My Scarlet Letter

In Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel (The Scarlet Letter) about a woman (Hester Prynne) in the 17^th century forced to wear a scarlet “A” for her crime of adultery and sent to prison for not giving up the name of her lover (spoiler alert: it's the town minister) Truth is, the way people gossip and speak of the imperfect humans that we all tend to be. Before any holier than thou self righteous zealot pipes up let me remind you of Romans 3:23 For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. There. That out of the way now I continue. The letter was pointless. She knew what she did. The town did too. Hello? Baby daughter born while husband was away for two years.

When thinking about this piece of literature I started to reflect on my life. (I'm doing a lot of that considering I'm about to complete my 40^th rotation around the sun in a few days) I realize that I tend to persecute myself a lot. I force myself to don my red “A” for everything I feel ashamed for. My “A” one day for my bouts of anxiety that I just know everyone can see and it cripples me so badly that sometimes I have driven myself on Sundays all the way to church parked the car and have been unable to get out. Frozen with fear even though I know it's a loving community and a group that has always accepted me and shown me love. I fear to disappoint in some way and panic my way back to my house and hide beneath the covers to hide the self branded “A” blazing on my chest.

Some days I wear an “S” for stupidity because I don't feel smart enough so I keep quiet in hopes others wont realize my ineptitude in all things. Or the days I feel unattractive and stamp the big red “U” for ugly. There are days I can fight through it and parade myself around in my self prosecution as penance.

Truth is my history would sew such a letter on my person, not for adultery but for guilt. Before my father died I shared some information with my parents about my childhood. At the age of 4 or 5 I was taken into the woods near my house where I was beaten and raped. Just had to take a break from this blog posting to quell a panic attack. This is me naked. I promised not to leave a stone unturned in this venture of truth, self discovery, and becoming a better me. I knew this was going to be some heavy excrement when I sat down to do this today and I'm already shaking.

Like Hester I refused to name the boys involved because for the most part they were also still children and I still have a sense of pity for them. They know what they did and sad to say my dishonor happened quite frequently afterward with other neighborhood boys who received word and sans original beating I endured by staring into space and usually vomiting afterward. My self hate grew and thrived easily subsequently and it became it's own being melding itself into me. I still struggle. I purge trying to make myself empty. Another form of penance. I also have a history of self injury burning lines or words into my skin making my scarlet “A” more permanent. I will go for days without sleep. This usually, is followed by depression where all I do is sleep and refuse to execute any form of self care. Why am I writing about this? Because I need to tell my secret. It gives it less power. Maybe this encasing of darkness that coats me will start to melt away. I don't cry often. I'm quite numb sometimes but if I can learn that form of release maybe I can stop the ritualistic self harm I do. I'm not proud of it and I will probably hide out for a bit after posting this. I will return. But until then, rip off your own scarlet “A”. We are all human and beautifully imperfect. Self prosecution only stunts your growth and robs people of the gift you are.

Blessings

The Trouble with Angles

No. This is not a typo referencing the 1966 (by the way I wasn't born yet) Haley Mills comedy. Well, maybe the title is but that's not what this month's blog is about.

I remember as a child noticing how water warped my drinking straws. It's called refraction (Thanks, Kelly) I remember running to find other things to plunge into my drinking glass with a sadistic sort of glee rendering it undrinkable and extracting a strange glare from my mother when she saw what I was doing. “Kid Magic” is what I call prisms, shadows, fireflies, or anything that bewitches a child's mind into an enchanting world of wonder until the school system calls it Science and tells you that you will be tested and graded on it. Anyway, I noticed early on in life that your perception depends on your angle (and sadly sometimes your attitude) For example the angle at which you observe a perfectly round coaster on a table from directly above verses eye level with the table two totally different perspectives on the exact same object. If I can easily stand up and see a perfect 360 degree coaster and squat down to see it turn into an oval then I should be able to easily change my perspective on other things non physical. I find myself snorting and chuckling at that last sentence. That is definitely the trouble with angles. Motivating oneself to move or shift your aspect. One of the biggest challenges for me is my change in attitude. My history of EDNOS (Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified), SI (self injury), and depression does play a role in my demeanor of negativity (especially to myself). My goal next month is to try to redirect myself and change my view and once again find my “Kid Magic”

I reread my January blog entry about becoming a better me and to be honest, I have been slacking. To combat this backsliding I have given myself an assignment of doing something I enjoyed as a kid every day. Whether it's something simple like wearing miss matched socks, or just coloring a picture or something dramatic like wearing a fancy princess-like dress for no other reason than going to the grocery store. I will try to write in my journal about it every day or week and blog about it next month. I hope doing these little things will help me to change my outlook on things.

