I am 44 years old.
My mom called.
I got busted for saying the eff word.
I did.
That happened.
In my blog post,
https://theqwietmuse.com/2014/07/06/profanity-wins-this-round/,
I make use of the offending word twice, I may say another bad word, maybe two . . . I don’t make use of them lightly or often.
So, I apologize for saying an effing bad word. I do.
Love you Mom!
Alrighty friends . . . Please whisper a prayer for safe travels as my son heads off on his first adventure, by himself. I am so proud of him, and nervous. Mostly proud. I remember how anxious I was when he took the city bus for the first time, I may have needed a Xanax when he hopped on the trolley by himself for the first time. Okay, the first several times. Today as he boards the plane, I may need two!
I know he is a man, almost 25 now, but this is monumental. It’s hard to even describe the well of emotions this stirs. I know some of you will relate on a level only a parent with an autistic child can relate, I know you understand the hugeness of what is happening today.
In this moment, I haven’t yet found the words to describe the magnitude of what is taking place, I’m not certain I’ll ever be able to accurately convey the depth of this occasion.
Whisper a prayer for me as well . . .
I tend to shy away from cameras, I would rather be behind the lens than in front of it!
I figured since I have voyeuristic tendencies when it comes to seeing pictures of people online, I would share. I don’t feel this way about everyone mind you, just those who allow me the privilege of peeking into their world through the words they pen . . .
Hugs & Prayers ~ Crystal
I have an issue with that, the word that, that is. The word itself is useful enough, important even at times; other times, not so much.
First, the fundamentals. That is typically considered a function word, meaning it has a function, a subordinating conjunction function. I couldn’t resist.
That is used to introduce a clause stating a reason or purpose, to introduce a clause that is the subject or object of a verb, and used to introduce a clause completing or explaining the meaning of a previous noun or adjective.
To be honest, an entire page could be written regarding the various uses for the word in question, I think I’ll skip it and get to the point of this piece. If you’re interested in learning all there is to know about the word that, and who wouldn’t be, Google has you covered.
My particular peeve is the unnecessary overuse of this particular four letter, subordinating conjunction. One of the first things that I do when I’m sent something to edit or critique is eliminate the word that everywhere that it can be eliminated.
I’ll use a recent email that I received – I was wondering if you could check out this essay that I wrote. I was hoping that you could give me some tips that I could use to make it better. I think that it’s pretty good but I want to make sure that it is.
My reply – I was wondering if you could check out this essay that I wrote. I was hoping that you could give me some tips that I could use to make it better. I think that it’s pretty good but I want to make sure that it is.
I would be happy to look over your work and provide you with any insights or advice I can. My first piece of advice, is to go through your essay and remove the word that, as I have done above, wherever possible, and copy it back to me.
With just this simple edit, her essay took on a maturity that it was lacking, it became more readable, and ultimately, more likely to meet her professors expectations.
Most of us are guilty of inserting the word that where it isn’t necessary. When I find old articles or stories that I’d written before I had my grand epiphany about the word, I cringe at the number of times I see it sprinkled throughout the text. It wasn’t until I started editing for others that I noticed how choppy and unrefined something reads when that is practically used as a comma throughout their work.
Obviously, sometimes you need the word that, I don’t want to vilify the poor word, quite the opposite, I want to give it the dignity it’s deserving of. Following one pretty simple rule makes it easy, if your sentence is not going to lose meaning without the word that, you don’t need it.
Example: I was hoping that we could have a picnic this afternoon.
I was hoping we could have a picnic this afternoon.
The second example has better flow.
When you begin your next work of words, be on the lookout for that and make certain that it is being utilized properly. Before you hit enter or publish or send, take a minute to double-check, it will make a difference, I can almost guarantee it.
Crystal R. Cook
I have been trying in vain to add a Pinterest profile widget somewhere, somehow, but I am convinced it either cannot be done or I am even more computer illiterate than I’ve previously allowed myself to admit.
I adore Pinterest. Prayer, writing, coffee, and Pinterest . . . these things keep me sane.
For now, I quit trying to do what may just possibly be impossible, but I would still like to invite you to visit me on Pinterest. I pin a lot and often, it’s therapeutic after all.
So here is my link, if you’d like to come see what I find so Pinteresting!
http://www.pinterest.com/qwietpleez/pins/
Every now and then children will say something so absolutely precious and innocent your heart doesn’t feel quite big enough to hold all the love you have for them. Whenever one of these treasured moments take place I run for paper and pen to record their voices in time for I’ve learned the mind is not always as reliable as we wish it to be.
Through the years I’ve filled many a page with the adorable ramblings of my kids. Now that they are, technically, grown ups, I wish I’d preserved the not so adorable things they’ve said and done to use against them one day. In all honesty though, it would be a short chapter in the book of our lives.
I was blessed with respectful kids. No, really, I was. Of course, I’m not taking into account the Bipolar rantings of my now 22-year-old son, I know he wouldn’t say the things he sometimes says under normal circumstances. I also choose to overlook the thankfully few hormonally charged outbursts the girl child went through. Now, it’s her husbands turn to survive them.
Today I was blessed to recall one of those memories with such clarity, I actually giggled out loud and shed a few happy tears.
When my daughter was six years old she did nothing but sing, from early in the morning until late into the night. I remember her singing one afternoon and I smiled as I listened to her little voice while I did the dishes. After a few renditions of Jesus Loves the Little Children, each a bit different from the last, she was at my side.
I told her how much I enjoyed her performance, expecting the usual thank you and a ten minute conversation about how she would be a professional singer when her veterinary clinic was closed for evenings, holidays and weekends, but our conversation went slightly different that day.
“I don’t think I like that song anymore.” she announced.
