Author: Joy Hurt

A year ago, I experienced Devine Inspiration. Still basking in the new of Winterpast, something was missing. One thing that would make life as a Covid Recluse bearable. A hot tub. Call it a Spa. Call it a Jacuzzi. Call it heavenly, for sure. I needed a place to bubble my troubles away so I began to shop. Sticker shock set me back a little bit, as they had certainly gone up in price since the last time I bought one in 2007.

Fourteen years ago, with the patio view off my California mountain top home, I had surprised VST when I announced that I had found a spa. It didn’t take much arm twisting for delivery and installation to occur, leaving us with evening full of conversations and soaking.

This time would be different. This was a spa for me and me alone. An added expense on my power bill. Necessary chemicals. Bathing suits. Beach towels. Face it, a spa is a commitment you make only if you are SURE you will use it many times a week. I envisioned this happening, but then, soaking in a spa for one was a new proposition.

Looking around Reno, I found a few but there were issues with every one. Too big. Too small. Too few jets. Too many jets. Cheaply constructed. Poor company representation. It was then that a friend mentioned a Hot Tub and Swim Spa Extravaganza was coming to the local Convention Center in the Biggest Little City near me. Well, I’d just need to check that out.

The last day of the show, I found THE ONE. I already knew exactly what I was looking for. Seating for four. Me and three of my imaginary friends. Seats at different heights. One lounge. Wired 220 not plug-in 110. As many jets as I could possible afford. Pretty lighting. A nice and relaxing waterfall. Easy to clean filters. A cover. That was about it. Of course, all the warranty and service issues that a prudent buyer would expect.

There she sat on the showroom floor. Glistening. Waxed. Inviting. Sitting alone and empty, I went to her and got in to try out the lounge. I almost went into a trance. It fit like a glove. I had found THE ONE. Haggling a bit over the price, the salesman lowered it 12%, and I purchased a hot tub to be delivered at some unknown date. With Covid, it seemed everyone was ordering hot tubs, so this could take awhile. It did. About ten weeks to delivery.

In the last year, I’ve learned a lot about caring for my very own hot tub. The water in my little town is full of minerals that leave marks on the sides. Although not as shiny and pristine as her showroom sister, just under the cover bubbles water that is treated with the proper chemicals.

The spa man visited this week to repair a minor problem with the external corner of the tub. Just a minor problem. It fell off. Still under warranty, he quickly fixed it for me and then gave me tips on water care.

If you’re considering a spa, do consider the hidden cost of chemicals. This isn’t a minor budgetary knock, but a significant monthly charge of which the salesman doesn’t speak. There are necessary enzymes, chlorine, non-chlorine bio-shock, scum balls, and testing strips. Chemicals that make the pH go up and those that make the pH go down. Chemicals to remove metals and those that add fragrance. The list is endless. They take up a cupboard in my laundry room.

Then, there is the issue of swim suits. My Dale Evans conservative suit. My Sophia Loren non-conservative suit. Two long sleeved suits (which might as well be considered Chinese finger traps for the entire body. The more you struggle, the more impossible they are to get off when wet.) There are stripes and leopard print. Floral and black. When you are in and out of the spa during the day, it’s necessary to own a variety. Otherwise, the neighbors have more to speak of during their daily rounds of gossip. Heaven knows they have enough already when speaking of the Widow Ho.

Do consider location. Mine is steps from the laundry room door, providing just inches through which to slither out of the house, over the snow, and into nirvana. A warm place waits inside to drip, dry, and regroup after a long soak.

If you already have a spa, do keep up with water care. Your fellow soakers will appreciate it. Don’t forget to change out the scum balls once in awhile. Take that as you will.

Have a wonderful day today, whatever you do. For me, I’m off to the hot tub to catch the last of the desert sky extravaganza. Stay warm and well. More tomorrow.