If there is one thing “Kid Magic” has taught me, it is that things are not always what they seem. Refract some items in your life and look at it anew. Some things aren't as stale and dull as you may have once thought. Take some time to see the many facets of life. The rainy day may bring dark clouds but the mud pies are fantastic! Take the time to shift, reflect, and grow.

This little thing called FEAR

When I was a little girl I used to have nightmares about hammocks. Stop laughing. It's called hammockaphobia, according to the internet (do what you will with that piece of info). I would have horrible night terrors about falling out of one and breaking my nose. Not the “Marsha Brady football to the nose” kind of problem but the several surgeries to once again appear normal kind of problem. I would have these horrible nocturnal hallucinations that would cause me to wake up sweating, heart racing, and even trembling at times. I did grow out of those types of dreams but the fear of hammocks still lingered. As a matter of fact I can't ever remember actually getting on one even as an adult.

“Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that
something else is more important than fear.” 
― Ambrose Redmoon

Yep! My face may not be supermodel material but it's the only one I have and I'd like to keep it as healthy as I can. My nose being the prominent object on my face (sticks out farther than anything else) makes it more susceptible to accidental modification.

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” 
― Nelson Mandela

Okay Nelson Mandela, I get what you're saying. I am committed to becoming a better person. That means conquering my fear of hammocks. Sounds a little silly which is why I never really shared that tidbit of information until recently. Truth is, I'm a bit embarrassed that this is a phobia of mine. That is why I decided I would challenge myself.

This past week I happened to be petsitting for two households, both of which had a hammock. One house had a thick ropey thing hanging sinisterly over a cement slab of a back porch. No way was that going to be my choice! The other a bit less apocalyptic with its carpet like rug underneath. I sat in a nice comfortable stationary chair wondering what on earth would possess anyone to choose resting in an unpredictable nomadic contraption.

“Do one thing every day that scares you.” 
― Eleanor Roosevelt

As I mentally planned my descent into the cradle of condemnation, I also made sure I was prepared in case of emergency and had my phone tucked into my back pocket as well as the land line phone on the floor under the hammock in case I couldn't dig it out of my pocket or I land on it and break it. I started out small by touching it and giving it a little push. I stood watching it as it slowed. I turned around and grasped the side of the hammock with both hands and lowered myself into it. After the hyperventilating stopped, I leaned back and allowed myself to be cradled, my feet dangling off the side ready to grip the ground if needed. I did it Eleanor Roosevelt! I sat for a while contemplating the safest way to get out now that I had vanquished that little thing called fear. I then realized that I wasn't actually in the hammock correctly. I was sitting in it like a chair not lounging about like the confident hammock ace I had so recently become. I took a deep breath and grasped the side above my head with one hand and the other side by my legs with the other. One leg at a time I inched myself lengthwise on the hammock and exhaled. I did it!

“Laughter is poison to fear.” 
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

I laughed! I laughed so hard I almost started crying. I like this thing called hammock! I was laughing so hard one of the dogs came up to me panting and pawing. I reached down to pet her and calm her and in the process my weight shifted and off I rolled into the floor. I froze like a statue from shock then the pain materialized and I exhaled a small cry. Penny, the dog was licking my arm and whining. After realizing I landed on my back and not my face I sat up and sighed. I may not wish to lay in a hammock any more but I certainly do not fear that cradle of pain any more. I suppose facing ones fear isn't always pretty or successful but it is empowering. What are you going to do to empower yourself?  

The Lesson in the Lunch

Okay so, I wanted to keep this month light.  I have received many e-mails asking to expand upon last month's blog entry and I have also been asked a lot of questions. I will expand and answer those questions at a later time. For those of you who are impatient my answers to your questions are: Yes, Only when tired, sometimes, no, not really but I might have to try it, and mostly on Sunday's. ;-)  Look for part 2 later this year.  I usually post TBT (Throwback Thursday) pics on my FB page and this Thursday I thought about trolling some of my earlier writings for a little gem to share with you.  I found one that I wrote in high school that is fictitious but based on something that really did happen. So for your entertainment I give you a short little essay called The Luncheon.

