beth anderson

Now what?

“Every time I get the inspiration
To go change things around
No one wants to help me look for places
Where new things might be found
Where can I turn when my fair weather friends cop out
What’s it all about”

The lyrics above are from a song called I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times. They’re from a song co-written by Brian Wilson and featured on the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds album. Another line from the song is front and center in my head today…”Sometimes I feel very sad (ain’t found the right thing I can put my heart and soul into)…”. I’ve talked about my experiences with depression and anxiety. I do so because I hope someone else will read what I’ve written and feel validated, or feel it’s ok to seek assistance.

My depression is very cyclical. There are periods of highs and lows which are mostly manageable. Right now I’m in the middle of a downswing that I’m finding difficult to smooth out. How is it possible for me to truly know this? It’s pretty simple. When I cannot summon interest to engage in my two favorite activities, I know times are tough.

Reading and swimming have been the two constant passions in my life. They are the activities I turn to when I must slow down and allow myself to relax. I know I project a laid-back attitude much of the time. On the inside, all of the pistons are firing and my mind is in constant action…thinking, fretting, analyzing, planning, etc. It.Never.Stops. It does slow down when I’m reading or swimming. That needed break is necessary for me to have.

“I keep lookin’ for a place to fit in…”. Do I ever relate to that. Except for when I was very young and we lived in Burlington, VT., I’ve never felt I fit in. If I became comfortable with one group, it wouldn’t be long before I was found lacking…not girly enough, too sporty, didn’t do arts and crafts or sew, didn’t play the right sports, etc. Add to the mix that I was very shy. I still am. People I know don’t believe it when I say it. I don’t lie.

Since I try to resolve (or smoothen out) my own issues so they don’t progress, it’s occurred to me that I may be having a downturn because my huge project of writing and publishing a book is done. One might think I should be ecstatic. Part of me is. Most of me feels a bit lost right now even though I have many things around the house that could be done. I have a ton of writing that’s unfinished (mysteries). My next goal was to publish a murder mystery.

And I just figured out what’s blocking me on that goal. Several years ago I pitched my work in progress to a handful of agents at a writer’s conference. Most were very pleasant and expressed mild interest. The final agent was challenging. And now I’m able to accept it was good for me though for years I allowed it to stifle my creativity. It was all due to one question. One lousy question.

“Why should I care about your main character?” I had no answer. I fumbled through my thoughts and tried to craft a sensible answer. It didn’t happen. Words came out of my mouth but they were not at all meaningful. She knew immediately I’d shut down. In a matter of fact tone, she explained that readers need to care about the protagonist and if I didn’t (as the author), why should they? I stuttered and stammered my way out of the situation, face scarlet with feelings of mortification and anger. I’m far too overly sensitive. Enough with that stopping me from what I want to do.

Writing can be a harsh and lonely passion. It can fill you with elation and then whip the rug right out from under you. My decision now is whether or not I start over. I have two unfinished drafts, each over 150 pages. I like parts of them. There is one new interesting idea in my head but I’m not sure it’s enough to be a complete work. It may be best as a short story. Short stories are not my niche. That’s not to say they couldn’t be. In the back of my mind a tiny, tiny voice chants, “memoir, memoir.” I’m ignoring the voice currently.

“ain’t found the right thing to put my heart and soul into…”. I’ve been casting around for years. Yes, I have ideas for dream projects but they will remain dreams because they’re financially unattainable. But I have pen and paper and I do have a dream that’s attainable. I’m going for it. Thanks to you all for letting me work it out.

A few words about the image I’m posting. It speaks to me in ways I’m not able to explain. It’s a photo taken by an individual who was a friend. This friend turned out not to be a true friend. So, while the image is hopeful and uplifting to me…it comes at a huge emotional price. I won’t apologize for still feeling the hurt but I will not let it overrule the joy. I will continue to search for something I can put my heart and soul into. I’ve long accepted I will never “fit in.” That’s ok, I like who I am.

It sounds trite, but…

Dreams do come true, even if you achieve a goal that wasn’t initially your dream. What? The depth and breadth of emotions I’ve experienced lately, and continue to experience, are at once overwhelming and comforting.

I can’t remember a time when there wasn’t a book in my hand, under my pillow, on the nightstand, the coffee table, or next to my chair. My childhood home was around the corner from the public library and I utilized it as though it might disappear before I read each and every book. And, for me, there are so many sensory associations with books and reading. A different topic for another time.

I never had aspirations to be any sort of writer. I shied away from writing stuff like articles for the camp newspaper, or heaven forbid, the school newspaper. Thinking back, I probably felt my writing ability was adequate. I took the obligatory writing courses in college, but the nature of being an English major involves writing loads of papers anyway so why take more writing? Let me read!

How did I learn to write? Do I have some sort of degree in writing? No, I don’t. I mostly learned by trial and error. And with the help of a great deal of reading. Wait, reading is able to help your writing? Why, yes! Reading is the path to many wonderful things! In addition to traveling places without leaving your comfy chair in the living room, reading lays the foundation for a rich and varied vocabulary. It allows one to appreciate how different authors write.