Alphabet letters, vowels, and consonants formed into words, sentences, paragraphs, and books — spoken, lectured, signed, whispered, gossiped, written, and printed. From friendly advice to impassioned speeches and from dusty volumes to daily blogs, messages are sent and received with each sender trying to impart knowledge…. and wisdom.

Woven into human fabric is the desire to learn and understand. Our minds set us apart from animals, and we analyze, conceptualize, theorize, discuss, and debate everything from science to the supernatural. And we build schools, institutes, and universities where learned professors can teach us about the world and about life.

Knowledge is good, but there is a vast difference between “knowledge” (having the facts) and “wisdom” (applying those facts to life). We may amass knowledge, but without wisdom, our knowledge is useless. We must learn how to live out what we know.

_{Life Application Study Bible –Zondervan}

I wish there were more wise people in charge these days. Wisdom is a rarity. I certainly don’t find it on Channels 2 – 5094 on my Direct TV subscription. Pretty verbs and adjectives spun by gorgeous delivery-system ponytails in the skimpiest of outfits, only a minute old while clawing their way to the top of the television world. Blahblahblahblahblah. Most days, insulting to a human being that has actually lived in this old world for many decades.

A nice thing about living in the Wild West is that people here know a thing or two. They pay attention to nature and clue into signs of impending weather changes. They sense when someone is having a rough day and take time to give comfort where needed. People still know how to be neighbors that give a damn. For that reason, Winterpast is the perfect place for me to call home.

The other day, while making arrangements to lunch with an old city friend, I was questioned on whether I’d been Covid tested or would be before we had lunch. Such an odd question, I replied that I hadn’t been sick or been around anyone that was sick. No, I hadn’t been tested, nor would I be. The friend was rather shocked, leaving me the uncomfortable choice to avoid the lunch all together. I cancelled.

When did Covid become a risk when I have been in isolation for weeks and weeks already? Social distancing at church. Sanitizer. Gloves. Triple masks. Fear. Some studies have questioned whether those that are vaccinated are shedding viruses that endanger those that are not.

With such fear coming over the phone, I wondered why that would be? This person was already vaccinated? Shouldn’t I be the one trembling over my viral death sentence when sharing a simple lunch???? It was obvious that television intake of Crazy, Repetitive, Audio Particulars (CRAP) had over overcome all sensibility, while the virus was surely sneaking under the door.

Now a new more virulent strain is upon us. One in which symptoms are so mild, you may not even know you had it. Hmmmmm. I will take my chances with that one, as well.

Knowledge without wisdom is a terrible thing. Wisdom gained throughout life is something that knowledge can validate. Elders know a few things more valuable than those learned in the ivory towers of academia.

During the height of the polio scare, my parents were very careful to social distance with their girls. We had play dates with those children whose activities we knew. Families huddled together, playing safe distances from others. We all enjoyed fresh air, food, and water and avoided cities and congestion. Always, fresh air and sunshine were vital. Not only for their cleansing properties, but also to allow our bodies to make Vitamin D in just the right amounts needed for individual health.

Viruses, although very interesting, don’t pop out of nowhere. They need a living source to multiply. My town is sparsely populated, and located in the middle of the high desert plains of North Western Nevada. The winds howl, scrub brushing everything in their path. The sun bakes everything to a crisp. Have there been outbreaks here? Of course. Sadly, some groups have been hit rather hard. Medically vulnerable people need to be mindful that even a mask and social distancing are not enough. This is very real and deadly for some.

Staying tucked away within Winterpast, my chances of harboring the virus are slim to none. That being said, I could die tomorrow. This I can proclaim with 100% certainty. Sometime in the future, on a date unknown to me, I will die. When that occurs, home I’ll go, knowing the way.

I did share with my friend one important fact. We all have a responsibility to our own truths. Create a storm? Stand in your own rain. For me, there is no other choice in this matter. Please, find kindness in your heart when you meet others like me. Medical issues are private matters and not always found in black and white. Have a great day today! Practice kindness and find your joy.

A dusty little wide spot in the road. Many people gasp when I announce my home town. “Say, Where????”

