Do Not Go Gently

It's been a long week for Madgie.

Being a medical mystery is complicated on many levels. Having a chronic untreatable medical condition becomes a series of good, bad and ugly days, of reminding friends and family who don't see you on a daily basis that yes, you're still sick. It means explaining to them, again and again, that this isn't going to go away and you're not getting better until the mystery is solved. Yes, it's a big struggle just to get through most days, but you are tired of whining about it so you just suck it up and keep on doing what you've got to do. Many of my friends and family have no clue that I have chronic unresponsive severe asthma and those who do don't really have a clue what that means. It doesn't come up in conversations much. Besides, no one wants to hear about your ailments. Even if they say they do, they don't. Trust me.

Having a chronic physical condition means missing out on things that matter a lot to you and matter to the people who matter most to you, sometimes at the last minute. When you have a condition that doesn't include an obvious physical handicap, people question the validity of your complaints. You look fine. What's the problem? It becomes an endless stream of explanations and apologies and clarifications. When you have a chronic cough, people look at you like you're Typhoid Mary. Or they want to fix it right away with a glass of water or a cough drop or some remedy they found on the internet or some herbal concoction or vitamin therapy they swear will work. I have tried everything. It becomes tiring trying to explain that. So for the most part, you just stop talking about it and you do everything you can to hide it or you just say thanks a lot and let it go. People mostly can't understand things that aren't black and white. It's human nature.

I have spent a lot of years pretending everything was fine and I do so much in such a public fashion that most people have no clue I'm living with a chronic condition. When I'm on phone calls and I start to feel that tickle in my throat, I just make an excuse to hang up. It's easier. If I'm at a big trade show or public event, I always know where the nearest restroom is just in case I have to duck in and cough. It doesn't affect my ability to deliver when I need to do so. It's complicated, but I have a tenacity and a resolve that will not be denied and I refuse to give up or give in. I'm a fighter.

I realized six years ago after a very scary experience that the only way you're going to get well is if you're willing to fight. The way the medical system is structured, it is easier to hand you the prescription that works for everyone else and send you on your way than it is to seek deeper answers. If your doctor isn't fighting for you, find another doctor. If you're not getting the answers you need, ask someone else. Keep asking and keep seeking until someone listens. Find someone to help advocate for you if you get too sick to do it yourself, sometimes having someone else confirm what you've been saying for months or years can make all the difference. Doctors are funny like that. You do not have to be a good patient and follow the rules, in fact if you want to survive I suggest you don't.

 "Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light." Dylan Thomas

Love
Madge

Keep Faith

 Image Copyright Stevage Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike License

I have had one of those weeks that feels like I'm taking an extended ride on a rickety rackety old wooden roller coaster.  It's been up, down, sideways, backwards, upside down...and all at the speed of light and in a most nauseating bumpity fashion.  As you know, we had to shell out 2 grand we don't have for a new well pump and we just found it it's going to be another 500 buckaroonies for a new pressure tank.  Yee haw.  I'll just go fire up that money press in the basement...

I've been trying desperately along with my stalwart and valiant asthma doctor to forge some new pathways so we can finally figure out why Madgie can't breathe, a situation that has been exacerbated exponentially by the preponderance of pollen wafting through the air this spring. I just found out today that my primary care physician's office has done nothing towards getting the ball rolling with the insurance company even though we contacted them over a month ago with the information they needed to do so. So this morning, I called and restated the details calmly and clearly and the nurse screetched at me that it wasn't going to happen anyway and it was too much work to get this approved and I shouldn't get my hopes up and she's super busy and yadda, yadda, yadda.

I had to stop, breathe deeply, try to understand her frustration at dealing with insurance companies on a daily basis and remind her that I have every right to want to be healthy and my family depends on that so we can survive.  'Nuff said.

To add to the funky trail mix of stress, there's a glitch in a professional project that we're trying to navigate with diplomacy and it just might result in the loss of more money and time we can't recover.  So that took a good chunk of my morning to navigate. 

Then there's the giant knot in my neck and the stress that's creeping up the back of my head...

