An Accumulated Life

Sometimes themes reveal themselves to you.  A common thread becomes apparent in the tapestry of life, and you realize that Life, or the Universe, or God is whispering in your ear.  Sometimes this happens at all once.  A “Grand Revelation.”  But sometimes it sneaks up on you, skirting the perimeter of your life until, finally, it envelopes you and startles you out of your ignorance.

Things have been happening around me.  Not to me, mind you…but near me.  People have passed away, people have had their home and security threatened, others have had their health compromised, and some have decided to make good on promises they made to themselves and dreams long since abandoned.

I have slowly come to realize that the thread that links these events around me is the fact that they all can be traced back to the accumulations that build up in our life…for better and for worse.

Death, which seems to hover around me, results from the accumulation of time.  Those days that we are allotted fall away like pages from a calendar until finally there are no more pages left to pull. 

I wonder how many days my calendar still holds.

A dear friend’s home was broken into.  Her life’s accumulation of things, and memories, and mementos were rummaged through, strewn about, and stripped from her.  So many irreplaceable things, lovingly picked out and arranged, the accumulation of a family’s life together...ripped away.

Others have succumbed to illnesses both big and small.  Viruses and cancers and artery-clogging plaque accumulate within us, unseen to the naked eye...yet still taking a toll. 

Another calendar page falls to the floor.

Fortunately, this is balanced out by the accumulation of hope and dreams and blessings.  Those who had previously given up on themselves now find cautious courage as they take tentative steps towards long-forgotten dreams.

And here, in my own world, at my cluttered dining room table, I sit at my computer and peck away.  The page-count grows, accumulating a bit more each day. 

Word building upon word building upon word. 

 

Keeping Food on the Table

Over the past year, I have had a lot of requests to read short stories, chapters, and entire book manuscripts.  And, honestly, I love reading them, but I realized I was spending more time working on other writers' books than my own.  I also realized that I was having trouble finding enough time to work on my freelance writing. 

So, my desire to keep helping other writers, and to also keep food on the table, evolved into this:  Terri Wallace Freelance. 

It gets better!  If you are a follower of my blog, I will offer my editing services to you through February 28th, 2013, at HALF OFF my regular rates!  If you are interested, contact me at gingerlovinmind(at)gmail(dot)com.

Still the World Continued

I missed my blogoversary.  It was last week.  But last week is a blur...a really bad, really long and drawn out blur. 

It all started Monday night.  I found out that my uncle died.  I had not seen him in quite some time.  He had been in prison.  He was my only uncle, or at least the only one I grew up knowing.  He was the one who told me stories, and grew gardens rivaled anything in a magazine.  I was married in his garden, near the bridge and just down the hill from the pergola, with a sound of a bagpipe wafting in the autumn breeze.  When his sister (my aunt) was murdered, it was he who drove with me back and forth to the courthouse several counties away.

I never got to say goodbye.  Not to either of them.  One moment they were here and, a moment passed and it was suddenly too late.  We always think there is time enough....

Then on Wednesday, my dad went into the hospital for tests and had some complications.  A series of telephone calls, and missed information, and driving around trying to find the right hospital.  He was admitted, and the immediate threat was taken care of...for now.

Thursday brought with it a dog attack on our cat (luckily, it seems it only used one of his nine lives, so all is well).

Friday was the funeral.  It was surreal and dismal and so totally not-a-proper funeral that I have decided that it was NOT actually his "real" funeral.  No, that will happen this spring when I can plant some rosemary (for remembrance) and gather my children around the grave to tell them stories of the great-uncle whom they will never remember but through the images I weave for them.  And weave I shall. 

I arrived home Friday so very tired, and drained, and emotionally spent.  But then there was another call.  Another death.  This time it was another aunt...stolen away by illness.  She was gone nearly as soon as I had heard she was ill.  Another wordless goodbye. 