“NOOOO!!!!!!!”

“There’s nothing but sand, sage, and snakes.”

“NO CULTURE?!?!?!”

Well, those are all reasons I love it here, minus the snakes, of course. There are drawbacks. I never know when I’ll need to shovel horse poop off my sidewalk or re-rake the brand new DG in the front yard to remove hoof prints.

There’s one thing that I’ve found in no other place I’ve lived. A hint of Wyoming. The biggest bluest sky. As a young farm girl from California, I read about fluffy clouds in the shape of dogs or dinosaurs. I could never quite understand, although I liked the concept. Central California has very boring sky, I can tell you that. In my experiences of over six decades, there are two types of sky there. Foggy or smoggy. The color never changes from a light grayish blue. No dimension other than flat which mirrors the contour of the land. Clouds and real weather are very, very rare. The sky is boringly static.

Winterpast changed my experience with clouds. The lush green grass of Summer 2021 was the perfect place to lay and watch the clouds passing by. I’m quite sure I saw VST and his golf clubs giving me a High-5 as he headed East on the jet stream. On most days above Winterpast, the color of blue sky will electrify the saddest day making it come alive with possibility.

Nevada sky isn’t the Big Sky of Wyoming which tugs at my heartstrings in dreams. I’m not so sure its memory won’t yank me back to live there for a summer or two, someday. Here, the high desert sky of Northwestern Nevada has a playful spirit. I can wake to the night sky extravaganza of a million stars as I grab a morning soak in the hot tub. Then, slowly, the clouds come out to play throughout the day. Big puffy ones, boiling and transforming into all kinds of shapes. More towards this time of year, the clouds turn into sassy little shards of white, as brittle as my heart on some days. Ice. Floating ice. The texture aloof and business like. Crisp and inelastic while moving East, the sky and clouds behave as two uninterested and masked strangers at the produce aisle during Covid.

These days, clouds bounce along their windy way, signaling conditions aloft. A pilot once explained information the different cloud formations held. Once aware, I could read a story about from where the clouds had come and to where they were headed. Another dimension of which many people are oblivious.

Being up there with the clouds. Who could ever, in any situation, walk away from flying without feeling profound loss? Health worries would dictate that for some. But, once I met a person that never shed a tear. Just took off his wings and went on his way for no real reason. There is very little in my life that has compared to flying.

Once, VST had to attend a meeting in Santa Barbara. Teaching 2nd Grade at the time, I couldn’t leave my littles. What to do? The owners of the company had requested my presence at a big weekend party, and frankly, so did VST. What to do? What to do?

A private jet was ordered just for me.

I remember the morning I drove to the airport while ignoring the parking lot for normal passengers. Continuing to the back lot, another world opened up. The company jet was waiting for me and me alone. A little red carpet was positioned right by the short set of steps. A cute uniformed pilot helped me with my bags and we were off. No TSA. No lines. No waiting for rows to be called. Just like that, I was in the air in my own private bubble. With no distractions, I migrated south like the birds. Having the ability to fly through the blue over a carpet of clouds is something from which I could never ever have walked away.

In Virginia City, The Dunmovin’ House had the most wonderful view that went on for hundreds of miles. There were the secret mountains that were only revealed in the winter after a snow. So far away, they were invisible with the least amount of pollution or smoke from fires. After a snow, they appeared, pristine and proud. But, that view was only in one direction. To the west sat the imposing base of Mt. Davidson, into which Dunmovin’ was built. The views to the West, North, and South were rock. So, in reality, we experienced no Big Sky there.

Big Sky exists where you can stop the car, get out, and a vast expanse of sky can be seen from an area of open land in any direction. The key here is OPEN LAND. In Central California, there is very little open land. Trust me on that one. Even though my childhood was spent in a sea of vineyards, totally flat by design, it didn’t qualify because every inch was developed. And besides, there is the grayish faded blue color going on there.