...and just when I was about to crawl into bed and have a good old fashioned cry, I got some very, very good news. Huzzah! This is news that we really, really needed.  I can't say what it is...yet. Lord knows I'm transparent.  I was see through when I was born, have I mentioned that?  My mother got a see through baby with a mass of purple veins like a squirmy human atlas after she gave birth.

My poor mother!

I'm going to pop open the desultory bottle of champagne this evening and celebrate the good news with my family.  We can't win 'em all, but we can win some and we can't win any if we aren't willing to fight. I think that's the point of faith, isn't it? In order to believe in things we can not see, feel or touch, we have to trust that they are always there, especially in the toughest times.  We have to trust that within each of us is everything we need to survive, thrive and flourish.

We are all far stronger than we know.  You too, gentle reader.  Have faith.

Love
Madge

I Can Get it for You Cheap

Image Copyright No Sweat.org

Yesterday in my other blog I posted about a thread I started on Facebook that took off like wildfire.  I thought that people expecting to get something for nothing from creative people was the problem, but after speaking with the plumbers who replaced our well pump yesterday who also get regularly nickle and dimed by friends and family members, I realized this was a deeper problem.  It wasn't just that creative people were being rampantly undervalued, the fact is, everyone wants something for nothing and if you're willing to give it to them, they'll gladly take it.  We've been so conditioned to get it all super cheap and super fast that we're reticent to pay more or wait for anything.  Of course we'll stand on our soap boxes and preach about buying handmade and buying American and then turn around and look for a super sale or hit the local corporate chain store in search of dollar items and bargain bin scores without a second thought about the deeper implications. 

Earth Day is today and after a particularly fruitful visit to a local thrift store I mentioned to my husband that if more people bought second hand and re-purposed these items, the world would be a better place.  In my twenties everything I owned came from thrift stores-my clothes, my shoes, my decor, my furniture...everything but my food!  The grease pencil prices on the bottom of my shoes were a family joke, but I was the one laughing because I knew how much those vintage shoes were worth!  I didn't have a car and the thrift stores were in walking distance, plus I loved vintage and it was plentiful back in the 80s in the Bay Area.  I'm determined to master my sewing machine so that I can whip up my own fabulous clothing from vintage fabric and patterns and stop contributing to the mass consumer culture.  Yet I, too, bend to the siren song of that fabulous and super cheap dress at Forever 21 or H&M.

The fact is, if it's cheap, someone didn't get paid fairly.  Chances are that someone lives in a third world country, they work in sweatshop conditions and might even be trapped in a lifetime of indentured servitude. When we created laws to protect the worker in this country, it was a very good thing.  Unfortunately as time progressed the manufacturers took their business elsewhere so they could get cheap labor again.  Fact is, that cheap thing we covet isn't cheap at all.  It's quite expensive, only someone else has paid the price so we can get it cheap.

A good friend of mine told me a story once that haunts me still.  He was in China visiting a factory when a worker on the floor had a sudden heart attack and died.  My friend expressed his concern and the tour guide responded, "Don't worry, we can get you another worker." 

When my husband and I had a bead shop and Fair Trade gallery we struggled daily with the unfortunate dichotomy of beautiful fair trade handicrafts being sold opposite beads that I knew were being made by people who were dying of silicosis from breathing the dust produced in carving and drilling gemstones and created by people working in sweatshop style factories.  Though we also sold beautiful handcrafted beads and vintage Swarovski crystal, people mostly wanted the cheap strands.  Eventually we took the beads home and it felt right to do it.  No one really wants to think about why things are so cheap.  They may give lip service to supporting the small business owner and making this country great again, but most of them don't put their money where their mouths are.  Then when an independent guy or gal asks to be paid fairly for their work, people balk. What?  How much? I can get that at Target for a dollar!

I am guilty too, so this isn't a sermon.

How do we shift our way of thinking?  How do we let go of this need to have so much and get it cheap?  What will it take for people to realize that we all deserve a living wage and to be fairly compensated for our hard work?  I wonder.  I think that moving the factories overseas has disconnected us from reality, just like we've lost a connection to the food we eat.  It's also killed our economy, but that's another topic for another day.  We live in a time when we are more connected than we've ever been and yet more disconnected than we've ever been.  We're busy, busy in our little bubbles of cell phones and social networking sites and TV programs, it's so easy to get whatever we want whenever we want it and get it cheap...we're losing the basic milk of human kindness.  That's a mighty expensive scenario when you think about what we've lost.

