She Whispered, "Write."

I suppose you could say I follow my instincts.  My mother always told me to listen to my inner voice, to trust my intuition.  And I have wholeheartedly since childhood.  Or since I was perceptive enough to understand my inner self.  That I actually had one, that is.

She also told me to "never leave a drink unattended, experiment with ouija boards, or dabble in dungeons and dragons," my mother.

Pretty random, right?

But the point of all this talk leads simply to the fact that my inner voice was telling me I needed to make time for myself, to stop over-analyzing our situation, primarily Aksel's autism, and to take active control of my wellbeing.

Because at Christmas, I was a mess... a sobbing, contemplative mess.

So, I did take control.  Or have, rather.  And resulting, it's been two plus months since I've written one creative word.

Don't misunderstand though, it's not for want, or love of writing, that I stopped, it's just because my person, my inner voice said, "rest."

But today, she whispered, "write."  Out of nowhere.

So, I am.

And I respect her, my inner voice.  Because she's comprised of all the women before me.  (More on this later.)

All said, and two months later, I'm happy again!  Not to mention, 10 pounds lighter.  And my mind, most important, is alive.

Oh, and Aksel's beginning to talk, saying simple words like "apple" and "hat."  Ten weeks ago, I was afraid he never would!

By the way, we love his team of therapists!  They're incredible!

And my marriage, despite the challenges in past months, is stronger than ever... most of the time.

We actually believe that autism is a blessing... now.

I'm just happy to be writing again!

PS - I really appreciate the notes and emails I've received over the last few weeks.  And despite my silence, they've helped so much!  

A Mother's Christmas Story

Much like my mother, I love to write.

And for a few years now, she's been sending me her stories in the mail.  The one below is the first I ever received.

If you have a few minutes, read my mother's holiday story, "My Favorite Day of the Year."  It made me cry!

Oh, and did I tell you she's not sick, my mother?  She was thankfully diagnosed last week with a treatable condition called Diverticulitis.

Can you say, joy to the world?  What a relief!

Now, here's her story:

“My Favorite Day of the Year”

Another long and humid summer is now lost into the faded background of time, and what was once an exquisite blue shaded canopy is now occupied with an assortment of puffy licorice clouds that adorn the sky above. The colorful leaves of autumn have fallen from their mother branches, icing the ground with a kaleidoscope of brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow, and leaving behind the darkened shadows of stick trees, and the death of yet another season. The echoes of neighborhood children roll triumphantly down the street, playing melody to my ears, while the circular piles of leaves await burial in big black bags. The determined November wind blows swiftly, howling a tune of death, and bringing with her the chill of December. My bones are now cold and shivering uncontrollably, I must rely on the warmth of my wool sweater to aid me, and with each exhale of breath, white clouds of froth come billowing forth, leaving crystals of ice upon my lips. “Oh the excitement that stirs within me,” bringing me closer to Christmas, my favorite day of the year.

College finals are lingering, the stress is mounting, my patience is dramatically shortened, and my nerves are shot, but in spite of all this overwhelming pressure, the spirit of Christmas is blooming gloriously within me, spawning the birth of excitement. The inviting scents of Christmas time surround my widened nostrils. “Yummy!” The aroma of warm apple cinnamon strudels and hot peppermint cocoa dances and swirls around gently in the air, leaving a tease of delight upon my tongue. Cling-Clang goes the bell, as the Salvation Army Santa Claus stands guardian to the doors, my hand reaches out with kindness as I hurry into the warm air inside. There are sales galore, and gifts to be carefully chosen. My mind is hit with consecutive waves of thoughts and ideas of how to make this Christmas more special than the year before. With so many things to do and prepare for, I can hardly wait to get started. “Yippee-Yahoo, I am counting down to Christmas day, my favorite day of the year.”

Most days of the year are ordinary and uneventful. Days tick away with the hand of a wall clock. School, studying, routine, and schedule play monotonous host to my time. Life passes quickly by, and the memories fall neatly into an organized stack where they lay motionless and gather dust until a time of recollection. However, “Christmas is a special day.” This is the one day a year when all four of my beautiful children scurry from all directions to gather around me to share the love of the newborn season. My halls are decked with Christmas cheer, my financial ship has sunk, the tree stands tall in liberty and all its glory, and the star above twinkles. The presents are wrapped with special care, shining colorful curly ribbons and perfect little bows, who are awaiting the hands of my children, who will have no mercy for their beauty.

