Just Plain Crazy: Ok, I surrender... While my manuscript is being ...

Just Plain Crazy: Ok, I surrender...

While my manuscript is being ...: Ok, I surrender... While my manuscript is being edited, I have decided to try the world of blogging to keep in practice and better express...

Just Plain Crazy: Easter Sunday

Just Plain Crazy: Easter Sunday: It was my own decision to get up and go to church on Easter Sunday. My friends had asked me to go to the church that they frequent but I was...

Just Plain Crazy: The Bridges of Madison County (Girls only)

Just Plain Crazy: The Bridges of Madison County (Girls only): After watching The Bridges of Madison County quite a few times and for that matter, Out of Africa too, the sense of lost passion overwhelms...

The Bridges of Madison County (Girls only)

After watching The Bridges of Madison County quite a few times and for that matter, Out of Africa too, the sense of lost passion overwhelms me to the point of severe introspection. For a while I just thought it was the love affairs in those movies that made me swoon with heated want, but now I realize that it wasn’t just the love and lust the characters felt for each other; it was the sense of adventure and getting lost in those stories that fueled my own sense of passion and my search to rediscover myself. Regret will no longer hinder my life. I will seek my own life adventures and passionate love.

The Bridges of Madison County introduces us to a housewife in Iowa who falls in love with a distant traveling photographer in a period of just four short days. The beginning of the story shows the tiresome, day-in-day-out routine of a family and how hard life gets and how easily things that might have once been interesting and purposeful can become mundane. It seems like her efforts at being a good mother throughout many years of dedication have been overlooked or quite simply taken for granted. Her needs as a woman and gratitude from her family have been cut short along the way and the loneliness in her eyes (like only Meryl Streep can enact) makes you identify with her right from the start. It is only when her family leaves for a short trip to a neighboring state fair that she finds herself with a lost stranger who gives her the best gift of her life: true love.

In this short time she travels to many places through stories that he tells of the places he has been, but the main place she goes is within herself. Through the passion they share, She discovers that the person she was capable of being all along was right there within her. He opens a door in her that had never been opened or had been previously locked. As a viewer of this film, you see her world open up to possibilities that we each ache for, ourselves. The human part of the story makes us need and feel the love that they share and want.

Despite their "adultery," the audience falls in love with their affair, which is more than OK for us because everyone loves a good love story--we long for that kind of undeniable passion in our own lives. And through it all, we all find ourselves wanting to go with him when he gives her the chance. In our minds, we had already packed our bags and have them waiting by the front door. We would have walked away from our routine lives for true love, to escape the mundane.

The choice of leaving her family to go with him is in conflict with what she knows in her heart to be right. Even when he is standing in the rainstorm in the middle of the street longingly calling her in silence through the storm, we want her to leave. Hell, WE WANT TO GO! But she doesn’t leave, and as she releases the door handle from the inside of the truck, we sink back down in our seats with regret and despair. Our hearts are broken and our own tears we shed for them stream down our faces in agony. The tears fall and the tissues we have waded up in our hands hold only six words: “Get out of the damn truck!” But she stays, for the selflessness she has always had is strength, too. She is a wife, a mother, and duty to her family comes first. Ultimately, she lets go of the ”could haves” and focuses on the now, always carrying the love for the life that he gave her in her heart forever.

I can never finish the movie. Watching the end is just too painful (I have honestly seen it all the way through only twice). The pain it gives me leaves me empty for the rest of the day. I pity the poor people who have to endure my sniffling and wailing, which is likely pure hell for them. It’s pitiful, I swear--trust me.

Now, I’m not saying that running out to have an affair is what you or I should do to make our lives more interesting and fulfilled. I’m just saying that this sort of thing just happens sometimes. In this story in particular, no one gets hurt and the children (now grown adults) who have come home to sort out things for their mother who has passed find out about the affair only through a letter their mother has written to them (they discover that her dying wish was for her ashes to be spread on the very bridge in the county where this love started). Reading the story their mother has written for them helps them to discover how to put the spark in their own lives and perhaps to redirect their own passions. They learn that although her heart was with another man, she stayed with her family because it was the right thing to do.