So, amidst the plague of sorrows that had cloaked my house, I did not notice something else passing...time, milestones, and silent markers along this journey.  Hour blurred into hour and day into day.  Before I noticed, the whole week was gone and I was left too weary to care.

After many cups of tea, and many spontaneous hugs from children who can't quite understand why mommy is weepy, the moments stop bleeding together and start to resemble something familiar.  The fog begins to lift. 

Despite my grief, still the world continued.

A year has passed since I started this blog.  Some goals have been met, and some are just now taking form.

A year has passed...but the journey continues.

New Year, Same Journey

I do not tend to make resolutions.  I always mean to…I just never seem to have my thoughts collected by December 31^st.  I still have visions of sugarplums, and remnants of “To Do” lists dancing in my head.  So, as far as resolutions go, I vow only to Read More, Write More, and Love More.  Anything beyond that is the cherry on top.

I have always been all about the journey, rather than the destination.  Because even once I get somewhere, I tend to be looking onward.  This is both a blessing and a hindrance.  It is wonderful to look ahead, but I do need to be reminded, at times, to stop and look around…to appreciate it all while it lasts.

I find that the month of January tends to result in lofty goals and aspirations, some which I end up achieving (almost in spite of myself) and others which I continue to aspire to, but all of which I am proud. 

Last year, I got motivated to work on my novel.  And I am still working on it.  The past year has seen me make startling (well, for me, at least) amounts of progress on the novel.  It has seen the start of this blog (and, yes, my blogoversary is looming), and the start of my author Facebook page.  2012 allowed me to start making some money with my writing, and I have been blessed to see my words in print.  (And I am hoping that 2013 sees more of both!) [Knocking on wood.]

I hope that 2013 brings more words, and more books; more love, and more friendship; more blessings, and more prosperity. 

I hope that it brings health and joy, honesty and dignity, and that it brings truth, and honor, and courage. 

May it bring things worth quoting, and remembering, and sharing…and friends with which to carry on the journey.

Blessed is the Life

A life is a story comprised by so many mundane moments, strung together over time, and punctuated by a spattering of majestic milestones.  Many of the most beloved memories are not the most dramatic--a soft smile after the children are all asleep, the squeeze of a hand, a shared sunset.  Those closest to us remember the life...others simply recall a story or two.

Sometimes, History claims a claims a life.  Sometimes a story.  People do the same.  Sometimes a story affects us so profoundly, that the essence of it stays with us forever...if not the specifics. 

As you bend down to tie you son's perpetually untied shoe, you think Remember that man who would have died in the Twin Towers but for the fact that his shoelace broke and he stopped to buy a new pair?  His name is long lost to most of us, but that moment is ingrained forever in your mind.

When you hear the name John Wilkes Booth, you are likely to think "The Man Who Shot Lincoln."  Unless you are a historian, you are not likely to recall much else about his life, or character, or family.

We listen to these stories on the news, enthralled, unable to look away.  We hear bits, little snippets, sound clips designed to grab our attention and pull our heart strings.  We superimpose the face of our child on each victim.  We weep and pray and curse.

This moment, their last terrifying moment, sears itself on our soul.  Years from now we will remember the anguished face that flashed on the television scream, the line of children--hands linked--marching away from the unspeakable.  Each angelic face, their innocent eyes, will haunt us.  And our eyes will still swell with tears of gratitude at the memory of the brave teachers who pulled children to safety--at those who ran towards the gunfire...not away.

Others, however, will remember more than that.  They will remember shared conversations, and laughter, and first steps and first birthdays.  They will recall a myriad of hopes and dreams, and fears, shared in quiet whispers.  They will smile over the petty bickering, the practical jokes, the odd quirks and preferences that used to annoy but are now unspeakably precious.

We will remember the story.

They will remember the life.

...now and at the hour of our death.