At long last my favorite day is here. One by one my children greet me with a tender hug and joyful smile, my tears of love roll softly and quietly down my face, menopause has bitten. Nostalgia fills the air, leaving no room for intruders. They are eager to reminisce and tell their stories of the year past. “My children are so beautiful to me,” each one different and yet they are all the same, “angels,” little pieces of heaven fallen perfectly from above. Their innocence and eagerness for life intoxicates me. I stand amidst them, gazing into their chestnut eyes. There is a bond of love between us that will forever be unbroken. “My Darlings,” I say as my tone gains altitude. “Today we are blessed. We have all made it safely to another Christmas, and have been given this time to be together again. I confess to you all, I am guilty of loving each one of you. I cannot explain the size of my love, not in cups, quarts or liters, but each night when I lay my head upon my pillow, my prayers and love for you is exactly the same. A wish for happiness, love, and prosperity is guided toward you. Life is short, and at its best, is very difficult, and if for reasons unknown I should not make it safely to our next gathering, look back to this Christmas, and there you will see the size of your mother’s love, and how special you are to me.”

Two weeks have passed since Christmas. My house is haunted with the songs of my children’s voices and laughter. Happiness, comfort, and peace embrace me, as I hold closely my new Christmas memory. I walk briskly across the frozen brown grass, ever so steady, onward to my mail box. Tucked neatly inside is a small gray envelope with the words “I love you mom,” written boldly across the bottom. I saw not another step, and it was as if a string had lifted both ends of my lips, I was swept away in thought and smile, back to Christmas, my favorite day of the year.”

A Pool of Positive

If I don't write, I feel like my head'll explode.  And I've felt this way since I was a young girl.

Like I needed to purge my thoughts.  My descriptions of interesting places, and the people therein.   My observations about life.

And when I say purge, I mean often.  (Write often, that is.)

For example, during my college years, I always carried paper and a pen in my purse, because I had to write.  To be more specific, a spiral-bound journal (adorned with relevant time-period clippings), a reliable felt-tip pen (preferably in black), and Wite-Out (because I was particular, go figure, about my penmanship).

From time to time, I even had a voice recorder on hand.

But to my point, I've been feeling overwhelmed lately, and I'm struggling to organize my thoughts, my heavy writer's mind.

And with everything going on, my mother's recent health tests (she's undergoing an endoscopic procedure on Monday), Aksel's autism diagnosis, and the in-between stuff like housecleaning, laundry, and dentist appointments, I've been in a serious spin.

Throw in the disability/Tefra/Medicaid application-process and multiple weekly in-home therapy sessions, and I could just cry.

That all said, I know everything I've written recently has been negative (and I'm sorry for it), but it's just where I'm swimming.  I'm treading water in a pool of positive-thinking, very near to the deep end of depression.  And I need to make time to exercise, to take care of myself, because I'm feeling spread thin.

On a positive closing note, Aksel's been making tremendous strides in therapy, and I have much, in the way of good news, to soon share.

As always, thanks for reading.  And, happy Friday!

Help Keep My Dream Alive!

I've been writing since I was a girl.  Twelve, to be exact.  Here, for example, are a few of my dusty journals...

I love it!  What can I say?

I've been writing about life, love, and the angst along the way for a long time now.  But I have a child and husband, so things are different.  I've traded spontaneity for stability.  Adventure for meaning...

So, I ask kindly:  Will you help keep my dream alive? 

Seriously, if you read, and happen to genuinely like, Baby Talk without the Babble, please take a second and VOTE at TopBabyBlogs.com.  As many of you know, administrators have routinely reset stats, and we're all starting over.  It's my goal to reach (and maintain) a top 25 position.  I need your help though...

With great admiration ~

I Marvel at the Marble.

I marvel at the marble, and wonder where o' where you've gone?

Is it just me, or were they everywhere at one time?  Marbles.  On the street?  In the dirt?  Under a tree?  It seems to me I spent a good long portion of my youth finding them in the most random of places.

Now, nothing.  Nowhere.  Not a sight.

This glass goldfish is not a marble in the good ol' sense, but it so happens to be the greatest token of our love.  (Mark's and mine.)