THE LUNCHEON

I sat in total confusion at the raised eyebrows.  Why were they all staring at me?  Was there food on my face?  Did I suddenly break out in hives? Was there some sort of disgusting substance hanging from my nostrils? Just as I was about to reach for my napkin I cold sickly feeling crept up my spine. My eyes widened like the china saucers before me as I realized my folly. I had just drank from the finger bowl! How could I have let this happen?  I spent many dreadful evenings with Auntie Amala setting the table, naming plates and utensils, learning how to fold a proper napkin, and the lady-like way to eat soup sans slurp and dribble--all in vain. I wished at that moment to slip into the cracks of the floor to explore the world there. I know it seems silly but I clicked my heels together in hopes my patent leather shoes would have the same gift that Dorothy had in Oz. No such luck.

Early that morning I was forced into the tub, scrubbed from head to toe, and to my dismay dried with a stiff white towel.  I was lotioned down and powdered while being quizzed on proper etiquette.  I had to sit quietly while listening to how Auntie Amala's friends will be so impressed at how she turned that rough, tomboy of a niece into the vision of daintiness that was emerging from her tutelage. 

Auntie Amala squealed with delight as she stood back to visually take me in. Now for your hair she said as she guided me to her vanity mirror. I stood in shock at my reflection. I looked ridiculous in that frilly pink dress and now she was going to top it off with some sort of manipulated configuration of hair that will make look even more absurd.  "You're going to look perfect!" she exclaimed unfurling a lacy pink hair ribbon. I closed my eyes not wanting to see the crime that was about to be committed with my curls. I slowly opened one eye to peek at the damage as Auntie clapped her hands together "Perfect!  Just wait till they see you!" I forced a smile on my face as I surveyed the perfectly primped poodle shaped mass on my head. 

Auntie Amala's sewing circle met three times a month and today was luncheon day. Every month some unlucky lass had the pleasure of being introduced to the wonderful world of social graces.  There was Bela and Esha the gossips, Hazel and Lila the cheek pinchers who caused me to believe my face was paralyzed when they were done with me, and Ann. I didn't know much about Ann. She never spoke. According to Bela and Esha, if she did speak I would have thought I was in an alcohol distillery. Just thinking about being paraded in front of those circling old hens made me cringe.

When time for the luncheon came everything when pretty well but before I could stop myself the finger bowl was in my hand and up to my mouth.  I properly dabbed the corners of my mouth with my napkin as we had rehearsed and placed it neatly back on my lap. I didn't realize my stupidity until I looked up and there in front of me was a brood of old hens with raised eyebrows. I dropped my head to stare at the floor. I didn't speak. I just sat. I hated Auntie Amala for making me do this but I was also ashamed for disappointing her.  

"You can't turn a rag doll into one of fine porcelain! Do you realize I had to make her another dress after I caught her in a tree?  It was ripped and torn all over!" I listened by the vent as Aunt Amala verbalized her frustration. I really was a rag doll. What could she expect from a girl with five brothers and a neighborhood full of boys? I could out run, out spit, and out climb half of them.  Why wasn't that impressive? 

That night as I readied myself for bed I couldn't shake the look of discouragement I saw on Auntie Amala's face. I pondered the situation till bedtime until an idea surfaced. I prayed that this would break the uncomfortable air between us. We moved awkwardly around each other that evening and the lump in my throat caused a gagging reflex several times at dinner. This couldn't go on. I was visiting for a month. I gently knocked on Auntie Amala's bedroom door and entered with a tea service cart. When she looked up I smiled and pulled a finger bowl from underneath the service. 

"One lump or two?" I asked pouring tea into the finger bowl. She chuckled as she shook her head and accepted my offering. 

Sometimes in embarrassing situations you just have to laugh at yourself.  What was your proverbial finger bowl?  Did you take yourself too seriously?  Don't bother. Laugh on.

