“Everyone has his own story, and everyone could arouse interest in the romance of his life if he but comprehended it.” George Sand
“You have a responsibility to tell history because people forget history.”
“History is nothing more than a thin bread of what is remembered stretched out over an ocean of what has been forgotten.” Milan Kundera
“I go out of my way; but rather by license than carelessness. My ideas follow one another; but sometimes it is from a distance, and look at each; but with a sidelong glance … I love the poetic, by leaps and gambols ….” Michel de Montaigne
“Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?” William Stafford.
As I sit down to write this #MondayBlog today, I realize I am late. However, I won’t worry about that. I’m getting one in long before Tuesday, which makes me happy.
Speaking of joy, I feel good today. Why am I happy, you ask? Especially when:
There are 540 fires burning in my province and, even in Vancouver, the air quality is BC’s worst in history and the worst in the world.
I am stuck indoors in hot temperatures (no air con) because I don’t want to risk endangering my health any more than it already is.
I would love a long walk in fresh air so much, I could exclamation mark my dear readers to death.
I wish I was younger and stronger and I could help those in distress.
I’ve hurt my back again. Ouch.
Our PM is keen on killing us with more disturbed earth by drilling here–even as peoples’ homes are being burnt to rubble and others struggle to breathe.
My rent has taken a $140 jump for September. Food prices are thru the roof and nobody else seems to talk about it.
Darling Meeco, my beloved feline, is freaking out because I won’t let her out in that dangerous air.
I’m happy because:
I got my hair cut. It was past my shoulders for the first time since I was a little girl. The cooling effect is amazing.
I’ll be a fan whisperer tonight, which is fun. For anyone who didn’t see my tweet yesterday, this is it:
“Right now, I am a fan whisperer. Nope. Not going crazy. My fan needs coaxing to get it spinning. I even hugged it, making sure to keep my perky bosoms out of its way (as Blanche Devereaux of #GoldenGirls would say). Aha! It works again! My hugs work miracles!”
10:19 PM – 19 Aug 2018
I feel hopeful. Except for my resources at the moment, I still feel as if I can change my life.
In fact, I do it every single day in ways I haven’t documented yet and that’s okay. Everything’s just fine.
I know in my heart that we are changing the world–through Rachel’s Thompson’s #sexabusechat on Tuesdays at 6 pm Pacific time, and #sayftychat, which I was invited to join this morning. I’m sure there are many chats and groups I don’t have knowledge of but will later.
Bit by bit, we move on and create new lives and realities for ourselves. I am never more certain of that than at this very moment.
Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.
Fear of the past rising up.
Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek!
Fear of dogs I’ve been told won’t bite.
Fear of anxiety!
Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.
Fear of psychological profiles.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.
Fear of my children’s handwriting on envelopes.
Fear they’ll die before I do, and I’ll feel guilty.
Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.
I’m a woman on the verge because two seven-year-old cats rule my home, Paco, the half-Siamese below, and Teika in the second photo. In addition, my assertive move to combat this fiasco was to add four kittens to shift the power balance, to infuse some clear thinking on the subject. More cats will shift the impasse when the house votes on its grocery list each month. Less power to the presiding queens!
I’m a woman on the verge because I’m going to let that feline six-pack thread its way through my whole world. I will spend much of my day exhausted while chasing down their catnip toys, and untying the maze of yarn they dragged around and thru every chair and table leg, and extended to include three lamps and even my ankles. Frustrating. Still, if those beasts are out of my sight for two minutes, I will moan and wonder, “Just how DID the criminal get in and why would he or she steal my growing family?”
I’m a woman on the verge because, usually by that point, it would be snack time and I would shake a little catnip on my egg. This is to feign acceptance of my kids’ palate–who pay no rent, mind you–and to research the power of this trending green and vice, which sends hundreds to CatNippers Anonymous each year. Soon AETV will air its first show with a feline-trained therapist. Cheers, my fellow interventionists. We are all worthy trailblazers.
I’m a woman on the verge because I am a word lover. I am a writer who is enamored with language, yet I condemned myself to a persistent headache by never reacquainting myself with the word ‘assertive.’ It jumped at me yesterday when I fell on it courtesy of my obsolete Webster’s fifteen pound dictionary. I landed on the ‘a’ page and my right elbow was the compass guiding me. I read the definition aloud and my fur companions chortled at me. Loudly. I must say that the lack of respect in today’s pets is so disconcerting. Still, I must forge ahead to fulfill my journey.
I’m a woman on the verge because, since making mistakes like bathing my sweeties together, I’m fighting for any scrap of dignity and attention they throw at me. Wha-at? Only two bits of kibble? I’ll take it. I’ve been running on fumes for so many years that even a raised eyebrow is well worth it. You’re right. I don’t like liver and chicken delight. Never did. Wait. I don’t like catnip either.