Love,
Madge

Oh, Well

 Kickapoo Wishing Well at the Trail of Tears photograph copyright Kathy Weiser

(Blogger's Note: This post has some unpleasant subject matter, proceed at your own risk.) 

Our well has been having 'issues' for several months now and my husband has diligently worked on DIY solutions.  He's a handy guy and he does a lot of repair work around the Potter School House.  Last week our poor well started to go seriously south and Sunday it was gone  A little note might have been nice.  Thanks a lot, well.  Services are scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.  Please bring pie, creme brulee and paper plates.

We have had no water for two and a half days.  Water is something most people take for granted, myself included.  If you don't have a well, water is provided to you by the city in which you live for a fee.  If you do have a well, you cast magical spells and hope it doesn't die and the power doesn't go out...and then there's the septic tank. Which is a whole other can of worms...or pool of icky...depending on your perspective.

Since I work from home, I'm at the front lines of the no water zone.  I can't use anything that requires me to rinse or wash, including paints and adhesives.  I haven't showered since Saturday and the concurrent layers of extra strength deodorant are starting to head towards epic fail.  We have water in jugs for drinking, rinsing, brushing and a large bucket of water courtesy of our neighbor for...flushing.  The flushing happens twice daily.  I'm selling tickets to the neighborhood kids.

Last night before bed I was rendered helpless with laughter when my hubby asked me in a most serious voice, "How many poos do you make?  Are you making more poo?"

"Yes.  Yes, I am.  Gosh, thanks so much for asking!  Are you the poo police?  Am I being given a poo ticket?  Can a gal poo in private around here?" 

Yes, this is what I've been reduced to. Laughing at poo. 

One can either laugh at this shit or cry.  It's not the end of the world, we just don't have water until we settle on the plumber.

The first plumber to arrive at the scene was blessed with a sparkly white smile, wavy brown hair, a fit physique, baby blues and what my husband later jokingly referred to later as 'rugged good looks.'  Picture the 'carpenter' on a home improvement show.  After he dropped the bomb that our well was going to cost four thousand dollars to fix and lept back into his trusty plumber van with a grin, I told my husband he seemed like an affable fellow and I had a 'good feeling' about him.  Now I realize he was the shiny 'bait' the plumbing company sent out to hopefully meet the 'lady of the house' and flim flam her into spending a small fortune on her plumbing woes.  One wonders if the 'switch' was a big hairy guy with a baseball cap, scraggly pony tail, beer belly and the ubiquitous plumber butt...

Luckily my husband was not swayed by Super Plumber's rakish good looks and he called some other plumbers for comparison bids.  All of these plumbers are from local companies with long standing records and good reviews.  The second plumber came out, told us a similar story about what needed to be done and bid at two thousand dollars less than the first guy.  He was willing to dig the trench himself and not hire a backhoe and a crew.  We had a third company slated to come out this morning, but they never showed.

So we are leaning towards the second guy, but we must look over the contract first. At the earliest, we'll have water again Thursday night.  I am trying not to freak out and I'm hoping my deodorant lasts that long.  Then there are the problems of the mounting dishes and the laundry baskets straining at their seams.  My daughter stood watch over the Raisin Bran this morning with a stern warning about too much fiber and our current plumbing situation.  Seriously. It's come to this.  My family is monitoring my fiber intake and bathroom usage.

Good.

God.

Yes, that's a chorus of Green Acres you hear in the background. Oh and it took me until I posted this blog to fully appreciate the humor of the name of the well in the photo above.  Just take a peek...

xoxo
Madge

Write a New Script

 Image Copyright Dover Books

I am making a conscious effort to post here regularly again. Writing makes me happy.  I'm a big believer in doing what you love. I'm a bit of a pu pu platter creative type.  It has been my experience that most creative people are multi-faceted.  I think that's one of the best parts of creativity.  We aren't limited by anything but our own imagination and our scripts.