Aside from our child, that is!

As a side note, you may have noticed recently my sentimental posts showcasing simple (perhaps even odd) things like seal-hair dolls and census papers.  You may wonder why I'm adament in sharing them?

Really, what's the big deal? 

Well, let me try to explain...

I know it's silly, but we're not guaranteed anything in this life.  I mean, I really hope I live to be old, old, old.  And I hope just as much that those I love and care for grow to be old, old, old with me, but I just can't say for sure?  So, I feel it necessary to write what I value.

And I'm learning (with age), that those things don't cost lots of money.  In fact, they're neither bought nor sold for much of anything.  They just have heart.  They tell a story.

And folks, a STORY is gold in my mind.

So, I marvel at the Murano marble.  Our lil' glass ball that we bought together on a rainy September day, on a crooked side street in Venice, when our love was just new and our pockets empty.

It means as much to me as my $16 DICE wedding ring!

25 Things: What You Don't Know.

1. I love Merita Angel Food Cake.  As a child, I would sniff the plastic to smell its deliciousness.
2. I dislike the sound of a loose tooth wiggling.
3. I'm obsessed with Turner Classic Movies, and I find it difficult to sleep without the sound of a romantic oldie (like this).  That being said, I possess a lot of film knowledge.
4. I can touch my tongue to my nose, and like a Balinese dancer, I can bend all of my fingers to a 90° angle.
5. I love stories!  I've kept a journal since I was 12.  I live by the personal philosophy of making each day worth writing about. 
6. I'd rather receive a letter in the mail than an email.  I don't care much for the phone, either.  (Read this.)
7. My child's name, Aksel, means "father of peace" in Norwegian.
8. Contrary to beliefs, I'm not a Guns N' Roses fan, but I like Sweet Child O' Mine.  Just so you know.
9. I love the color red.  I wear it nearly everyday.
10. I was horribly distraught when Paul Newman died!
11. I want to help people in my life, and do good deeds.
12. I love sweet pickles!
13. I've traveled to 14 countries, and I'm not stopping there!  I want to see the world before I die.
14. I know what a "Nelson Mandela Cream 'O the Crop" is.  I can also pour a pint of Guinness with a shamrock on top.
15. I lived in Aspen for a summer, yet I've never skied!
16. My lucky number is 43, but I don't like Polamalu.  Go Ravens!
17. My father makes corn pancakes.  I love 'em!  It's a family tradition I intend to carry on.
18. I sang at my grandmother's funeral.  It was one of my proudest moments!  I attempted to sing at my grandfather's, but choked.  I asked if I could take a "Mulligan."
19. I can't shift gears on a bike.
20. I don't wear a wedding ring.
21. I want to be on Broadway.
22. My husband is my soul mate. 
23. I once described crab meat as "very clean chicken."
24. I've been to St. Andrew's in Scotland, yet I've never golfed.
25. I want to be a good mother, and wife, more than anything.



It's a GRAY Day!

It's a GRAY day to dream, and I have one to share...

I want, for a period of my life, whether it's a week or ten, to live in the United Kingdom.  Preferably, in the countryside.  Maybe on a hill? 

To write, of course.

Again, I realize its impracticality, seeing as I have a young family of men, but that's no excuse for me not to put it out there.  To fear.

It could happen! 

For one, my husband loves Guinness and golf and football, too!

"What's the pull?" you ask.

I'm not really sure...

From the cliffs of Dover to the windy reaches of St. Andrews, I've traveled, and there's just something about the place I love.

Maybe it goes back to the romantic girl in me, and I'm fantasizing about Cathy and Heathcliff, and heather on the moors.

Or perhaps, it's the lure and magic of a hidden garden described so perfect on the pages of Burnett's classic.

Who knows?

I could go on, and say it's the sad spirit of Tess, the sass of Miss Bennett, or ol' plain Jane Eyre, but I'm not certain?

Whatever it is, I connect. 

My dreaming mind comes to life when the skies are GRAY.

PS - Have a GRAY weekend!

 Tweet

A Jar Called BLOG.

I don't know about you, but I'm nostalgic.  And it seems I'm increasingly more so as the days pass. 

Especially now, since I'm MOTHER to a curious boy.

