is the beginning of rebalancing my life and of taking back some of the portions of me I have doled out over the past few months. It’s time for Me, and I am relishing my silent aloneness.

It's Never Too Late To Begin Again

In December while on Christmas break I discovered mention of Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way. I began the main exercise of that book – an activity called Morning Pages. The idea of morning pages is a catharsis of sorts; to clear one’s brain from the debris that we all have floating around inside of us. As early as possible upon rising for the day the idea is to hand write 3 8 ½ by 11 pages of thoughts. It’s not exactly journaling, and it is written for no audience to read. It is stream-of-consciousness writing and from it patterns in life emerge and we can sort of clear and address any blocks we might have – clearing the way for creativity, but not just as an artist or writer, but in our careers or jobs; our family life; wherever we might be blocked. It is a fabulous exercise. I do find it a challenge to rise an hour earlier to do this exercise, and sometimes I don’t have an opportunity to write until after work, but I feel it is helping me in my life. I feel clearer, more focused. I am able to concentrate and even think about the future through different eyes. It’s interesting that it took me this long to pick up that particular book; it was published in the mid-90’s and as a bookseller from 1998 through 2014 I have seen that book countless times, never taking the time to discover what it was about. It’s made a world of difference to me.

When I saw that Julia had a new book coming out – It’s Never Too Late To Begin Again, and that I could read it through Net Galley in exchange for a fair book review I completely jumped at the chance. Admittedly, when I began reading it and discovered that Julia primarily wrote it for newly retired people I nearly balked at reading it. But then I remembered that The Artist’s Way was not written purely for artists, either, so I continued on. The book is written to help individuals realize that it is never too late to begin life again. Some of us are considering out place in life, contemplating a change in our life style or career, and some of us are in an in-between stage of life; some people are just beginning retirement and are uncertain what life will bring next. Regardless of where we are, I believe this book can help us discover our next desire or course of action.

 I have not finished the book,  and I really don’t want to. It is one of those books that I am just delighting in reading and I truly do not want it to end and be over. I’ve skipped ahead, skipped back, re-read the inspirational quotes, flipped forward again – I keep reading back and forth, but I am not ready to be finished with it.  A few years ago in my first job as a school librarian I worked for a private school. We held our twice annual book fairs at the local Barnes & Noble, and that suited me fine; I worked at that particular store part-time, and book fair weeks were a lot of work, but fun, too; being a bookseller and school librarian during that stage of my life were probably some of the most fulfilling days of my career. Parents were so appreciative of my knowledge and honesty, and steering the children toward “just-right” books was such a pleasure and so satisfying. At the same time, in between visits from the kids (they rode on the bus as a field trip to the store and often parents would meet them there), the parents would wander the store and I could talk books to as many as wanted to. One particular mom had been fighting cancer over that past year. She had two daughters; one was on the verge of “graduating” 8^th grade; the other had graduated the year prior. In our chat at the store she spoke frankly of her illness and her fears of dying from her illness. I don’t know how the conversation drifted, but we began speaking of the afterlife. And from that I told her of a book I had read on the subject which captivated me – Many Lives, Many Masters by Brian Weiss. She ended up purchasing it, and a few weeks later she called me and left me a voice mail. When I first heard her voice, my heart beat incredibly fast and lodged in my throat. She said, Kim, I just want you to know I have not finished the book, and I do not want to. I thought – oh, no! Then she went on in a rush of laughter – she loved it, thought it was fabulous and did not want it to end, which is why she was not going to finish it.

That is how I feel about Julia Cameron’s newest book. I don’t want it to end. It is not a book designed to be read in one sitting. It is intentionally set up to be spread out over a twelve week period. There are tasks involved – Morning Pages, Walking, creating a Memoir, an Artist Walk. Each are activities designed for soul searching; for rediscovering ones passions – or even finding them for the first time. I am very new to Julia Cameron and her books, but I am truly enthralled with her writing and her suggestions. I look forward to continuing with this book and never really finishing it. Julia – thank you so much for your gifts to your readers.