I’m a woman on the verge because I never need the absolute certainty of things to make me act. When I’m busy hoovering up all that hair and scooping litter, I think and do whatever strikes my fancy without apology. This rule stands even if the object of my intrigue is a box of Meow Mix for the queens’ amuse bouche du jour. That is, unless I am trying to re-assume control of the bridge, so to speak. Okay. Okay. Fancy Feast it is then.
I really enjoyed this novel. Ms. Brodey is a master at depicting modern romance and the incessant pressure on women to be married. I loved Molly Hacker’s choice to handle her love life in her own way and to stay relatively quiet about it. The story is rich with dialogue, charm, and humor. I recommend this book to everyone who enjoys a good story. It is entertaining, enlightening, and full of surprises. Molly Hacker is Too Picky is a great read and lots of fun too. Finally, I wanted to give this novel a 4.5 but couldn’t get that to work.
When I think about women who are leaders, I cannot help but think of those who are famous and get lots of attention and benefits from their work. This propels me toward the living and breathing women whom the public does not know and may undervalue. They are the invisible and unsung heroes among us.
As a woman and a leader, I am the young tenant next door who hears your cries while your husband yells and pounds you in the wee hours of the morning. I quietly call the Police for help, begging them not to say I called. They do it anyway. He yells at me through the walls now. “Report that!” I cower in bed at night with a knife under my pillow. At least, he is no longer hitting you.
As a woman and a leader, I am two steps from homelessness but nobody will hire me because of my arthritis and age. I volunteer many hours at a local hospice. Unless a patient wants to talk, I open and close blinds, warm cold hands, help patients with their food, or dole out extra pillow. Nothing makes me happier than when I can usher wheelchair-bound friends downstairs to a live music event. Their spirits relax over that hour.
As a woman and a leader, I write letters to save the environment, empathize with survivors on #sexabusechat, make time for friends on social media, share my warped sense of humor, and sometimes cry with friends. I know doing this is only a millisecond blip on the world’s computer screen. However, it keeps my energy flowing and depression at bay.
As a woman and a leader, I grew up in a very bigoted family. I married my love and we have mixed-race children. My husband and sons are beautiful and we will nurture each other all of our lives. He and I teach our boys that racism and hatred are ugly truths, but that they do not define our lives or the people we strive to become.
As a woman and a leader, I teach reading to adults at the library. It is for everyone who wants to enrich their lives with the many adventures and worlds that lie within book covers. We all enjoy ourselves and read vivid stories to each other. I am always amazed when I see an adult reader pick up a book with confidence, not shame.
As a woman and a leader, I love with ferocity. I hate and scream. I fight with words. I sit, watch and listen. I am tender, sexual and loving. I love my life and yours. I stand arm-in-arm with you from all continents around the globe. I bow and honor you. I help you raise your children; you help me raise mine. We are the quiet leaders of our evolving world.
*The original image (artist unknown) was published in Kinesis September 1993. Sexual abuse and the system: Fighting back. Written by Terry D. Gibson (under the pseudonym Marie Thompson).
Over the years and on several occasions, Bill interviewed Maya Angelou, the legendary author who died in May. Here, Moyers revisits an interview from 1982 in which he and Angelou returned to the small town of Stamps, Arkansas, where she spent much of her childhood.
I received a copy of “Ring Around the Rosary” two years ago in exchange for an honest review. This memoir is about an American woman who became a nun at the tender age of seventeen. She left five years later, married again, had two gorgeous boys, and taught school for twenty years. This tale touched my heart and soul in momentous ways, as many of the struggles Ms. Grossman endured overlapped issues in my life. Some have been critical of this true story, stating that it is harmful to the church. As a Catholic, I do not see it that way at all. When I was a teenager, raised in an abusive family, I wanted to be a nun as well. Had this memoir been available when I grappled with my own decision, also at seventeen, I would have been glad to read it. I appreciate it on many levels, but primarily because it would have afforded me a glimpse into the life, I almost claimed as my own. What harm does it do for a girl to know the exact nature of the training to which she might pledge? Why should she not know the day-to-day routines that would envelop her days? With my history of abuse, neglect, beatings, humiliation, and my parents confining me to an attic and basement repeatedly, a choice to enter the convent could have ended my life. Ms. Grossman’s memoir moved me to sadness, alarm, anger, shock, and love. ·I do not regret reading a single word. In fact, this is a vital and revealing piece of literature to me, a truly a fine read. Finally, I would be remiss not to mention its historic importance as well, especially through her travels in Europe with her husband, moments that include crossing from East to West Berlin and being gifted documents signed by Adolf Hitler. With sixty-six five-star ratings, you could never go wrong.