I first fell in love with Big Skies in the fall of 2010. The unexpected death of a close family member caused need of a road-trip to North Dakota. VST and I had just purchased a brand new nifty little Jetta. After ten days of travel, we took it to the dealer for its 5,000 mile service. The skies on that trip had me. If VST would’ve agreed, we would’ve moved then. Of course, responsibilities pulled us back home. The yearning for Big Sky never left my heart.

This week, the weather is unseasonably warm, almost irritatingly so. Add the sunshine and it’s still shorts-weather for another ten days. All to the good. I need to make some trips West before the snow curbs my activities a bit. It’ll be the perfect time for garage cleaning and leaf patrol while I put things in order for the next adventure just around the bend. This desert gal never knows what’s next. One must be prepared for anything around here.

To those of you deep in snow, don’t worry. I’ll get mine. Just not in the next ten days. More tomorrow.

I don’t know that I’ve ever loved a home like Winterpast. She and I have this quiet little affair which started the day I found her nestled among others on Realtor.Com. I found her and did research to be sure I could pay the bills should I suddenly be alone. Although VST wasn’t yet ill, the next home could be the place where our lives changed. How little did I know. Planning for the future, I factored in many things. Square feet to vacuum. Kitchen cabinets to fill. Closet space. A room for everything. Single level. Then, I shared the MLS listing with VST. He saw the RV barn and it was a done deal.

VST was a man that had to be doing and going. Dunmovin was our current day Winchester House. Something was always in a state of rejuvenation with VST around. Now, my two industrial strength table saws, saw horses, drills, bits, and KregTool sit in the garage with all their friends. Tools I don’t know how to use or even identify lay as testament to the man I loved. I don’t open the drawers very often for the site makes me cry every time.

VST never actually lived here at Winterpast. It would have resulted in divorce or another move, (a huge remodel at the very least), for we both have large territorial footprints. For all she is, Winterpast wouldn’t have been big enough for two. At least not VST and me. But, for one desert gal, she’s just right.

This morning, waking slowly, I was thinking about the word HOME and what it means to different people. For the last two decades, home has meant a private space in which to say what I want to say, while doing whatever I want to do. To VST, home was a place for improvements before the vicissitudes of life would demand change or adjustment. VST didn’t live long enough to practice lazy. A true shame, because, as Auntie TJ taught me well, practicing lazy is an art.

Every morning, I look at an embroidery piece my mother completed in 1940, the year she married my father.

Of all the roads

Both East and West

The one that leads

To home is best.

Framed in a handmade oak frame treated with amber shellac, I remember this hanging in the bedroom hallway of my childhood home. A reminder of what home should be for the 19 years I lived there; it’s the one thing from my childhood home that made sense. I wanted my home to be THAT place for family and friends.

When VST was alive, home was wherever together was. It mattered not. On the beaches of the Central California Coast. Hunkered down during a tornado warning in Oklahoma. Under the big sky of Montana. Listening to buffalo speak in Wyoming. A full moon night on Waikiki Beach. Sawing, staining, and hammering decks late into the night. Home meant together.

Now, I’m learning home isn’t defined by another. It’s a feeling in your gut. You know when you find it. You know even more when you’re there. That’s home for me. And now, Home Means Nevada.

As a teacher, I would wait for the first day of summer. People hold this over our heads with disgust.

“But, YOU, have summers off.”

Well. True. Summer days are days off without pay. People forget that teachers are paid for X number of days per year. In my case, it was 185. Place those teaching days however you like, but 185 was the number multiplied by a daily rate. Yearly salaries are divided by 1/12th to provide a paycheck each month, just so educators don’t starve during the summer. I assure you, one is paid for a fixed number of days. Period. Having those unpaid days strung together was, indeed, something I waited for. Ever teacher needs time to decompress with time to enjoy their own private life.

Driving home on Day 185, I would repeat the same phrase over and over.

“The summer is rich with possibilities.”