<Half a Chance, by Cynthia Lord

What I really liked about this children's book is its lack of angst, magic, or bullying, which tend to be thematic in today's children's literature. I believe sometimes children just need to read a in order to experience the story of life. Half a Chance is a simple sweet story about a little girl who has moved around the country with her family quite often; her father has wanderlust and is a famous photographer. She is ready to settle down and just live her life in one spot. When she and her parents move to a little town in New Hampshire, they take up residence at a house on a lake. She meets the boy next door and his family, and she becomes enchanted by the loons on the lake. She enters a photography contest, and the book revolves around her taking photographs, but also forming friendships. It's a true to life story, told beautifully. As a child this is the sort of book I would have gravitated toward. I would highly recommend it to anyone with children 4th grade and up.

Call it Paradise

There’s a certain quality to the light of a late afternoon in Florida during the cooler season. In the summer the late day sun blazes, and the air becomes still and searing. Late afternoons from around October through March as pleasing to behold. The land is golden and beautiful and it’s a beautiful day to be alive.

There is a part of Florida that many do not get to experience. Winter visitors’ flock to beaches, to Disney World; Key West; Busch Gardens. So many parts of Florida are overpopulated; too many people converging and living in so small an area. Roads are overcrowded with inadequate lanes to hold the traffic safely, even with continual construction. Housing developments spring up everywhere; land developers run rampant building quickly, without quality, taking exorbitant fees with them to the next project waiting for them to victimize the land. We are left with half-finished developments, or worse, over populated sections; strip malls and parking lots appearing where cattle and wild life used to run.

When I see wide open spaces of land I see the life that lives there. Within just the last 100 years someone fenced the land, raised cattle or crops; before that no one could really live in Florida – it was a rough, hard life. For now, Sand Hill cranes continue to raise their young on this land as they have for millennia. Gopher turtles, possum, deer, wild boar, raccoons, coyote, armadillo, foxes, rabbits; Florida panther, countless species of birds have lived and flourished until the human population began booming; clearing land, raising house after house. The animals that remain are boxed into small areas and have become a nuisance to people. They are trapped and re-located again, or worse, they are destroyed. When developers see that same land they see dollar signs, and lots of them, because Florida land is tremendously lucrative. Florida is the sunshine state, and in 2012 the census discovered that on the average, 630 people move here each day, which is the equivalent of 229,000 people a year.

I live in Central Florida on 2 ¼ acres of land purchased by my father-in-law back in 1962 from a woman who was the original owner of the land. Behind me are 300 acres of prairie that have never been developed. Each day is a blessing to wake up, look out over the field and see what nature has brought to the new day. I am fortunate. It’s beautiful and wild, but its existence is precarious. Neighbors anxious to continue living a semi-rural life grouped together, and we fought land development of the prairie and won on a fluke. It is an uneasy fact that the county owns the property now and it is protected. But it’s really only protected until someone finds a way around the laws, which has been the case in so many areas in Florida. Greed wins out more often than not, sadly. There are signs around us that our pristine prairie is being disturbed and will ultimately fall victim. For now, it is beautiful and peaceful. 