I was a bit stunned, it had always been one of her favorites. I questioned her about this sudden dislike of the once loved song..
“Don’t you think it’s kind of gross?” she looked so serious. I was perplexed. “Gross? Why would you think it was gross?”
She crinkled up her nose. “Well, most of it’s okay until it gets to the diaper part. I don’t think it should talk about that, I mean diapers stink and it’s just gross.”
I would have laughed if she’d not looked so sincere. I had no clue what she was talking about. I told her there wasn’t any mention of diapers in the song, but the look on her face told me she wasn’t buying it.
“Okay, sing the song to me.” She hesitated at first and then with a sigh she began.
Her little voice echoed through the kitchen, it wasn’t until she reached the second, alternate refrain, I understood what she was questioning. I listened as she sang, “Jesus diapered all the children, all the children of the world . . .”
I knew better than to laugh at her, it took everything in me to explain what the verse said, “Jesus died for all the children . . .” Her eyes instantly lit up!
“Oh!” she shouted. “I get it!” She skipped away and continued to sing until the sun set on our day.
I cherish these little memories . . .
This morning kind of sucked. Okay, it really sucked. I feel 98% better now, I went on to have a lovely day, despite the torturous start to it. I feel the need to apologize for the naughty words, I really do try to avoid them. Sometimes though, you just gotta let them out.
Instead of hiding away and ruminating about my inability to stave off an unwelcome anxiety attack, I got dressed, grabbed my gun and went to the range with my husband. Every squeeze of the trigger was a release.
There was more than bullets firing from the barrel my .38, I was aiming my frustrations, fears, and worries toward that target, each time they hit their mark I felt a sense of relief.
I realize this may not be an altogether typical way to relieve stress, but it did what I hoped it would do. I was born and raised in Alaska, firing off a few rounds for fun seems perfectly normal to me, my normal isn’t always normal though. I make no pretenses, I am who I am.
A nice lunch, a big ole cup of iced coffee and some leisurely browsing through a giant electronic warehouse with my husband finished the afternoon off nicely. I may just make it through this day after all . . .
This is the part of me I hate. This fear, this fucking incessant, stupid, ridiculous, bastard called fear. I would rid myself of it in less than a heartbeat if there was a way. Fucking anxiety. I apologize for the profanity, its unlike me to use that word, it insinuates itself into my personal vernacular every now and then, like right now. I could easily delete it, but that would be like covering up a lie. I thought it, I said it, I wrote it. Now it exists. No perfect, pretty little words can erase it now.
I want to be rid of this tyrannical and irrational nonsense residing deep within me. I’ve battled it, sometimes somewhat successfully since I was a child, obviously I’ve not yet become the victor. Hope, prayer, faith, writing, and Xanax are my weapons of choice in this seemingly never-ending conflict raging inside of me.
In the past I’ve attempted to seek help from outside sources, my resolve to never again do so was cemented the last time I stepped into the office of someone who promised relief. Explaining anxiety to someone who’s never experienced it in it’s most primal form is like trying to relay the pains of labor to someone who has yet to bear a child of their own. They haven’t anything to compare, nothing in their lives have ever come close enough to allow them to grasp the true nature of what you say. No amount of book learning can result in true understanding.
This man, he was an asshat. His professional, expert opinion was simple; I was afraid of people. No you jackhole, I just don’t care much for most of them. My fears are faceless and nameless, there is rarely a reason they come to call, just unwelcome visitors insane with the notion of driving me mad. This morning, they achieved near success as I sat sobbing and shaking, afraid of everything and nothing.
The panic portion of my ordeal has thankfully passed, but I am left with feelings of undeserved shame over what I am still unable to control. I’m angry about it. No, I’m pissed off and I’m weary. I resent being at the mercy of this invisible and unworthy adversary I allow to knock me down.
Another hour or so and the entire episode will be forgotten, as if it never even occurred. The only residual effect now is the knowledge it will return. I try not to think about that part. I try to pretend every one is the last one, but I am not naive enough to allow myself to find much comfort in the thought.
One of these days I hope to strike the final blow . . . If not, at the very least, I will continue to get back up every time it succeeds in bringing me to my knees. I may not win this fight, but I will never, never succumb to it.
I truly have no idea what I want to write. I suppose that’s not entirely true, I’ve too many things I want to write would be a far exceedingly accurate representation of my current situation. There are so many words inside of me, fighting to be set free. They seem to be canceling each other out in an effort to be given life.
Long kept memories, some good, some I wish could simply be forgotten, wrestle with the new, clamoring for release. Ideas and epiphanies stored in the recesses of my mind, stories and dreams and fantasies, ancient hopes and longings, emerging wishes, knowledge and insights begging to be shared. The cacophony of silent rumblings never seem to rest.
The tangled remnants of thoughts within me wrestle with emerging ruminations, which do I favor? How do I choose? I sit to write, willing one or the other to rise to the surface, making my choice clear, but I wait in vain. They can’t decide so I must choose, but the how eludes me. They taunt me, floating just below the horizon of conscious thought, knowing I can’t quite reach them there.
Sometimes I doubt their existence, call them tormentors and illusions, but that would mean I’ve gone mad without realizing I’d somehow slipped from realities grasp. No, they are as real as the pen I hold. They are unforgiving perhaps, slighted in some way because I did not release them sooner, I could not release them, it wasn’t their time. Perhaps it still isn’t.
Maybe tomorrow they will willingly come . . .
Crystal R. Cook
We have infinitely more power over our thoughts and emotions than we realize. It is within each of us to change, redirect, and refocus the negative into the positive if we allow ourselves to let go of what we think controls us . . . Don’t give the power you hold inside to undeserving thoughts, feelings, emotions, and what you perceive as pain. Grow from it, learn from it, use it, but never, never give it your power.
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