The biggest certainty was that I could stay home for weeks on end, never leaving my little mountaintop. Rambling around the property, I could enjoy a mix of nesting, hobbies, gardening, polishing, reading, writing, thinking, and resting. VST would leave in the morning, looking dapper in his starched shirt, slacks, and tie. Shoes polished. Keys in one hand and a diet coke in the other, with a kiss and hug he was out the door. Sweet solitude at home has always been the happiest of places for me.

Some people go stir crazy in one place too long. Covid quarantine must be sheer torture for them. They get bored. Well, bored is another word for a lazy mind. Before television, computers, video games and other forms of artificial intelligence, there was the real thing. I could spend a day reading a well written book in which the words transported me into other worlds. Who hasn’t been engulfed in a novel you simply cannot stop reading? Just remember a certain trilogy that came out a few years back. Seems it had the entire female population reading into the wee hours of the morning.

My Winterpast knows things. She’s a wise house, understanding why some days, the curtains are better drawn than left open. I felt it the first time I entered her walls. There’s a spirit of kindness and knowing left behind just for me. It was my job to turn her into my home, while setting down roots in the gardens out back. Both accomplished.

Miss Firecracker and I were talking the other day. I was whining a bit, (Okay Miss Firecracker, A Lot), and she was sharing her wisdom. (Miss Firecracker, I depend on your wisdom and insight. Don’t forget that.) I hadn’t been clear on a few things I shared, making it seem I was unhappy with my choice of a dusty little wide spot in the road.

“Well, maybe this wasn’t the town for you. Maybe you should move.”

What? Impossible! Not happening! As for me, I’ve found my home. It’s here. Winterpast.

Home. Roots. Stability. Domestic security. Inner Peace. Healing. Happiness.

Winterpast is all those things to me. For now, she definitely qualifies as HOME. Perhaps the most truthful and gracious home I’ve ever loved.

Today is a day of writing, nesting, and quiet reflection. The leaves can wait another day. Of all the roads both East and West the one that leads to home is BEST. Saving on gas, I’m already here. Have a wonderful day.

A new photograph now hangs in my studio, providing a peaceful portal into which I can escape when words fail me. My studio (aka – 2nd bedroom, but Auntie TJ insisted it is my studio) is a delightful little space in which all my favorite possession hide. Books of poetry I wrote when I was a girl in the mid 1900’s, old hobbies, remnants of my teaching career, and now, this new photograph.

An 18″ x 24″ piece of framed canvas, it’s any Urban Cowboy’s dream scenario. Fitting that the picture isn’t corral-ed by a frame. The picture bleeds off the edges into possibilities. Eight gentled horses rest in a huge white fenced area, all enjoying their retirement. Not a pile of poop anywhere, these guys have hit the horse-y gold mine, locked away behind exclusive fencing. Pampered in every way, these aren’t the expensive race horses one might expect. They’re rescues, each with their own history and set of aches and pains. Each with a thousand reasons never to trust a man again. And yet, each with the knowing ability to help kids in need of therapy. We could all learn a thing or too about forgiveness from this herd.

Some might have given up on these horses and they could have gone to the auction house. If you know anything about horses, there’s a place that some go at the end of the line. When training has failed or the string of owners has run out, there is one last trailer ride to the end. The auction horses just disappear into a nothingness that no one questions or talks about. “Sold” to the highest bidder and off they go without a question. Another trailer ride, probably their last.

The photograph, perfectly balanced in color and perspective, hints of a freedom these horses might or might not have preferred. An expansive backdrop of unfenced hills miles beyond is a quiet reminder of a place meant for horses. Real horses. Their mustang friends. Just beyond that looms a landmark mountain around these parts, scared with telltale ski runs at 8,200 ft. My long ago Mt. Everest, when I pretended it could be.

In this photograph, the artists are the clouds and sun, changing the hills into different earthy shades of beautiful. The ever present jet stream carried them towards Big Sky Wyoming and a place perfect for equine dreams, and mine, as well.

