The Secret Is Wags

My mother keeps many of her memories in a cedar chest at the end of her bed.  The trunk holds awards and clippings—I think she saved every newspaper column I ever wrote, and she has at least five copies of the first whole newspaper in which my first column appears.  The chest holds locks of hair and photographs and playbills.  And it holds some of my early artistic and literary efforts.

There’s the paper plate covered in uncooked pasta and sprayed with gold that I made in third grade.  There’s the misshapen sickly blue mug that I made in fifth grade.  There’s the stilted poetry I wrote throughout grade school, and the 20 page, 10 chapter “novel” I wrote when I was twelve (I think it started with something like “it was a dark and stormy night.”)

My mother treasures every one of these creations.  Why?  Because her only child made them.

Each of us is still the child we were when we were young enough to be making funky art projects.  Each of us is worthy of the kind of love that saves those projects.  Each of us deserves to have our creations treasured and celebrated. (more…)

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I’ve spent most of this week in my bedroom.  Hmm.

A couple years ago, I was stuck in my bedroom for six weeks, in bed because of a broken ankle, leg, etc. (I couldn’t walk at all).  I didn’t want to be in my bedroom then.

Now I can walk anywhere, but I’ve been cocooning in my bedroom.

It all started with the freelance stuff.

God, I’m a broken record.

I get up and walk with Tim and Ducky in the morning.  I come home and take a shower, and then I get in bed with my laptop.  I’m not just sitting in bed doing nothing—I’m doing freelance proposals and blogging, but I can’t seem to bring myself to leave the bedroom.

I feel safe in here.

Even though I’m doing things I don’t want to do, there’s something comforting about doing them in my cozy, warm bed with Ducky at my side.  Maybe the bedroom is the lollypop doctors give kids when they have to get a shot.

I have a very well-developed inner child.  She tends to throw tantrums.

She’s NOT happy right now.

Twenty five years of writing and working toward a goal, and she’s scrounging for low paying jobs.  Waaaaaahhhhh.

This morning, I was dusting, and I found the purple amethyst crystal I put in the supposed money area of my home (according to feng shui principles).  It’s been sitting there for seven years.  My inner child wanted to pick it up and hurl it through the bedroom window.

I’m pissed.

That’s better than despair.  (Abraham-Hicks tells you not to try and leap up the emotional scale from depressed or despair to joy).  I can feel the relief in pissed, but I don’t want to stay here.

Maybe cocooning is okay right now.  But I’d rather feel invigorated and excited.  I’d rather want to join the world.

Right now, though, I’m pissed at the world.  So I think I’ll stay where I am a little longer.

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