Valentine's Day - Love it or Hate it

Valentine's  Day once again.

Ahh...the holiday of love. You either love it, or hate it.

I've held both sentiments throughout my life. But...in the end, I'm a hopeless romantic. Quote me Elizabeth Barrett Browning's classic: "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."

Isn't that a wonderful exercise to share with your heart's desire. Count the ways you love him or her. Count the ways you want to love him or her.

The latter could get really fun.

Looking up Valentine's  traditions from the past, one that I found rather hilarious was the Victorian Age practice of sending "vinegar valentines." 

These were sent to unwanted suitors.

One of these Valentines I saw on The History Channel's Web Site went a little something like this:

     To my Valentine

     Tis a lemon that I hand you and bid you know.       'skiddoo,'

     Because I love another-there is no chance for         you!

Today, I'm more likely to take a moment to appreciate lines like:

"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair..." Neruda

"i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart) i am never without it..." Cummings

"The modern biographers ask the rude, irrelevant question of our age, as if the event of two bodies meshing together establishes the degree of love, forgetting how softly Eros walked in the nineteenth-century, how a hand held overlong or a gaze anchored in someone's eyes could unseat a heart..." Mueller.

Those lines have meaning.

Then I think of spirit animals. Butterflies come to mind. They seem appropriate for me.

Native Americans saw butterflies as messengers of transformation. I am on a journey of transformation. 

And according to Whatismyspiritanimal.com, in China, "newlyweds were often given gifts bearing two butterfly images to insure their marital happiness and harmony."

Sweet.

Quite a few marriage proposals are made on Valentine's  Day. Many flowers, cards, chocolates and jewelry are purchased on this day as well.

Hmmm... as for purchases... I guess I bought three out of the four.

Is Your Life On Hold?

  I was traveling from Dallas to Austin on Interstate 35 recently with a colleague when she noticed the sky ahead. The sun was setting.The serene horizon was dotted with leaveless trees and the occasional building silhouetted in blacks and grays. Orange, pink and blue shaded clouds floated above us.

A recording of one of Les Brown's motivational sessions spewed from the car radio. My colleague prefers listening to Audible on her commutes.

She pointed out the sunset, the landscape. Our conversation moved to painting. 

"I love painting, she said. It is her way of relaxing when she's not busy, which isn't often.

She is married, a mother of a toddler and works fulltime.

Then Les Brown chimed in, mentioning how he put his life on hold for 10 years. He had lost confidence in himself after experiencing failure in his professional life. 

I love painting, too. I love writing, as well. I snapped a few pictures of the scene outside the car. 

Brown's and my colleague's voice melted away. The humming of the car cruising along the highway muted. 

Just my inner voice drummed in my inner ears.

"Have I been on hold? Yeah, I have."

Asked and answered. 

It doesn't take much, I guess, for a person to lose confidence. Whether it is a setback at work or a failure in a romantic relationship, for example, it doesn't take much to force us to retreat into our comfort zone where it is safe.

So we think.

That safety is an illusion. It is life put on hold. That equals life not lived to the fullest.

Time does not stop. The sun sets every night. The sun rises every morning. 

If we are not seeking what makes us happy, seeking that which fulfills us, what is the point?

As the minutes passed, the sun set. The colorful sky only minutes before now was covered in black and grey hues.

"Time to bring the colors back," I thought. "Time to unpause every segment of my life that is on hold."

Press play.

Energize Your Writing By Going Back In Time

I have been driving around my old haunts. It's hard to believe that it has been over 30 years since I have lived in San Marcos, Texas.

The home I celebrated my 5th birthday at is no longer standing. It was up a hill along the access road between Route 80 and Aquarena Springs.

The library where I sought refuge in during those hot Texas summers is now a church.

Goodnight Junior High (or middle school, I'm not sure what it was called then) is now an elementary school. San Marcos High, where I attended, is now Goodnight.

The lot on Love Street where I almost died in a house fire is still there. There's the curb cut where I sat waiting for the ambulance. I sat on it again - a 49-year-old man sitting on the exact spot I occupied as a teenager on a day I will never forget.

