Comfort zones, caves, and stepping out. A little.

Jan31

These past few weeks have been a whirlwind for me, I’m a little overwhelmed in many ways. I ventured into the cyber world further than I ever thought I would and have made some amazing connections. Some of which I can already tell will bloom into more than passing acquaintances, I’ve found a few kindred spirits and friendships have began to blossom.

It is strange and amazing and I am thankful for it all, but still . . . It is new and maybe a little bit scary.

I am doing my best to embrace this new aspect of my life, I actually think I am doing quite well with it all, but there is a part of me that just wants to crawl back into my little cave and shut tight the door behind me, locking up all the little locks I use to keep the world from coming in.

I’m not going to, not today, hopefully not ever. If I do retreat, and I likely will, it will hopefully only be for short spells when I need to reflect, rejuvenate, and catch my breath.

I’ve been given an opportunity to expand my corner of the world, to branch out and see what there is to see beyond my own horizon. It’s beautiful and vast, parts of it I cannot wait to explore and other parts I already know will remain distant territory I will not be journeying to.

These new people I am encountering — some of them are so very different from me, yet with each one, despite these differences, there is a single thread somewhere in our own unique tapestries which sort of weave us together.

There is part of me feeling so far out of not just my comfort zone, but my league. I am reading the words these weavers of thought create and I find myself thinking, wow, I wish I could do that, and then one of them will comment and say, I love what you’ve written, I wish I could do that, and I am left in a state of shock and amazement.

I haven’t yet figured out how to manage my time and my energies, new projects are being presented to me, all of which I want to accept with a resounding, Yes! I would love to contribute! But how to choose and when to find time enough to dedicate just the right amount of me to these things is tricky.

Baby steps. I have to simply take baby steps.

Thanks for keeping me company as I find my way.

Crystal R. Cook

Procrastination Evaluation & Silly Dissertation

Jan30

Evaluation Of My Procrastination followed by My Procrastination Dissertation

I don’t procrastinate.

I . . . simply . . . do . . . not . . . procrastinate.

I don’t. Why everyone is always nagging me to get things done, I have no idea. I’m always on the go, always doing, and doing, and doing. Admittedly, there are times it may seem like I’m procrastinating, but really, I’m not.

Take the dishes for example, one might assume since they have been in the dishwater for two hours I am avoiding them. Not the case. Not remotely. They’re soaking. No procrastination there, the dishes will take less time to wash if they have been properly soaked. There is always a method to my madness.

I am quite adept at . . . never mind.

Just, never . . . mind. I’m not going to successfully fool anyone into believing I am anything but a habitual procrastinator. I don’t mean to be. I just have too many things to do during my day and since I’m so busy bustling about, I don’t always get to everything I need to get to.

I always have the best of intentions, but before I know it, the clock has ticked its way to the end of the day and I am rushing to accomplish whatever is in need of being accomplished. I do try to give my attentions to the many important things which need to be done, but it never seems to fail, my mind will wander and I will begin something new, it’s a vicious pattern of behavior which generally leaves me with many things left undone.

Actually, some of my best work is born when there is no time to spare. Not always, but sometimes. My procrastination is in no way premeditated, but I am quite conscious of it, which makes it all the more frustrating. I have a constant dialogue running in my head, “You really should get this done, you really should be doing that, stop this, start that, finish this, finish that.” I rarely listen. I have Christmas cards from maybe a few more than three years ago tucked away on a shelf in the garage. I personalized each one with handwritten notes of yuletide cheer, I put them in envelopes, I addressed them, and yet there they sit. The worst part . . . they have stamps on them.

Terrible isn’t it? All that was left to do was post them off. I thought it would be best to take them to the Post Office personally, I figured the mailman had enough to carry as it was, but I never made it to the Post Office. Christmas came and went as did the welcoming in of a brand new year, and still they sat and still they do, with stamps no longer worth enough to send them on to their intended destinations. Sigh.

If I knew the secret to ridding the world of whatever unseen force afflicts me with this procrastination disease, I would share it with all . . . eventually, when I got around to it. In the meantime, I’ll keep talking to myself, making lists, setting goals, and alarms, and asking those I love to remind me of all I need to do.

I’ve managed to raise children; keep them clothed and fed, I’ve been a loving wife and I’ve kept the bills paid, mostly on time, and the house relatively tidy . . . I’m doing alright.

~ and now ~

My Procrastination Dissertation

It’s not a lack of motivation,
it’s not a lack of inspiration.
Perhaps a lack of preparation,
and a little bit of hesitation
lead to my lack of concentration.

The causation of a new fixation
causes quite a complication
when it comes to application.

Maybe there’s a correlation
with my constant deviation
and my need for relaxation.

I have the aspiration,
I’ve got the inclination,
and by my estimation
I shouldn’t have the aggravation
of this adjudication.

Frustration in vocation
is in this combination,
leading to the culmination
of my current classification
of constant procrastination.

So briefly in summation,
I plead guilty to this accusation,
no need for condemnation.

I can’t give compensation
for my violation,
but as a demonstration
of my dedication,
when I get a chance

I’ll start rehabilitation . . .