A barn sits off to the side, and I smile. No comparison to my big falling down barn of long ago. The one my ancestors built in the early 1900’s. The one in my Auntie TJ scrawled her name in wet concrete when she was only a girl. The barn in which VST and I shared many quick kisses, or perhaps a heated argument over this or that. The barn where VST was startled by the owl that lived most days in quiet darkness, keeping the mice population to a minimum. The one that held our raisin crop safe from rain. The one holding ghostly voices of Jack, Joann, and all the kids, when they were ours. The one that was Once Upon A Time mine.

No, to this farmer girl, this barn fits perfectly in the picture. Freshly painted. Sterilized. Welcoming. Urban Appropriate.

This picture was gifted to me on Thanksgiving, 2021. A casual friend remind me what real friendship should emulate. A friend that hides somewhere in that personalized photograph on my wall, a step too far for me to reach.

Funny how some photographs can just pull you right to the edge of the canvas. This one has that kind of power. The horses that now live in my studio don’t need much care. No poop scooping or foot pick-ing. Groomed for the day, they’re just enjoying the sunshine, calm and fed. Frozen in time, they’ve no longer a care in the world.

I hope you have a calm-and-fed-not-a-care-in-the-world kind of day. For Oliver and I, leaf patrol continues. More tomorrow.

On this beautiful day, take time to be thankful for everyone dear and special in your life. Take time to forgive those that need forgiving, and try to ignore those that don’t. Remember those that are on the other side of the heavens, watching over us. Take time for smiles and hugs today, because, we only get one chance each year to make a wonderful Thanksgiving memory.

The apple pie is finished. The kitchen awaits. Potatoes to be peeled. Salad to be chopped. Turkey to be roasted. Fresh rolls to be baked. The list is endless and the minutes are ticking away.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I’ll be back on Monday.

Joy

Joyfully, I sing unto the Lord as the leaves are slowly disappearing. Remembering my days on the ranch, leaf raking was a messy task. Heavy with autumn dew, the messy mulberry leaves weren’t alive like those of Winterpast. Brittle and light, they dance around as a blow them into neat little piles. Golden. Burgundy. Pumpkin. Amber. Burnt Sienna. They shiver with the slightest breeze. Today is another day for leaf burning.

Being blessed beyond my wildest dreams, these days I have a joyful heart. Pastor C suggested that be a focus of the week. It feels so good I’m choosing inner Joy and Peace as a focus for my life. Thinking of things I’m grateful for, the first thing that comes to mind is clear, fresh air. The smoke of the California fires is a distant memory as the hills around me look so close I could reach out and grab them. Brilliant blue sky again cover the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.

Little by little the neighborhood is coming alive. A new car in front of Mary’s house. Sam’s son and his children playing in the front yard. Ninja Neighbor planning for her company. Everyone waving just a little longer and smiling a little wider. It’s Thanksgiving, for goodness sakes.

As for Oliver and I, we’re Thankful for each other. Today, between attacks on the leaves, apples will be transformed into a non-Keto pie and cranberry’s will melt into sauce. Turning on some sappy Christmas movies that always make me cry, I plan to enjoy the beauty of Winterpast in the company of Thanksgiving love hidden deep in these walls. The essence of Howard and Wilde memories make my home such a comfort to me. I know Winterpast sighs in relief, knowing I feel the love of years past. Now, my happiness is woven into her timbers, as well.

Time to turn on the oven, and get busy. The days awastin’.

Have a beautiful Thanksgiving everyone. Thank you for your love and prayers. I feel them every day. Be Joyful! We are so very blessed.

Joy

_{Tim McGraw}

You know there’s a light that glows by the front door

Don’t forget the keys under the mat

When childhood stars shine

Always stay humble and kind

Go to church ’cause your momma says to

Visit Grandpa every chance that you can

It won’t be wasted time

Always stay humble and kind.

Hold the door, say “please”, say “thank you”

Don’t steal, don’t cheat, and don’t lie

I know you got mountains to climb but

Always stay humble and kind

When the dreams you’re dreamin’ come to you

When the work you put in is realized

Let yourself feel the pride but

Always stay humble and kind.