This Hunger Game Is Not a Work of Fiction

I mentioned in my first blog about some of the things I live and struggle with, and on any given day I may be waltzing around with more than one issue. Sadly for me there is one that has haunted me for what seems like an eternity, my struggle with EDNOS (Eating disorder not otherwise specified). I know that I'm not alone in this struggle of self hate and punishment but mine is not as simple as trying to be one stomach flu away from a size 0. It was never like that for me. I was never trying to look like a model. I was always feeling guilty about something and like many young girls and women I began to use food as a voice. (the absence of it and the over abundance kept me in a hellish love/hate triangle)

My bulimia started as a way to (pardon my pun) purge away the guilt. I remember as early as 6 feeling guilty for enjoying things. I would break my own toys and I remember punishing myself by sitting inside my bedroom closet terrified of the darkness inside but somehow feeling it was what I deserved. The actual purging didn't start till I was 13. I also had a brief relationship with pica as well. The pica was the ultimate in punishment for me. I felt like such a horrible human being and that I didn't deserve food. I allowed myself little bits of paper and in some cases little pieces of chalk. These things didn't taste good or didn't qualify as food so it was guiltless. I would shake the toaster upside down because I didn't deserve a whole piece of bread or toast but I could have the crumbs nobody wanted. My college years I would troll the 24 hour grocery stores late at night for food porn. (A feast of the eyes only) I would roam down the aisles picking things up and putting them back while the most pitiful pear that had obviously been dropped and maybe even partially rotted sat like a baby in the front of my cart. It rode around sometimes rolling and falling over creating more skin blemishes than a puberty ridden middle schooler. By then maybe I could have it. No one in their right mind (I obviously wasn't) would want it so maybe I could convince myself that I could have it. The person working the register always gave me a strange look as I purchased my sub-par piece of fruit.

The problem for me in this is that I am overweight. The truth is, the majority of people with an eating disorder are overweight or of average weight. The sad part is because of that many don't get the help they need. I was one of those people. After confessing to a doctor about my purging and my binge/starve cycle he chuckled slightly and said I don't look like I have anything to worry about and will probably tire of this behavior eventually when I don't get the attention I'm expecting. At the time I was 15. I started purging about 5 times a day after that. After all, the doctor said I had nothing to worry about. (Ruptured esophagus = death, weakening of the heart which leads to heart attacks = death, kidney failure = death, stroke = possible death etc.) He wasn't the only one in the medical community who made me feel like an attention seeking brat. I realized very quickly that unless I was emaciated (which can be too late to receive help) I would never be taken seriously. I was actually fine with that-- well, the part of me that believed I was a horrible human being and didn't deserve anything. That part of me began to take over after I stopped trying to get help. It reminded me that I didn't deserve to stop. I began to believe it and I fell into a very dangerous cycle of self injury, binge/purge, and starve behaviors. I was almost high with the sadistic rituals I put myself through. Later as an adult things got out of hand again. A stressful moment can start the madness and I'm 70lbs down in two months, my hair is coming out in clumps, I have dizzy spells, anemia, and big dry patches all over my body. I was once told by a woman who I suppose was trying to help that I was going to hell for treating (my body) the temple of the Lord with such disregard. (She was referring to my constant purging and negative words I had singed into my skin) I looked at her and responded “This is hell!” I even had a minister try to give me diet advice that was safer than what I was doing. Um...really?? WTH??? Look I know sometimes people just don't know what to say and in those instances I wish they would just keep their pie hole shut! Everyday and every bite I take there is always that thought “you don't deserve it!” “Spit it out!” It's terribly exhausting to hate yourself so much but then again isn't that the point. To exhaust myself to the point where I can no longer be. Where I'm just a hollow shell curled into a cupboard trying not to take up room because there are other people, wonderful people that deserve to be. At my lowest I wrote this poem.

ERASE ME

Erase me. I'm just a smudge.

This sketch would be much cleaner

If you'd cut me off or blot me out

Or whittle me much leaner.

Erase me. It's not a loss

My shadow soon unknown

Those that are left may walk in light

And not my hellmouth roam.

Erase me. I beg of you.

Don't make the torture longer.

White me out, scrape me off,

Just make sure I'm a goner.

Erase me. Don't recreate

For I'm not worth the space.

Don't watch me fade, evaporate,

Just let me be erased.

Erase me. I'm just a flaw.

Don't ruin your masterpiece.

Just peel me off, and carve me out

And make this being cease.

Erase me.