Crystal R. Cook

He sparks. He is a good man.

Jan30

My son is like one of those little fire starter gadgets, you slide the metal prongs across the magnesium and sparks begin to fly.

The sparks he generates often flicker softly to life, creating a perfect and manageable fire which can reach right into your heart and keep you warm long after the flame turns to ember, then ash.

Other times, those little sparks burst into a raging inferno and those closest to him must seek shelter from the firestorm about to engulf them. The flames extinguish themselves quickly enough, but the damage left in their wake takes time to repair.

Bipolar is funny like that.

He surprises me sometimes. Recently, one of those little sparks set a blaze which tore through my home with such force. Before I had a chance to douse the flames, it snuffed itself out as it often does, and I sat in the silence while the smoke cleared.

Sometimes, in spite of the destructive nature these wild flames possess, something unexpected and good rises from the ashes they’ve left behind. He came to me, calm . . . as though nothing had happened, wondering why I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. I’ve learned to simply move on, wipe off the soot and just look ahead.

He’d written something he wanted me to see. I received this message on my computer a short while later: Steady is the mind that fixes, angry is the mind that destroys. If we wish to change something, to fix the problems that befall us, it cannot be done with a fist, but with a stand. And you fix any grammar errors that may or may not be present.

Sparks. He is filled with beautiful, sometimes scary, always passionate – sparks.

He is a good man. His heart is so good. He would never intentionally set a fire he thought could bring anything but warmth and comfort, he doesn’t even seem to know when one of those wayward sparks begins to burn out of control.

He is a good, good man.

I mend it with the broken pieces.

Jan29

When my heart was broken

and lay shattered at my feet

I saved the parts I could

though there wasn’t much to keep

I put some pieces in my pocket

in case I needed them someday

the rest I used to build a road

so I could walk away

I built a bridge with what was left

and crossed the river of my tears

it carried me past heartache

kept me safe from all my fears

With every step I took

my heart began to mend

better than it was before

it grew strong enough to bend

Every now and then

when I feel it might just shatter

those pieces in my pocket

remind me of what matters

And when it happens like it does

and I find a little crack

those pieces in my pocket

are the pieces I put back

Crystal R. Cook

Mother of the Year in one picture.

Jan28

This is photographic evidence of the day I earned my first Mother of the Year award. No wait, I think I had already been awarded two by the time this little munchkin mishap occurred.

I have a collection of them.

You’d think the kind stranger who snapped the photo for us would have said something. He didn’t. No worries, the chubby little troll sliding from his ride was unscathed.

LET ME FEED YOU SPOKEN WORD

Jan28

Lizzi is a weaver of words figuratively, creatively, and when you listen you will see she does it quite literally.

I fell in love with her ability to make magic with her thoughts, then I found out she was a little bit of magic herself, the not afraid to do the trick even if you aren’t sure it will work kind of magic. It always works.

It isn’t the pseudo magic of grand illusion people gather in audiences to see, knowing none of it is real but pretending it is to justify the cost of admission. Her magic is free and better than what the man in the cape who hides his secrets behind the curtain offers . . . Her magic is quite real and raw and you know it is magic when you see it.

I’ve listened to her voice in black and white, printed on pages, shining up at me from a screen, but now, I have heard it for realsies and it is just as lovely as I imagined it would be and that makes the magic sparkle even more.

HASTYWORDS

I get to showcase two incredibly talented people today. Lizzi with Considerings and Samara with SamaraSpeaks. Samara is showcased in this post in a round-a-bout way but I am crossing my fingers that one day she will write something for this blog directly. However, in the meantime you will see a glimpse of her as Lizzi has written a beautiful post about the power of inspiration.

When Lizzi writes her words are living characters that take shape and form real acrobatic expressions on a page. If you have texted with her then you know what I mean.

BUT she also has an amazing speaking voice, not just because she has an English accent but because it is soothing and gentle. I imagine Mother Goose sounding just like Lizzi…reading all the children in the world into a peaceful dream filled slumber. Many times just hearing her voice will cut through…

View original post 1,269 more words

Morning Desire, sort of.

Jan27

I awoke this morning with the strangest, and I do mean strangest desire. The feeling was foreign and unusual, it was weird, at least for me.

People do it all the time, I just don’t much care for it. My husband does it almost every morning, he’s on his own though, I never seem to have enough energy. He says it’s invigorating, the best way to start a new day. I’ve done it in the past out of necessity, but there was never any actual enjoyment in the act.

It doesn’t seem natural to me, but this morning, I took a deep breath and I did it. Truthfully, it felt pretty damn good. I don’t think I’ll make a habit of it, but I suppose if the mood strikes, like it did today, I won’t fight it.

Do you do it? Get out of bed right away in the morning? I fight the waking up and getting out of bed part of my day with fervor, I stay tucked in and cozy as long as I possibly can.

I am going to admit something, this doesn’t mean I will be rising and shining with the breaking of each new day, but I am enjoying the quiet an early morning offers. The coffee my loving hubby brought me before he left for work is still hot and the birds are happily singing a morning song to me. I didn’t even cover my ears and wish them to fly away and take their symphonic cacophony with them like I generally do.