We all have scripts.  They start when we're kids.  It's a combination of what we were told by others and the experiences we have along the way.  The scripts can be positive and therefore help us to take risks and believe in our ability to do...or they can be negative and hold us back.  It's fascinating how much power casual words can have on others, something I think we'd all do well to remember before we speak.  Think of all of the people who are convinced that they aren't 'artists.'  The ones who therefore can't give themselves permission to create without that nagging voice in their head blathering on about how unworthy they are and how lame their art is.  This is exacerbated by the bastions of artiness who insist on thumbing their noses at those whom they deem unworthy. I think everyone has had the experience of working hard on something and being really excited about sharing it and having someone crap all over it with an off handed negative comment.

Don't quit your day job.

You aren't an artist.

Maybe you should try something else, dear.

Trees are green, not hot pink.

That's really...interesting...

Good GOD what the hell is that?  Don't do that again.

Be quiet.  Calm down.  Sit still.  Stop asking so many questions.  Why can't you be more like...

These little moments carve themselves into our psyches and if we allow them to do so, they can stop us from exploring and succeeding.  There are so many moments in our lives that shape us and it is up to us, when we become grown up, to stand in the face of this negativity and say, "NO."  These things only have the power we afford them.  No matter what we do, no matter how fabulous it is, there will always be some thoughtless asshole ready to sling a crappy comment our way.  I've come to realize that these comments stem from insecurity and they rarely have anything to do with us.  Many people are threatened by people who aren't afraid to let their freak flag fly.  So be it.  Also, let's face it, everything we create is not going to change the world, we can't expect everyone to love everything we do and we can't create merely because we want everyone to love us.  We have to love us.  We have to create because we simply can not imagine doing anything else. 

I, too, gentle reader, still struggle with wanting to be loved and accepted and with embracing the power of creativity without being attached to the results and reactions.  I get sad sometimes when I hop about reading other blogs and people leave copious amounts of friendly comments for one another whilst one could hear the faint sound of crickets chirping over at my blogs.  I get sad when I spend hours crafting a blog post with a free project and I see the traffic and the downloads and no one even says, "Thanks" or "Hey that's pretty cool, Madge."  I get sad when people whom I know appear to be having a figurative party to which I am not invited.  It hurts.  I can't lie.  The key is to stop taking it so personally.  Either they like you or they don't.  We can't bend over so far we could audition for Cirque du Soleil just to make everyone else comfortable.

Which brings me back to the post about being scary...but I digress.

Do what you love because you love it.  Do it because to not do it would be to shrink your spirit.  Do it because you love yourself and you love others enough to want to inspire them to do it too, even if they aren't inviting you to their 'party.'  Make your own damn party and if it's fabulous enough I guarantee people will show up even if they lurk quietly in the corners.  Let go of the negative scripts and stop seeking approval.  No one else will ever love you enough to make the negative scripts go away, it's entirely up to you.  Like everything, it's merely a matter of extracting it, holding it up to the light and releasing it.  Nothing feels better than letting go of the things we can not change.

Life is series of moments stitched together into a patchwork quilt.  You are the thread that binds it together.  Each moment matters exponentially until it has passed.  Learn to live in the moment and you will find true joy. 

And in the words of the great Bette Midler, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

Love
Madge

The Humble Terrific Radiant Pig

When I was young, probably around 10 or so, I started reading voraciously.  I was a socially awkward kid, as I've mentioned before, and I spent a lot of time by myself.  Reading was a way to escape the mundane and enter magical worlds of possibility.  Our local library offered a summer reading challenge each year and I exceeded the book goals regularly.  In fact I read so much that I exhausted the children's reading section and moved upstairs.  My first 'adult' books were Erma Bombeck's hilarious tributes to suburban life.  She was a brilliant and underrated writer.  It takes true talent to make the everyday drudgeries that funny.  I moved on from Erma to other sections and other authors, though I must admit that there are many classics I have not yet explored.  Reading has always been a guilty pleasure and I still try to read as much as possible, though not nearly as much as I'd like. 

My favorite book as a kid was Charlotte's Web by E.B.White.  I read it every spring for years and each time I found myself hoping against hope that Wilbur would survive and Charlotte wouldn't die.  Each time I read it I cried huge, heaving sobs at the end.  Why did Charlotte have to die?  Why did anyone have to die?  It seemed so incredibly unfair, as death always is. What a beautiful story of unconditional love.  It's a lesson we could all stand to revisit on a regular basis.