Now that I look back on this and sad to say many other poems and essays I wrote I can see how far I've come. Maybe not as far as I want (I tend to be impatient with myself) but the fact that I don't feel like this on a regular day to day basis is amazing. I was dying inside, hollowed out, and severely depressed. I may not always be rainbows and sunshine but I no longer wake up disappointed that I didn't die in my sleep. Truth is I don't go a day without condemning myself whenever anything crosses my lips (even raw vegetables) There is always that nagging feeling of not being deserving of that salad or piece of cheese. The sour bitter remembrance of bile on my tongue and how easy it would be to just rid my stomach of any culinary sin. I know that slippery slope all too well. Awakening the beast inside and knowing I won't be able to stop. It scares me. Today, I survived this hunger game. Every baby step is a victory. So no matter your gait, just keep moving forward.

Square Wheels on a Train

In reference to the stop motion animated movie Rudolph (the red nosed reindeer) & the Island of Misfit Toys; I always saw myself as the train with the square wheels. I believe if there was such an island I would be stuck on it. In the movie, Rudolph and his friends find themselves on the Island of Misfit Toys. Each toy on the island was a reject. I, like the train with square wheels, was all wrong. I grew up with two older brothers and a neighborhood full of boys that taught me how to belch the alphabet, climb a tree while holding a jar of bugs (don't ask why. I was a kid and have no idea of why that was a useful skill), how to catch fireflies, newts, salamanders, and caterpillars. I was also shown the correct way to spit long distances and make fart noises with my armpit. I joyfully did all of these things to the dismay of my mother who wanted a dainty little princess. I also received frowns of disapproval from my peers. “You chose to play the trumpet? But you're a girl”. I acquired objection for wanting to play peewee football with my brothers. “No. Girls don't play rough games like that. Here's a cheerleader uniform. That's what girls do”.

The whispers I remember overhearing throughout my childhood and adolescence started to make me very self-conscious. The way women would squint their eyes and tilt their heads to the side in order to take me in or figure me out. They'd suck their teeth telling my mother how round I was or odd I was. My hair was too big, and so was my body. My knees and legs were usually covered with dirt, bandages, or scratches. Their poison hiss in my mother's ear ”She was such a pretty baby. What happened?” “Better do something about it now before it's too late”. Me feeling overwhelmed by the feeling of bursting at the seams and leaking out contaminating all that was pure, beautiful, and girl-like. I was apparently too much. How could this be? All of this time I thought I wasn't enough. Not smart enough, not thin enough, not tall enough, not pretty enough, The list goes on but in reality I had this realization of my muchness. How can I be not enough and too much all at the same time? (Hmm...does that make me an overachiever?) I began to hide and shrink myself. My hair long and thick would be pulled in front of my face to protect others from this hideous creature who takes up too much space and is too much to have to deal with. Along the way I developed unhealthy coping systems that resulted in self injury and an eating disorder among other things. (that's another blog for another time)

The critical, cryptic language of girls and women began to constantly ring throughout my head and made me a bit neurotic. Have two X chromosomes? Then you know that conversation all too well. I feel ugly. I feel fat. These statements constantly roll around in your brain. If you are alone they pierce the silence with icy sharpness numbing any semblance of truth. If you are in a public place they buzz wildly over the din crushing any crumb of self worth into dust. If you are simply standing in front of a mirror applying makeup, brushing your hair, or any other grooming ritual they shoot daggers and shatter your already thinning confidence. Good heavens! What are we doing to ourselves?? The

truth is “ugly” and “fat” aren't feelings. We as women use these words incorrectly but why? It starts early, this veiled language of sabotage. I remember in 8^th grade watching some of my classmates stand in the mirror in the girls restroom during a school dance. “Oh my lord, I feel so fat!” (I actually being a fat girl secretly rolled my eyes at the twig like being commiserating with her ilk). The other young females join in some anthropological tug of war on who feels fatter or uglier. The truth peeks out a bit later before they leave the loo. Apparently one girl is nervous because the boy she likes hasn't asked her to dance yet. Therefore she feels nervous (not fat) that the boy doesn't like her. Her friends in turn, instead of saying “Fat isn't a feeling. What's really bothering you?” (Like that would ever happen with a gaggle of pimple clad middle school girls). Instead they chide themselves with “I feel __insert incorrect negative word “ in a rite of adolescent communication. What's that smell? It's not teen spirit. It's the distinct smell of bullshit and it's sadly passed on from girl to girl and woman to woman. Let's take some inventory of our true feelings. Fat and ugly are not feelings. They are physical descriptions used in most situations as opinions (everybody has one). “I feel fat” and “I feel ugly” become a wet blanket statement for any unfavorable thoughts we have about ourselves. When I refer to these statements as wet blankets I see them as a cover to extinguish the flames of true emotion under the surface. As women we are mature enough to fully express ourselves. We need to teach and be an example to the next generation of girls that we can communicate our needs in order to have them met or to be understood. To help set this in motion I submit words that are real feelings. I've taken some of these words from the Feelings Inventory list by Center for Nonviolent Communication for full list please visit their website at  www.cnvc.org Email: cnvc@cnvc.org Phone: +1.505.244.4041.