I find myself sometimes looking for that kind of love. I think we all do, no matter if we are married or not. We find ourselves looking for the true us that could or could not be with the ones we have chosen for ourselves. The daily routine bogs us down where there is no spark and we know in our hearts that there is something more out there--there is simply more to us as human beings. It is a passion that exceeds everything we have ever known in our lives.  Some of us have given way to the idea that this is all there is and some of us know there is more in life than we can possibly imagine. I am of the latter camp.

The movies gives us a place to live those lives we long for and maybe even to discover something in ourselves that is missing. That is why I love them.  They give us a place to hide within our own lives that have been caught up in routine. It is the safest escape that I can find, for now....

I urge you to look deep within and seek out that missing piece of your life and find the spark that has been dulled within routine. Create a fire in your lives by doing something different, find a passion that you’ve always known was in you, harness it and fly within your own life. Kiss your husband deeper, move the living room furniture back and wrestle with your kids. Hell, I don’t know: wrap yourself in saran wrap and greet your husband at the front door with a glass of wine or make passionate love to him on the linoleum if you so choose, but do it!

If you are single and feel trapped in a mundane life, find what it is that you love and go do it. Movies have always been my drug of choice and my passion is to make people feel the way these movies have made me feel.  I can only hope that after writing my stories and perhaps making a movie or two, someday I will have some of you shouting at the movie screen, “Go!”

Easter Sunday

It was my own decision to get up and go to church on Easter Sunday. My friends had asked me to go to the church that they frequent but I was not forthcoming with a commitment until the morning of. For some reason, it had taken a lot to commit to any religious institution. I must say that I have great faith and I have my own direct line to God through prayer but “The church” has put such a sour taste in my mouth that I have made my own sanctuary in my own heart and mind. But this particular morning, something in me just snapped. Being that I know that God has a sense of humor, I heard my grandfather’s voice saying, “Get your butt up and go hear the word!” So, thanks to my body’s natural wake-up call, I got up.

My bladder has become the sole reason that I wake up so early these days. Rolling out of bed to sloth my way to the dark bathroom to void it of supreme pressure at or before the crack of dawn has really started to make me feel old, not to mention make me mad.  But nonetheless, it has become my very own built-in alarm clock. Sleeping until my heart’s content has become a faint, faded memory. The calling of my cozy, down comforter in the still-dark room almost made the decision to go to church come too late.

Deep in the heart of the Bible belt, being late to any church especially on Easter Sunday means you will find yourself sitting in a squeaky folding chair or standing up, doing the lean-to on one of the sanctuary walls throughout the whole church service; with my uncomfortable Easter shoes, that was just not happening. Going to many an Easter Sunday service in my life has taught me that much. So, scrambling around to get ready has become my standard mode of operation. My friends had asked me to attend their church with them and, although I really felt uncomfortable going to a new church, I decided to go despite the awkwardness of showing up to a church I had been to only once, and oddly enough, was for a funeral. 

Wearing an all-black, Maxi dress to Easter Sunday service is considered taboo where I’m from, especially if that dress looks like it should be worn for funerals only. But I didn’t care. I was going to Church and just going was enough as far as I was concerned. I have long since stopped caring much about what others in my town, the Rose Capitol, deem appropriate, for I am by no means a delicate flower. The simple fact that I didn’t wear underwear would be satisfaction enough to unnerve anyone shooting daggers at me for my long past wicked ways. But I went and the decision to go made me feel good.

Walking in the huge, crowded sanctuary, I found a pew across the aisle from my friends and sat down on the end. They were all trying to scrunch together to make me a small space to sit, but even though my butt is quite small, it would have made their sitting quite uncomfortable if I sat there. Smashed in there would have made paying attention to the sermon difficult. I had no desire to be shoulder-to-shoulder, bone-to-bone with anyone. I was content with the space I had found next to an elderly lady in a pink pant suit and a smile that had “He is Risen!” all over her.

Before the service started, the deacons and ushers looked like secret service men scanning the sanctuary for extra seating on the pews for late-comers to sit, flashing a two-fingered signal to the pew and then to the back of the house to another usher who had a couple waiting for a sign to have a place to sit. The rustling of programs and clearing of throats in stereo was a familiar. Everyone in their Sunday best is a common sight and the bright colored dresses are enough to make you think of the movie Steel Magnolias.