 "You have been my friend," replied Charlotte. "That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die... By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heavens knows anyone's life can stand a little of that." 
Charlotte's Web by E.B. White

My obsession with Charlotte's Web caused me to secretly harbor the desire to have a pet pig, just like Wilbur.  A sprampity, hoppity, sweet and snuggly little piggy who would be my best friend.  When pot bellied pigs first started surging in popularity, I wanted one desperately.  Lacking a house of my own, it was an impossibility.  Yet still, I kept the dream alive.

Then a couple of years ago my sister-in-law (an emergency vet) told us about a wealthy local woman who passed away and had a huge collection of exotic animals in need of new homes.  Two of them were pot bellied pigs.  We have less than half of an acre, but we'd already been raising chickens and it's farm country here...so we thought maybe we could make it work.  We went to see the pigs and instantly fell in love.  That was that.  We had their cottage moved on a flat bed truck and they've been living with us since.  They aren't as sprampity or hoppity as I had imagined, but they're sweet and gentle creatures with distinct personalities and I love them dearly.

Because of this long standing love for pigs, it's surprising that I enjoyed bacon, scrapple, pork roll and sausage with such gleeful abandon even after Daisy and Amos moved to the property.  We watched Food, Inc. recently.  What a disturbing movie.  It changed my life.  I refuse to eat any meats that are not free range, grass fed and hormone and antibiotic free.  I think the corporations that have co-opted every aspect of our food supply are the epitomy of evil.  After watching the horrific manner in which hogs are slaughtered, I simply can not eat another pork product.  I love pigs and although I am still okay with eating meat, I'm not okay with eating meat that has been raised and slaughtered with such total lack of reverence or compassion.  We are far too removed from the origin of our food and it's a dangerous thing indeed. 

I will not eat another pepperoni pizza.  There.  I've said it.

"If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day."

E.B. White

Love

Madge

Make a Wish

Dandelion Field Image Copyright mgpenguin86 FlickR

I often contemplate the reason why the oft maligned dandelion inspires such rancor.  It's such a happy little flower.  What's so great about a sea of green grass anyway?  I find lawns pedantic and dull.  I happen to love dandelions.  I wouldn't mind it at all if my entire yard became a sea of cheerful yellow flowers with their bold green spikey leaves dancing in the summer breezes.  Please feel free to send your rejected dandelions to me, as I will treasure them.

Dandelion Photo Copyright Louise Docker FlickR

As if the lovely yellow sunburst of a flower wasn't enough, the dandelion is kind enough to offer us the magical second stage of it's lifespan.  Who among us has not made a most important wish with eyes closed and heart skipping while blowing on the friendly dandelion?  Who among us has not tentatively opened our eyes to watch the little seedlings scatter freely, sending our wishes off to the ethers?

I think sometimes our obsession with order and symmetry and perfection is misguided.  It is the imperfection that reminds us it is okay to be who we really are without apology.  Do you want to be a sea of green grass, perfectly mown into submission, or a defiant little dandelion poking forth in a sea of sameness?  Ultimately we're all part weed, bravely making our way up through the cold soil, stretching our petals towards the light, unfolding, becoming and changing as we grow.  Perhaps it's time we reconsidered our disdain for the lowly dandelion.

xoxo,
Madge

A Crazy Soup

My parents divorced when I was five years old.  It was 1968.  I think that's right, but memory is a sticky thing so maybe I was six and it was 1969.  I believe I had just finished an absolutely stellar run as teacher's pet at K D Markley Elementary school in Malvern Pennsylvania.  Above is my class picture.  Can you guess which kid is me?

Oh okay, if you've not guessed I'll go ahead and tell you.  I'm the one with the goofy smile and the 'not very' Marcia Brady hair fourth from the left in the front row.  It's actually well behaved in this picture comparably speaking.  My mother spent years struggling with that hair.  It was unruly.  It was wild.  It had cowlicks upon cowlicks. It would not bend to the siren call of the Dippity Do or the fervent tug of the rat tail comb.  Much like the child under whom it flew freely, it defied convention with an absolute lack of shame.