Still much more to look for as I work on my book. Being back here has brought back so many memories. If you want to energize your writing, I suggest re-visiting your old haunts.

Now, I have to dedicate a day to tubing (or is it toobing?) down the San Marcos River. Let's see what that does for my memory.

What Does It Look Like To Be A Writer?

I'm wondering if you're like me. Something inside me has always bugged me. That something has said, "You should write."

But... then there's the other voice, "You can't do that."

I'm 49 years old. I have wanted to write all my adult life. The amazing thing is that I'm finally giving myself the permission to do it.

And I'm ignoring people around me who say I can't or shouldn't.

Trying to live your dream isn't easy. It's tough. Every second of every day there's that voice inside your head telling you that you can't do it. You are inadequate. Maybe that voice is harsher and says, "Who do you think you are, you effing loser? What the heck have you done with your life to make you think you can do this?"

Maybe I won't make it. Maybe I'm not meant to write.

Or... maybe I am. maybe... just maybe. My voice should be heard. Your voice should be heard.

So... I am venturing forth... I will chase my dreams while I still have breath in my lungs. I must... After all, once that breath leaves my lungs... there's no going back. There's no do-over.

All we have is now to chase our dreams.

Picking A Story To Write

It was the second rainy day this week in San Marcos, Texas. The clouds broke for good around 6 p.m. But before they did, the grey blanket kept the temperature at a mild 80 or so with a slight breeze.

Sitting in my car with the windows down should be bearable, I thought.

I drove down Hopkins, I-35 in my rear view mirror. Red lights at the railroad crossing flashed ahead. The white and red striped arms swung down, blocking traffic. The train approached from the right.

Random thoughts:

I'm done with Philip Roth's "My Life as a Man." What should I read next?

My legs itch. I really hate mosquitos. God, why did you create mosquitos? Seriously.

Here's the train. Oh, please don't stop on the tracks again. San Marcos officials really need to build an overpass here. Seriously. Wait... I just mentally used seriously twice in a matter of seconds. OK. no more of that word.

Seriously, seriously, seriously, seriously, seriously, seriously... There. Out of my system.

It's 5:37 p.m. exactly. I should write that down. Where's my journal? Ah, there it is (on the passenger seat).

Why are rail cars so rusty? And what's with all the graffiti on them? Is that a thing? Graffiti artists going to rail yards to spray paint messages? There's one, "Doni." Is that the artist? "H2O." Wow, a scientific graffiti artist. "Seth is a pussy." Oh, that's not nice. Why'd they say that about Seth? And why spray paint it on the side of a rail car? I really doubt Seth will see it.

And so... that's how my mind wanders. I try my best to write it all down. Every detail. You never know what you may be able to use as a writer. My other thought as I sat there watching the train go by was, "What story will I write next?"

I still don't know. I have too many ideas at the moment. Too many is a good problem to have.

After the train passed, I motored on. I pulled into the parking lot near Summer Moon Coffee along Thorpe Lane. Then, I stared out into the ether and let my mind wander. Pen and journal in hand to capture it all.

Father's Day

Father's Day...

It's coming soon. Let's celebrate.
 Just a commercial date.
Who really wants a father these days?
Who? Not many. Maybe a daughter? A son?
Why not a father app?.
Tell it what you want... then you're done.
It won't judge or scold.
Maybe you can swipe left or right. and then you're done.
For this online father nothing's too bold.
"Can I lie about this or that?" Swipe right
"Maybe cheat, steal or is that too bold?" Swipe right.
Fret not, the father app says...Right. Right.Right.
After all, you're too old
to be told.... What is wrong or right?
It's too late. Goodbye to the light.
You don't get the old ways.
Such old days...a confusing maze
Your father's ways.

A Quill

I like to write with a quill.

It's been years since I've done it. Felt the instrument of my desires in my hand. No excuse. I have had a quill in my possession. Almost 20 years now.

But I buried it. I stored it away. Forgot it as I forgot my desire to use it. Oh... my lovely quill. I have her still. That is all.

All else has flown away.