I thought I was having a bad week.  There were sick kids, and a sick me.  Day after day of sharing our lone bathroom as the stomach flu ravaged our family.  At one point, late at night, my middle child and I sat next to one another, perched in front of the toilet, taking turns being ill and hoping this delicate give and take was not unbalanced. 

There was laundry piling up, the normal variety as well as the extra caused by the germs that ran rampant.  The house smelled of sick, and bleach, and Lysol.  Extra blankets were pulled out to counter the chills that seemed to have taken root deep inside, never allowing any of us to feel quite warm enough--despite the fact that fevers raged and brows dripped with sweat.

The ill tempers of three tired children and an exhausted mother made us poor companions as the germs and fevers began to subside.  We were all cranky, and weak, and ready to get back to normal.  So off to school and work we all ventured, still a bit shaky, but desperate for the company of someone who had not thrown up next to us, or stole the remote control, or drank the last of the ginger ale.

A midday call from my husband broke the news of the shooting.  The rest of the day was filled with the bits and snippets that filtered through the news, some true and some not.  The details began to fill in, and the full horror of the Newtown massacre began to emerge. 

There is a desire, in times of crisis, to try to find out more details, more images, more information.  We consume the stories, gorge on them, gnawing on every morsel that the media presents.  Each grainy moment frozen in time, every sound bite.... 

No one wanted to be at work.  Even though there was over a thousand miles between my hometown and Newtown, my mind remained there for the rest of the day.  No one wanted to be anywhere but home, with their family, holding their children, and thanking God that it wasn't their daughter, their son.

I thought I was having a bad week.

Thank God for the piles of laundry, the bickering voices bellowing from another room.  Bless their messy rooms and their hair that needs brushing.  I am so blessed to tuck my sassy, loud, unruly children into bed and to kiss their heads before I stumble over a stray Lego on my way out. 

Tonight, we will have a special dinner, all of us, and I will try not to cry as their voices--always intentionally out of cadence--bless the food.  As they complain, and goad, and talk over one another, I will sit back and bask in the beauty of my wonderfully imperfect family. 

Tomorrow, they can clean their room.  Soon, I will shush them, and sigh, and roll my eyes again...but for tonight, I will remember my blessings.

I Want, I Want, I WANT!

In this season of giving, I thought I might casually mention a few items  bunch of stuff that a certain red-headed writer might like for Christmas.  This is also a good list to work off of if you happen to have any geeky writer-types on your Christmas list.

So, in no particular order, I want:

1.  Canned Unicorm Meat.  Count on the fabulous minds over at ThinkGeek to come up with something as horrifically fun as canned unicorn meat.  (NOTE:  take a moment and read their product descriptions.  Seriously...go there now.)  I really want to put this in the break room at work and install a hidden camera to watch all the fun reactions.  Because I am just sick like that.  Oh, come on, I can't be the only one!  Admit it.  You want some, too!

2.  Sonic Screwdriver TV Remote.  This is also from ThinkGeek.  It is a Doctor Who TV remote that you can use to control your television (duh).  Read the description in order to fully understand how amazingly awesome this remote is, and how unbearably cool I would be waving it at the television.  Especially so that it would be mine, ALL MINE!

3.  Lord of the Rings Trilogy.  I also need the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, because somehow (unspeakably!) this is not in my library.  I have no idea how this deplorable oversight happened, but I hope to rectify it immediately. 

4.  Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty.  I need this shirt.  Because my kids really do sing it to me when we are at the sad part of any movie and I start getting teary.  And it really does help to soothe me.  Sing it with me:  Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur.....

5.  Gift Baskets.  Also, I love gift baskets--especially the food type.  There is just something about all those tiny boxes tucked inside of a pretty basket.  All those foods and treats that you would never think to normally buy...too expensive, too "frilly" and impractical.  But when given as a gift, well, it would rude not to indulge. 

Check back in for more Geek Gift Ideas, and feel free to leave suggestions for your favorite geeky or writerly gift.  I will keep adding more ideas as the holidays creep closer!