Don’t expect a free ride from no one

Don’t hold a grudge or a chip and here’s why

Bitterness keeps you from flyin’

Always stay humble and kind

Know the difference between sleepin’ with someone

And sleepin’ with someone you love

“I love you” ain’t no pickup line

Always stay humble and kind.

When those dreams you’re dreaming’ come to you

When the work you put in is realized

Let yourself feel the pride

But always stay humble and kind

When it’s hot, eat a root beer popscicle

Shut off the AC and roll the windows down

Let the summer sun shine

Always stay humble and kind

Don’t take for granted the love this life gives you back

When you get where you’re going don’t forget turn back around

And help the next one in line

Always stay humble and kind

*Have a wonderful day!

Every so often I need to remember that I’m lovable as I am. Not as I was when I was 32 or 47, but as this 65 year old woman. The good points shine golden. The bad points are like thorns on a rose stem, there to affirm humanness. A little of this, a little of that all blended together into a joyful blend of happiness and reflection, I sit writing to you today.

This past week of silence has let me focus on things that have been ignored too long. The dust bunnies under my studio definitely qualify, along with stacks of stuff needing to be tossed or tucked away. As I straighten up my physical world, my thoughts are correcting my course, as well. I can’t lose sight of my goals or I’ll simply circle around aimlessly like a lost sailor in a harbor.

So often, the Ghosts of Should’ve-Could’ve-Would’ve-s come around to pay a visit. Guilt washes over me like a flash flood, as I ruminate. So many things I wish I’d have handled differently as VST became ill and was dying. But, that ship has sailed. I know he knows I know. The story has been written, and now, I need to remember, find forgiveness, and move on.

VST and I created a beautiful life together. We both knew. Embracing our imperfectly wonderful bonds, we worked through difficult issues woven throughout our marriage. Through the worst of times, the thought of divorce was never on the table. Committed to forever, we stepped carefully through the landmines of life, having a pretty great dance while doing so.

Dancing with the wrong partner is painful and destructive. Knowing what a great dance partner looks and feels like, I refuse to settle for anything less. As my mother said, “There are worse things than being alone.” Truer words have never been spoken. I don’t no need help being poor. I’m not a trained nurse or mental therapist. I’m certainly no one’s maid, cook, or mother. Just a woman that wants to dance with the right partner.

Weak? Fallible? Emotional? Tired? I’m all those things these days. It seems that the hard work of grieving continues throughout life, dredging up many different feelings along the way. I wasn’t expecting woe and sadness to continue renting the back room of my brain. Independent women don’t live in anxious resentment, yearning, or inadequacy. Or do we? Thank goodness life distracts us while healing our troubled hearts.

Blogging has given me a sense of purpose. Daily, my readership grows while I wonder if I’ll ever stop writing. When will the numbers tell me, “Enough is enough. Put the pencil down.”? My perspective on life is of my own choosing. I’ve grown into a woman I respect and love while writing words that paint a mural of how I want to be remembered. Even if things don’t turn out as planned, I’ll keep choosing happiness, day after day.

There is not such thing as a perfect person. “Hate-ers gonna hate” as the song goes. I don’t have to be perfect to please everyone all the time, because that surely is an impossibility. Each night as I close my eyes, I need to remember I’m enough just as I am. Time heals all wounds, even ones that break our hearts.

“Nothing Left Unsaid” _{Written by Carol Orsborn},

We hope to take full advantage of every opportunity to support healing:

to understand everything that has eluded us,

to resolve all our life’s issues,

to mend our relationships and mature spiritually.

But, our aspirations, even as lofty as these,

exhaust us and keep us busy striving

at a time when we need to make space for quiet and

peace.

It will be healing enough when you can lay aside your

self assessments and demands,

and stop trying so hard to get this right.

Indulge, instead, in being an ordinary person who loves

God.

Happy Saturday. More on Monday.