Sick Blessings

I’ve been sick since Thursday. It was hardly anything worth noting on that day, but I went to bed that night hoping for the best, but fearing the worst.

I was actually able to get a run in on Friday, and again, went to bed hoping for the best, but fearing the worst.

Saturday arrived and Randy’s mom and dad came over for breakfast. Despite orders to stand clear of me, I was certain I was on the mend.

Until 4pm…
I’m gonna go lay down for a bit.

Which turned into: I think we should have Mother’s Day dinner tonight. Only to not be able to eat it. The sinus pressure was so bad, I felt nauseous. (I did get to hear 5 of the sweetest toasts ev.er. Oh, how I wished I had a recording of them all…)

I was in bed by 7. Slept horribly and fitfully between coughing spells.

By Sunday, it had climaxed into fever, aches and pains all over, coughing… the works.

One might think such a day would be utterly ruined by the flu. But in many ways, it was the most authentically real Mother’s Day. They make me feel so special, loved and appreciated every single day, that it didn’t matter that I was sick in bed on Mother’s Day.

The best gift? Knowing how amazingly blessed I am and how super awesome my family is. I know that they love me, were concerned about me and missed me. Being able to just be sick and have my family understand and function smoothly without me is priceless.

(Just Write at the EO)

Blah blah blah

I’ve written a lot about not knowing what to write lately.

The irony is not lost on me.

I’m trying to force myself to write until the words just flow, the stories return, my punctuation and sentence structure improves.

Blech. (Thank you for putting up with me.)

I’ve been writing on other sites about other topics, but this blog is my tiny piece of property where I can chew on things, toss them around and try to make sense of the world, share my deep thoughts, or post random photos showing how my hands look like Madonna’s (they totally do.)

My stream of conscious thoughts are not always pretty, so I still censor. My point of view has changed on many things, and I’ve irritated too many ‘friends’ on Facebook already, so I bite my tongue.

blah blah blah…

I’m afraid of losing my voice.

It’s why I keep forcing myself to write at least one post a week, despite the fact they say pretty much the same thing, every time.

linked up to “Just Write” at Extraordinary Ordinary

 

Waiting

waiting Waiting

I keep waiting for the day when my ease for words and writing returns to me.

Waiting…countless days, which turn into weeks. Adding up to months. And years…

They used to flow effortlessly, easily. Type, spell check, publish.

My writing reflected the funny I found in everyday life. Or the profound, seen in unlikely places.

Yet so much has happened since those days of effortless writing. So much that I’m not allowed to discuss. At least not yet.

When I do, I have to write in veiled terms or hidden meanings.

Some of the reasons are legal and have to do with my divorce.

Other reasons only pertained to my reputation.

Whatever that means.

I’m learning to care less about that. Most of those who I thought I wanted to let in, were angered the few times that I did share my story. Regardless of how they would have reacted in the same situation, it wasn’t what they wanted to hear.

It’s difficult. I want to be able to use my words again. To use my voice.

But my voice has changed. I don’t know if anyone will recognize it. Or if they want to.

And so I wait.

And type out more words. Hopeful that, eventually, my voice will be understood.

 

[linking up with Just Write at the EO]
photo credit

No Words

Sunday afternoon, in the middle of working. Out of nowhere, a pounding on the door. Not an “Open-the-door-I-need-help!!” sort of pounding.

No. This is a pissed off pounding.

The door is opened and there she stands. Her voice seems calm.

But her eyes deceive her, and she is angry. She wants answers, but the answers don’t matter. Her words might have been the right words, but she feels wronged and is vomiting her attitude. She smirks without hearing, saying we are dishonest and ridiculous.

Over what?

A yard. Our yard.

It’s been torn up and no one is allowed to play in it for another month. Not our kids. Not hers.

But she’s not buying it.

She stomps back (through our yard), and her words are left hanging in the air.

Stinging, stagnant and ugly.

 

(linked up at Extraordinary Ordinary for Just Write)