Draped in black and white robes, standing behind the pulpit, the choir looked like something out of a Charles Dickens story that I had envisioned in my mind. Their mouths were open into perfect “Os” as they sang hymns from open books laid out in their arms before them. "Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"
They sounded like a chorus of angels and gave me a strange peace. Songs that I have heard over and over in my life have more meaning now than they had in the past. Though I doubt I know anyone singing in the small choir, I still find myself scanning their faces for people I know. They are to me, in that moment, angels with human faces and I find great comfort in their voices, in their songs.

There will always be a small child in the service wearing what looks to be like a christening gown screaming cries at the top of their lungs in the service, so loudly that you can hear them over the music. And of course the parents never seem to excuse themselves to get the crying under control. “Give that baby a cookie, or a bottle!” is the passing thought I catch going through my mind and soon after, there is silence. For some reason, though, I don’t get irritated at the cries these days as I would have before. I don’t shoot daggers to the side of the sanctuary where the cries are echoing from. I sit in the stillness of the moment and wait patiently for the sermon to begin.

The verses of the affirmation of faith that are recited aloud by the whole congregation are familiar and I find myself saying the words in unison as I have a thousand times as a teenager in the church I have not been to in some time. I was surprised that words that I have not said in so long came flooding into my mind and heart. They, too, give me comfort and a sense of forgotten pride. I looked around while reciting the surprisingly familiar words to find someone who might have known me and my life before the fall, who might be proud of me for returning to the fold, but there were only my faithful friends mirroring my lips with their own. Flashes of smiles and a wink were exchanged across the aisle, warming my heart.

The preacher begins his sermon after a hymn--number 327, Crown Him with Many Crowns--is sung by the congregation. I listen intently and take notes, instead of passing notes, for the first time in my life and find myself paying attention. Throughout the service, it seems the words and the eyes of the preacher seem to be doled out and focused on only me. I look around at the profiles of others next to me hoping to see the conviction on other faces so I can know he is talking to everyone in the room, but I still feel that he is directing it all towards me. It’s almost like he knows. I do not hang my head in shame nor do I feel awkward. I listen and feel a sense of accomplishment for I know I am hearing his words for a reason.

The words that flow out of his mouth like silk are reassuring: “Faith hinges on resurrection.” I have known this for some time, not only Jesus Christ’s resurrection, but metaphorically my own. I had a hard time getting over the mess I once made of myself, and really have forgiven myself, but couldn’t let it go. For a while, I let my mistakes define me.

I do have a history, a past--everyone does--but this Easter I found for the first time I am no longer ashamed sitting in the house of God. The words of the man giving his Easter Sermon, a lesson I have heard in a hundred different ways and through different voices, made sense to me for the first time in my life.  It reassured my faith, not only in God but in myself.

I have forgiven myself for the things I have done, but this was the first time I really believed it. And I think that it’s not really about who you know that has forgiven you; it is about you forgiving you. It’s about letting go of the regret and doubt you hold in yourself for failing or going down the wrong path. It is a washing off of yourself after you weather the storm. You ask forgiveness of the people you hurt, especially of yourself, and you let it go.

The preacher also said something I have read somewhere, but until he said it that morning, I had never really given it much thought. He said, “The worst thing is never the last thing.” It is such a true statement to me because when my world was at its darkest and I thought my life was over, it wasn’t. I am a living product of pure grace and I know that I am here for a reason, if only to show the world that through love a person can be resurrected from a life that was lost. My life has been changed through love and forgiveness. I have a fresh start; we all do.  I have come out of the worst and plan to make a lesson to share with many. This is the best place to plug my book, Re-Raising Crazy. You should check it out when the time comes.

I didn’t have to be told that Jesus Christ died for me. I know that. It wasn’t the Easter story that I needed to hear that morning. It was the story about forgiveness that I needed to hear. To be reassured that it’s OK to make mistakes; it is the lessons that you take away from those mistakes that shape you. I am proud of who I am now. I am thankful that Jesus died for me and was resurrected so that I too could be renewed. I am proud of the lessons I have learned that make me who I am. I am proud that really for the first time, I get it:  Forgive and be forgiven and move on. It was that very Sunday that that preacher left me with a gift. It was a reminder to never take my faith for granted because even though I don’t go to church on a regular basis, my faith is part of the whole that saved me from a life that could have killed me. And then I would be just another tragic story.