Feelings when your needs are not satisfied:

Afraid

Annoyed

Angry

Confused

Disconnected

Embarrassed

Fatigued

Sad

Vulnerable

Yearning

Now to follow through with this example I will share a true feeling with you that I have been struggling with. I am nervous because I am job hunting and I need encouragement so I will stop throwing wet blanket statements at myself. My confidence is broken. *Deep breath*

It's almost Spring so open up those emotional closets and do some cleaning! Blessings!

The shift hit the fan.

I had planned for this year to be a blossoming time of wisdom. I hoped for a time where I would grow and gracefully unfurl a tender new leaf of growth, control, and maturity. I wanted to take each life lesson with a deep breath and release what stunts my growth, be in the moment to learn what I needed, and move along as the enlightened adult I am. But to be honest, January ended and February started with a bit of an emo vibe. Dealing with myself lately is kind of like dealing with a teenager. Do you smell that? That's me reeking of insecurity, angst and pimple cream. Why? Because not only am I dealing with this awkward faze of proverbial lanky limbs (verbally stumbling whenever I open my mouth) but apparently my skin has decided to join the blatant attack on my self esteem and grace me with acne. Hey life, while you're chucking those lemons can you at least help a sister out and toss in a few strawberries? Okay, so I'm whining a little. I was all set to post this wonderful blog entry on loss that I felt was touching and helpful. I had completed it early accept for the ending. I just figured I would tie it all together in about 15-30 minutes tops then post a polished piece of perfection that I would be proud of. Instead I couldn't do it because that big writers block of cement wouldn't get out of my way. So in this day and age of technology I just decided I would put an end to this. I would nip it in the bud. I wanted a smooth conclusion. I wanted it now and the internet was the way to find it. I know I'm not the only one who has ever had this problem. I'll find a snippet about this issue and be done with it. I took a deep breath and said “Okay God, I release the hold of negativity I have allowed in my life. My devotions this morning was about acceptance and I accept this new shift as it moves the block that does not serve me”. Then it popped in my head. Quotes about writers block would be fast and easy I could find one that would be the answer. A drive thru window for my McProblem. I type “quotes for writers block” in my search engine and behold a plethora of answers at my fingertips! Another deep breath “lead me divinely” I whispered then clicked.

“The problem is acceptance, which is something we're taught not to do. We're taught to improve uncomfortable situations, to change things, alleviate unpleasant feelings. But if you accept the reality that you have been given- that you are not in a productive creative period- you free yourself to begin filling up again.” 
― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

Seriously??? Click back arrow. Okay, apparently I didn't make myself clear. I NEED to complete this almost already finished piece. Please open a divine door. Scroll next page and click.

“Writer's block is caused by forcing your will on the Divine.” 
― Chriscinthia Blount

I groan then throw a mini tantrum. I get up and leave the house pouting. I really wanted to post about my father and loss and it wasn't going the way I wanted. I decided if I couldn't write my way I wasn't going to write at all. I made my way to a bookstore in hopes for inspiration but I was still in pouting mode so I wandered to the magazine section for brain candy. I scan the magazines. News Weekly, too serious. Maxim, as if. Sports Illustrated, not if it was the only one left on the planet. Fashion mags are not usually my thing but why not? I grab one and flip through the pages casually scanning then open on a page that was an advertisement for something called Plan B. I started laughing. I really started laughing out loud. I put the magazine back on the shelf because I was unable to stop laughing and the stares from strangers began making me self conscious but I couldn't stop giggling. I made my way home and sat at my computer still giggling and started my plan B. I know that ad wasn't meant to sell me on shifting my direction in the writing experience but I suppose a shift in my attitude was highly in order. The blog on loss is obviously for another time. My writing muse shook her head smirking welcoming me home as I cranked out this far from graceful human reality. Be gentle with yourself. If you are to grow strong and healthy you have to endure some rain and deal with some manure along the way. Just shift your face toward the sun and become. Sprout on!