In all seriousness, memories from my childhood come flooding back most everyday, and they're random.  For instance, I'm itching to write about blueberries and goldfish?! 

Together. 

A memory about blueberries and goldfish. 

(Not the cracker kind, mind you.)

Speaking straight, my DRAFTS are piled high, and at this rate, I'll never stop writing.  So, thanks for reading my randomness.  This blog has been, for me, a place of sweet preservation.

It's kinda like I'm pickling vegetables, but they're memories.  Stories in a jar.  A jar called BLOG.  They're certainly not for everyone, but for those who like okra or blueberries or goldfish, they're great!

Randomness, case in point.

  

Next week's giveaway will be a nostalgic design by Elizabeth Horton, and if you haven't entered this week's contest, you can do so here.

 

 Tweet

Giving Peas a Chance...

Before I satiate your aha curiosity, let me first provide an update.  A food update.  At nearly six-months-old, and a whopping 21 pounds, my buggy boy gave peas a chance.  I'm thrilled to report...

My father of peas, Aksel, thoroughly enjoyed his first proper meal!

For the young-at-heart, a modified classic from The Sippy Cups,


     It's YUMMY YUMMY YUMMY!

Give Peas a Chance 
         (It's awesome, and Aksel LOVES it!)

     BTW, It's cool to eat GREEN!


Aksel's Food Plan I mentioned months ago, has finally been decided and put to action.  We are saying NO to commercial baby food and YES to homemade mush of organic vegetables, love, and peas.  In layman's terms, we're making our own.  Today was the first of many delicious meals...

Now the continuation to my previous entry, Before I Gave Birth to my Boy and Blog.

I was certain my moment would center around Aksel, motherhood, and the creative blog journey I've recently embarked on. Then, like a bolt of thunder on stormy summer night, it hit me! The aha was just this --

(Lucky me, I had the aha in writing to conveniently refer to.  From the entry, Words Unspoken.)

We (Aksel & I) shared a moment in the dark last night. Frustrated from hours of discontented shifts to and from the bassinet, I succumbed to the fact that sleep was not in the plan for me. My irritability subsided and I placed my eleven-day-old on the pillow to my right. For what seemed like a true stop of time, he looked at me with eyes wide and focused. I looked back at him, intrigued. It was a sweet, thoughtful exchange. He seemed to talk to me in that instant. I believe he said he loved me, and I said the same.

That's sweet-n-dandy, but to take it a step further, I knew I needed to somehow correlate the aforementioned moment with the current storytelling process I've set on sharing with my Aksel.

WELL...

The universe conspired to help me with just that task!

Three days before my big day on the Airstream trailor, I received a detailed package from my previously mentioned cousin, Kenny.

(See -- Not a Blarney Stone, or Shamrock Unturned)

The title page of one such package read, Somewhere in Ireland...

It was the story of my Irish ancestors, and their journey to America in the 1880's.  It was fascinating -- the best gift I've received in a long time!  (Aside from my precious boy, Aksel.)

For the first time I saw photos of my great-grandmother, Anna Margaretta Colwell, and her parents Jane Geheran and John Colwell.  I learned that my great-great grandfather couldn't read or write, was a horseshoer, and died by drowning during a heat wave in New York's East River.

Interesting, huh?

In a nutshell, my aha moment... my little man at eleven-days-old in silence said that he loved me, needed me, and hoped I would tell our story.  I learned in a dark instant that it was my genealogical obligation to put our shared cultural puzzle together.

All ye be warned -- if you don't make an effort to preserve your story, the details of your respective lives will surely go missing. They'll sadly die, and be forgotten!

Write a letter, write a story, write a something for someone.

It's all we have when it's said and done -- A STORY!

FYI:  I'll be posting my aha moment clip in just a few weeks!  Be on the blog lookout!

A Few Storytelling Essentials:

Moleskine Ruled Notebook Large

Pilot G2 Fine Point Rolling Ball Black Gel Ink Pens, 2-Pack (31031)

Wite Out Quick Dry Correction Fluid-0.7 Ounces

Flip UltraHD Camcorder, 120 Minutes (White)

Dell D600 Laptop 1.6ghz 40gb

Canon PowerShot SD1300IS 12.1 MP Digital Camera

A CREATIVE MIND = PRICELESS