It wasn’t until the preacher stopped talking and I looked down at my watch and saw that time was up that I had realized we had been there for a whole hour and it was quite strange because I wasn’t really ready to go. I wanted to hear more and that was really an oddity for me because I don’t like sitting still to hear any kind of sermon or lecture. Only a few other teachers in my life have left me wanting more and it has been a while since those lessons were given. I was grateful for the words of the preacher and the hunger for the word that he left in my heart. I was glad I went to church and even more glad that I had paid attention. It gave me something to think about and a calming peace to go home with. Kind of like one I had just before I left church camp with so many years ago. It was the snoring of the elderly lady next to me that made me laugh out loud. I thought it was a bit disrespectful that she had fallen asleep in the midst of this powerful sermon, but then again, I guess it was likely one that she, too, had heard many times before. For some reason, I think she had already learned the message that I thought was directed at me. I gave her a little nudge and she patted my leg to say,"thank you" and we both smiled as she said, "Hallelujah!"

After the choir started singing "Hallelujah," it was like something out of a movie. The sun shone rays of through the stained glass windows, filling the room with a bright, colorful light as if the “teacher” was cheering on the student for getting an “A” on a test that would secure her future in the world. And the smile I carried on my face was one whose meaning only God could have known. I had finally gotten it.

When the service was over I went home and changed clothes to go and have lunch with my family. The time was short but sweet and I was on my way home. It was fulfilling for me to go to church and getting something out of it was a first in a really long time. I guess it's all about listening and being receptive to the lessons I was supposed to hear a long time ago. I guess its a little bit of maturity as well. but as they say, "when the student is ready, the teacher presents himself."

Forgiveness is like spring rain; it is healing in a way like nothing else. It washes away the dirt so that new seeds can grow.

Ok, I surrender...

While my manuscript is being edited, I have decided to try the world of blogging to keep in practice and better express my politically incorrect thoughts.  Those who chose to subscribe to my madness, I salute you!

Perhaps I should start this off as: "Stardate: Captain's log- March 30, 2012." Yes, that sounds about right because basically that's what Captain Kirk did only he had the technology to speak his blog.  I am from the sticks where they barely have colored television and the internet connection fades in and out. So, please forgive me if the lack of a my Microsoft Word doesn't catch the run-on sentences, misspelled words, and strange punctuation at any time in this space.

For the past year, starting in May, I have been stationed in a comfy, sunken-in, brown sectional with my trusty cup-o-Joe on one side of me and a cigarette rolling out smoke-shaped dragons over my laptop from the other. Ticking my way one word, sentence, paragraph, page, and chapter at a time is how I got this far and let me tell you, it was NOT an easy task.

Except for taking a few creative writing classes in junior college (yes, we have those here) and a memoir class that I took in Troy, New York over the past year, I have kept a real pen-to-paper journal for most of my adult life. And until the young, spunky girl at the gym the other day said "Yes ma'am" to one of my questions, I hadn't realized just how long it had been. So, the art of blogging is a whole new frontier for me. My only problem with this "New Frontier" is that I don't know if I'm doing it right or if this.... "thing"... has a spell-check.

I am a new writer, of the typing sort, that is, but I think I am getting better at it, learning as I go along. Learning how to put a colored title on the top of my chapters took about six months and I just recently learned how to double-space....

My editor being in New York must be some sort of a saint, having patience with me as I learned how to send my whole manuscript over the internet and not as a PDF (and don't even ask me what I thought PDF stands for).

My memoir is almost finished but it has taken quite a bit of blood, sweat, and tears to get it to the point where it can actually be looked at by someone who knows how to shape it up. I am quite proud of the work I have done, I really never thought I would get this far in the attempt to share my crazy story in the written word but none the less it is getting closer to the point to where it can be published.

I have been stuck, frustrated, confused, and downright bewildered as to how I would pull off this gargantuan project that I, myself, laid upon my own shoulders but as I have recently learned, IT CAN BE DONE.. I wrote a book, I can certainly figure out the blogging world, I hope. How Hard can it be, right?

There is no specific subject that I will cover daily, just pure randomness but I will report to log in each and every day until my editor sends my manuscript back with what to do next. So until then, I hope you enjoy my point of view. I hope I don't offend anyone and if I do, get over your damn self; this isn't your blog now, is it?

I apologize for my short post this entry but my stomach has a ring around it, resembling a small planet and I must return to the  "Death Star" (the gym) to get it operational for a bikini that I am never going to wear.

Quirk Out-