I have snippets of memories from the first few years of my life.  We'd already moved several times by the time we got to the lovely little farm house in Malvern.  The little house before Malvern was at the end of the dead end street and I believe it was in Narberth.  Maybe it was a twin, but it's several lifetimes ago when I was very young and I simply can't be certain.  Back then I rode a mean tricycle and had just begun my love affair with Barbie.  I used to have flying dreams in that house, which I can still vividly recall.  Have you ever flown in your dreams?  It's pure ecstasy.  It was in that little house that I also began having a recurring nightmare which continued replaying on a fairly regular basis for many years after.  It was morning.  I awoke to the smell of bacon frying.  I came bounding down the back stairs to the kitchen where my mother was cooking breakfast.  I was stopped cold by a most disturbing vision, between my mother and the staircase was a giant honey bee.  I mean giant like in a Japanese horror film giant.  My mother could not see this bee, but I could and I was terrified.  She was smiling and insisting I come down to breakfast, but I stood frozen on the staircase crying and trying to get her to see this menacing bee.

I hated that dream.

What was the meaning of that bee?  I do not know. Perhaps even then as a small child I sensed that something was wrong in our happy family unit.

I remember planting a potato in the backyard of the Narberth house not long before we moved to the pastoral country setting of Malvern.  I always wondered if that potato grew?  Did the new people who moved into the house enjoy a plentiful harvest of potatoes?  I have moved so many times since and it's funny how often I have left some small token of my existence behind and wondered...did the new people find it and if they did...what did they think?

But I digress in a tangential journey down memory lane, which is always filtered through the hazy fog that is my faulty memory.  My parents divorced when I was five or six and that was a very good thing. Though of course, at the time it felt awful.  We moved every few years when I was growing up.  It meant that I, the frizzy haired, translucent skinned, smarty pants, awkward girl was perpetually "the new kid."  It's not surprising that I was usually met with sidelong glances and suspicious whispers.  I have spent most of my life feeling like a stranger in a strange land, never quite fitting in and never feeling totally welcome.  I am a misfit toy and I have finally come to embrace that, but it's part of what makes me scary I do believe.

Our experiences form us.  They inform us.  They color our perspectives and they shape our choices.  I spent a lot of years feeling sad about being a misfit toy, but I'm not sad about that anymore.  In fact I'm quite pleased about it.  If other people are afraid of me that's their problem.  I have embraced who I am and I've stopped apologizing.  We can not make ourselves smaller to make other people happy, they have to rise to the occasion or move on.

I'd like to let you in on a little secret though...we are all misfit toys.  Some of us just delude ourselves into thinking differently.  The more we embrace our uniqueness, the more we become ourselves.  If we'd all spend less time trying to fool everyone around us into thinking that we're not broken, we'd all be a lot happier.  It's okay to admit that you're a little broken. It's okay if your surface has a few scratches.

It is the scars, the broken parts and bruises that make us who we are.  Mix that up with who we were when we foolishly jumped into this time-space continuum and you get a crazy soup.  Mine's a little spicy.  I like it that way.

"Self awareness is not just a bunch of amino acids bumping together."  

Robert Heinlein  

Stranger in a Strange Land

Love
Miss Fit Toy

The Elusive Happy

It is cold and rainy outside and I'm glad for this because our seeds need the rain.  I don't want to go outside and feed the pigs or make dinner inside either for that matter.  Unfortunately the pigs can't feed themselves.  This is a good thing because they don't have hunger triggers so they'd just keep eating until they exploded.  The people on the other hand actually can feed themselves, but I make dinner most nights and my husband makes breakfast on the weekend.  Friday is pizza night and Saturday recently became nacho night.  It's kind of like having pizza twice...which makes it a bit of a cheat but we make them healthy.  Baked or whole grain chips, black beans, grass fed ground beef and low fat cheese...

I tell myself they're healthy because it makes me feel better and it's a really simple meal to make.  I'm impatient, have I mentioned that?

About ten million times or so?