Still, there is a part of me that wants to lay back and snuggle in, but a shower should cure that. Good morning, quite a good morning indeed.

Crystal R. Cook

If We Were Having Coffee – You would wonder who invited me.

Jan24

If we were having coffee you would probably wonder who the heck I am. I would smile and ask you to pass the cream and the sugar and sit in awkward silence while I stirred a little wooden stick in my cup.

After a sip or two I might attempt to introduce myself, hopefully you would initiate the conversation though. I can be the teensiest bit socially reserved and ever so slightly shy. I’m not really shy, the sometimes awkwardly reserved part just gets in the way — at first.

I would tell you having company with my coffee is new, I typically sit by myself, but lately I am intrigued by the company I could be keeping, so I’ve decided to step outside of my bubble and join you.

Thank you for not switching tables.

If we were having coffee I would tell you all about the people I’m certain you already know, and if you don’t you should, who quite unknowingly reached inside my bubble and gently pulled me out. It all started with Lizzi. She kind of rocked my world some time ago and changed it by engaging me in conversation, by unconditionally offering her friendship. I kind of love her for that.

By now, I would be ordering another cuppa coffee and prattling on about life, love, writing, my children and the amazing happenstance that brought me here, #1000speak, you’ve heard of it, right? Of course you have, but if you hadn’t I would wait while you looked it up.

I would tell you I’m not much of a joiner, at least I haven’t been, but this whole voices for compassion movement moved me and now I am becoming a joiner. I would tell you I became a reluctant Twitterer, I joined a couple of blogging groups and I came out for coffee, with you.

You might not think these are very big things, but believe me they are bigger than I am accustomed to.

So Lizzi led me to #1000Speak, which led me to Twitter where GeneO the Sourcerer gave me a shout out and now, here I sit, having coffee with you.

If we were having coffee I would tell you it’s been one heck of a week full of new people I feel rather blessed to have found . . .

Crystal R. Cook

My Badge of Honor – Still Wearing It With Pride

Jan24

I am at that stage in parenting when most, or at least many, mothers are trying to decide what to do with all the space in their emptying nests. Maybe they’re gathering stacks of books they’ve put off reading, turning a now empty bedroom into a home gym, or my personal dream, a library. Maybe they’re thinking about taking up knitting or skydiving or writing the novel they’ve always wanted to write . . . I don’t know, my nest is still quite full and my little birdies are currently inhabiting any spaces that could one day become my library.

Three of my offspring are now what the world technically refer to as adults, and the youngest is mere months away from the legality of this reality, but as of yet, only one of them have spread their wings and flown away. I’m not ashamed to say I am content and okay with my nest being slightly more crowded than perhaps it should be at this point, but still, I very much want to see the beauty of them soaring one day.

It’s sometimes hard to believe I have children old enough to be considered all grown up. I remember when I thought if I heard *Mommy* being shouted throughout the house, the store, or the playground one more time I was going to change my name. I remember so clearly . . . mostly because it was yesterday. Literally. With the exception of the playground, it was in actuality, yesterday. You should see the looks I sometimes command at the supermarket.

Yep, my grown up kiddos still call me Mommy. They are bigger than me, bigger than their father, and they call us Mommy and Daddy. They likely always will and to be honest, I love that. I love it so much. I wear that name like a badge of honor.

Sure, we get odd glances and some behind the back comments every now and then, but it never bothers me, it never has. Maybe if people knew why these giant creatures we created call us mommy and daddy they wouldn’t snicker so much, maybe they would think it’s as precious as I do.

The oldest two of my former house trolls are bright, brilliant, and beautiful young men who came into this world with a few challenges. Those challenges have gone by many names over the years: developmental delays, speech delay, sensory integration dysfunction, ADD, learning disabled, PDD, OCD, ODD — the list is long. They were both eventually and properly diagnosed with autism and many of the extras which often accompany it. The younger of the two has an additional diagnosis of bipolar just for fun. It’s not really that fun.

Those boys are my heroes, without a doubt, truer than true heroes in my book. I used to think I would one day have children and I would teach them all about life and love, but it turned out they were the ones who taught me about those things. My children, all of them, have taught me more than I ever imagined possible.

I was abundantly blessed to have these amazing children who have grown into these amazing people, who strangely to some, still call me Mommy. You see, speech came late for those first two boys of mine, and when it came, they called me Mommy and they have called me Mommy every day since. To them, it is my name, it is who they first came to understand I was and they saw and still see no reason to change that. Their younger sister and brother followed their lead and I am blessed with the honor of being called Mommy.

While I do long for that someday library, I am happily okay with waiting for their wings to grow strong enough to carry them.

Crystal R. Cook

Trying to figure out Bloglovin

Jan23

<a href=”http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/12780975/?claim=49f2kk7rz9p”>Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a>

They said to paste a code so I have . . . I am so computer lost right now. Trying to Twitter and adding things to my blog. I really should have asked my offspring for help!