Today I took a rural route home from shopping in a city east of here. It’s a beautiful route, more houses now than used to be, but still, it’s quite a few miles of gorgeous, flat land, perfect for raising cattle and horses. Miles of beautiful land, scattered with graceful old oaks dripping with Spanish moss. I had to stop on the drive to let a young Sand Hill crane cross the road, but I did so happily. Along the way I saw hawks soaring overhead; osprey sitting in their own nests on the telephone and electric poles. I passed at least six other pairs of Sand Hill cranes; this is their nesting time. Young calves, recently born, wandered the pastures with their mothers and other members of their herd. There’s a certain quality to the light of a late afternoon in Florida during the cooler season. In the summer the late day sun blazes, and the air becomes still and searing. Late afternoons from around October through March as pleasing to behold. Today it was beautiful, rural, and breathtaking. Golden light touched the ground, shimmered in the trees, not a cloud marred the brilliant blue sky. I felt so blessed to know that I have experienced such beauty, and in the next breath I knew that such beauty cannot last. The terrible truth is that on 1000 of those glorious, gorgeous, historic acres I passed today, 2460 homes are going to be built, and soon. Along with the homes, according to the Tampa Tribune, the Canadian developers are proud to also add to the plan 345,000 square feet of commercial space and 50,000 square feet of office space. On a gorgeous, sleepy north eastern part of Hillsborough County that has been home to nothing but wildlife. It is tragic.The Canadian developers will build, and they will take their money back to Canada. The city of Plant City will gain revenue from the new homes and the new businesses, and 2460 families will move in. And a beautiful piece of land will be gone, forever. It saddens me. In the grand scheme of history there is nothing that can be done; some people say it is progress and we need to keep with the times. Dr. Seuss says “some say I’m old fashioned and live in the past; I think that progress progresses too fast”. Here is the scariest thing. 2460 new homes; that is only enough homes to fill about eight days of new people moving to Florida. Don Henley says “they call it paradise; I don’t know why. You call someplace paradise, kiss it goodbye”. I do not see dollar signs when I see beautiful, wide-open spaces. I see breathing room, nature, life. 

The Artist's Way

I have not been this excited and this actively involved in a writing project for some time. You probably have read The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron? I - believe it or not - have not. Me, a bookseller for nearly 16 years; a librarian for over 8 years, and aspiring writer. Recently I heard mention of it somewhere, and I wanted immediate reading access. I downloaded a $2.99 sample of the high-lights and borrowed an electronic version from the public library - no physical copies were available, so it was second best until I can get to the book store to buy a copy. What I have gleamed so far is the Morning Pages concept. I am enamored. Just in case you don't know this about The Artist’s Way (and I honestly think I am probly the last person in the world to know this!) the Morning Pages are three - no more, no less - pages hand-written just after you wake in the morning. They are personal, not to be read, shared, or even re-read for quite some time. They are almost a catharsis. You write whatever is on your mind and make all kinds of self-discoveries; hidden passions or obstacles in your way. Things that have been bothering you, hidden dreams. Whatever. They have to be hand-written, not typed, because typing can be a deterrent to creativity, and it can also be readily corrected or deleted. The hand-writing allows thoughts to flow in a normal manner or order. One of the things I have noticed is that I used to be able to hand-write for a long time, many pages in a row without hand cramps. Not so much now. My hand is protesting, but it is worth it to keep going, hand cramps and time constraints set aside. The whole idea is to free yourself of creative blocks and even to establish a new routine for writing. It also is supposed to be done on 8 1/2 x 11 paper, but I have a ton of composition books, so that is what I am using. Today was Day 9. I look forward to rising each morning and writing! I am going have to start setting my alarm tomorrow (Monday) so I am already deciding how much time I need to give myself. I am thinking that as I begin work again it is going to be such a fabulous way to start each work day. I am truly excited. I am looking forward to each morning; I mean, I already do love each morning, but this adds another layer!

Every year I tell myself THIS will be the year that I get back on track. That I work on my goals and my dreams. And every year goes by and I am not closer to my dreams. This year I am taking charge of that and I hope this new path or direction can keep my motivation going. Each year that passes is another missed opportunity. I believe that things happen as they should, but I also believe that we can control our destinies a little and help guide ourselves where we need to be. I love writing too much, have wanted that dream too long, and have done so little to accomplish it. So this year it is one of my goals - again. Along with always trying to be a better person - more patient, kind, caring, considerate...but also, more selfish. I give so much of myself, always. I always put others needs before my own; part of being a nurturing person. So while I still want to be a better person, part of that means saying no sometimes and putting myself first. It sounds like two separate, conflicting goals, but I think they twine together. We are only given so much time; so many days, and it is such a shame to have a dream for so long that I have not pursued to the best of my ability. Hello, 2016.