I'm not sure why I'm regaling our dining schedule here.  I was going to share some deep thoughts, but I'm feeling tired and deep requires digging.  I seem to have misplaced my shovel, galdangy.  So far this has been a weird week.  Suddenly some rather dark moments from my past have resurfaced through several people with whom I experienced them.  It's strange to discover my detachment from these experiences, but also somehow comforting.  I spent a lot of years feeling really heavy.  I had a lot of secrets.  I lived through things that in retrospect don't even seem real.  There was a lot of not so shiny and happy in my life when I was younger and it took a lot of years of naval gazing and the writing of a lot of obtuse and depressing poetry to work it out. 

It gets heavy carrying around your sorrow and your anger and I quite frankly got tired of it.  Letting go was a process.  Our pain is often somehow comforting because it's familiar and change is scary.  Releasing attachment is the most powerful thing we can do.  Forgiveness transforms us.  We can not change what has passed, but we can move forward.  We can learn to treasure the moment and invest ourselves in it fully.  It's powerful.  I don't know if we can ever be totally healed, there are fissures here and there and dents and scratches that we tell ourselves give us character and perhaps they do. 

I want to hold these people in my arms and tell them that it's going to be okay, that they can let the past go and live in the present.  One of the hardest things about being a grown up is knowing that you really can't fix everything.

"It is never too late to have a happy childhood." Tom Robbins

"Especially after your memory starts to go."  Margot Potter

Love
Madge

Am I Scary?

Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford addressing the men in the Pepsi Boardroom in Mommie Dearest 

"Don't fuck with me, fellas.  This ain't my first time at the rodeo."

So...


I had this really important and compelling thing to discuss here today and then I stopped to stare at a shiny thing for a moment and just like that...it was gone.


Poof.


Guess it wasn't all that important or compelling.


Either that or my brain is a sieve.


Honestly after forgetting two very important meetings this week, I'm quite sure the latter is true.


Oh wait!  Huzzah!  I remembered!


A few years back I went to the Tucson Gem Show a day early to meet Kate McKinnon.  We had been trying for a while to set up a time for me to visit Tucson and perhaps explore metal clay basics together.  She's a master in her medium and although I didn't have much to offer in return beyond my eternal gratitude and witty repartee, it looked promising.  Then life intervened, as life is wont to do, and we had but a short time to spend together.  So we walked a lovely bead show and I picked up some really special beads and that was that.


Yesterday I reviewed Kate's stunning new book in my other blog.  It's really sensational.  If you are at all creative and interested in precious metal clay, this is like taking a master class from a master artist in the comfort of your own home.  So I finally got my class with Kate and I can take it at my leisure here at Studio Madge.  All is well that ends well.


Kate generously posted about my review in her blog yesterday and then she wrote something that made me laugh out loud.  She said that I scared her when she first met me because I was three times as alive as most people.  The irony is that with half a lung and the current stealth attack of the pollen people I feel about half as alive as most 80 year olds right now.


L'il ol' me?


Scary?


Really?


Huh.


Though it does make me wonder.  Do I scare you, gentle reader?  Am I...scary?  Is that why the other kids give me funny looks and run away when I try to play with them?

Hello, Old Friend

 Image Copyright Margot Potter

Hello, old friend. I've missed you. I can't believe how long it's been and I'm truly sorry. It's been four years since we first met.  You were and still are my favorite guilty pleasure. I don't know why I took you down, abandoned you, ignored you, came back to flirt with you and ran away again...can you find it in your heart to forgive me? I was afraid of commitment. I'm fickle. I've got a lot on my proverbial plate. Then there's the undeniable fact that I have a big mouth and it gets me into trouble. I often sometimes forget to think first and speak later. I have an epic potty mouth and people were concerned my proclivity for four letter words might affect me professionally.

They were probably right.

Yet I keep feeling the gentle pull of the strings back to this little exercise in transparency. Maybe, just maybe, if I came back and nurtured you perhaps I'd find my way to new professional opportunities...

...or perhaps I'd burn a lot of bridges...or perhaps I could expand my innately held desire to inspire others into some expansive new directions.

It might just be fun to turn the lights back on and see what happens.

What do you think? Are you willing? Shall we make glorious messes, tell tall tales, color outside of the lines. dance with the devil in the pale moonlight and damn the torpedoes as we charge full steam ahead?

To blog or not to blog...that is the question.