I’m not going to get into a teaching mode. I became a writer in spite of myself, in spite of my lack of self-confidence, in spite of any lengthy formal training. It took me a long time to realize I wanted and needed to write. I can’t imagine not writing. It helps me to clear my head and to put things into perspective. And, somewhere along the line, I began to believe that my writing had merit.

Though I never felt I was a creative writer, I discovered I was by virtue of writing poetry. That was an eye opener. I, the alone Girl, the girl who was either bouncing a ball, gripping a tennis racket, swimming, reading the encyclopedia (more on that in the future), or any book…wrote a poem. And it didn’t stink. It followed that I wrote more poems. I learned how deeply my emotions ran. Blah, blah, blah…self-awakening period of my life.

One of my favorite reading genres since I can remember is mystery or what some may call detective fiction. I do read true crime on occasion but I thrive on mystery. My goal isn’t to figure things out as I’m reading. It’s to let the characters take me on their adventure. So, for me, it followed that I felt I could create one of those adventures.

I have yet to finish any of the three I’ve started. When the non-fiction project moved into my head, I allowed it to take up residence. It matured and finally left home. Now I have more ideas to nurture. It will happen. I will achieve my true dream of publishing a mystery novel. And I’m setting a series of deadlines for myself.

Let me share an anecdote (like I don’t do this every moment of virtually every day)…I, like many, was a big fan of the tv show M*A*S*H. I had a love/hate relationship with Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester but every once in a while, he knocked my socks off. Charles is treating a patient who has lost the use of his right hand, his primary hand. Trouble is that he’s a pianist. Charles brings him some sheet music for just the left hand and the patient balks. Charles explains, “Your hand may be stilled, but your gift cannot be silenced…”. The patient replies that he no longer has a gift.

Charles then says, “Wrong! Because the gift does not lie in your hands. I have hands, David. Hands that can make a scalpel sing. More than anything in my life I wanted to play, but I do not have the gift. I can play the notes, but I cannot make the music.” Writing is more than creating words. For some of us, it’s a drive within the deepest part of our souls. If we don’t act on it, we wither and don’t thrive. And because I’m a sensory person (very tactile), I write with a pen. Letting it sweep across the paper is so satisfying.

When it’s said that you shouldn’t give up on your dreams, it’s true. But be reasonable. One of my dreams back in the early 1980s was to marry Tom Selleck. Not reasonable. Writing a book. Reasonable. Let your light shine, whatever it may be.

“Dreams don’t work unless you do.”

Savoring the glow…

There were times, during the last several years, that I honestly felt I wouldn’t complete my book. I know my system is hard wired to short circuit at important times. I’ve lived with this trepidatious feeling much of my life. It’s isn’t easy because I know my capabilities but I also know my challenges.

To complete my book and have it published is really nice. My mind says to me not to be overly excited because it was a job I set out to do and I did it. Yes, I did. It was not without struggle, mostly with my inner self, to focus and complete the job at hand.

Here’s the deal. Yes, I wanted to make sure I could gather as much information as possible. Yes, I wanted to make certain all of the information was properly paraphrased and sourced. Yes, I wanted to make sure the information was accurate and not unsubstantiated since some of it was anecdotal. Deep down I knew this wouldn’t be an issue because I was trained to research and accurately represent the information I discovered.

My self-imposed challenge was to make the story real. The story had to matter to people and it had to pay homage to the many who helped in the formation of a unique school district. Of utmost importance was for me to write this story as a gift to all who had come before me. It is everyone’s story. It is a story of strength. It is a story of chance. It is a story of learning through error. No one can deny, though, it is a story of evolution.

And when I tell you it was a labor of love for me, please believe it. I still find myself learning some tidbit and thinking, “that should go in the book.” I had to accept that I couldn’t include many things and it was hard for me to let go of them. My hope is someone will take it on in the future. The reality is doubtful.

I’m proud to have answered some questions and to have put some historic facts into place. In a world where we take so much for granted, I’ve never thought about my education in that manner. From my first few days in college when I realized I was far more prepared than a majority of my fellow students, I was thankful.

And so, this chapter is now closed. It’s a happy feeling though I can’t help but think about whether or not there was more information out there that I may have included. Hopefully Doris Kearns Goodwin or Erik Larson feel this way after finishing a book.

“The difference between who you are and who you want to be is what you do.” Unknown

Now I turn the page to focus on writing fiction. Now that I’m a published non-fiction writer, I am able to move forward and continue my dream of being a published fiction writer. Fingers crossed!

Perseverance pays off…

Seven years ago, an idea took root in my head. I was doing some research for an article I was writing for our local historical association’s newsletter. Hopping down rabbit holes to ferret out information is what I consider to be great fun. When I read an old newspaper article that referenced an experimental high school in our town, I wanted to learn more.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much more to learn. As with much of the country, our town was riddled with a number of one-room schoolhouses, or Common Schools as they were called. Most schools went up through sixth grade and many offered 7th and 8th grade instruction.

Our town did not have a high school program until 1926 and in 1930 a centralized school district was created, unifying the web of common schools. By the 1940s the school district was highly regarded. I needed to know how it happened. Though I had an inkling of an idea, I wanted to find out for sure.

There was very little concrete information in any books or reference books that could be found. I settled in to read hundreds of newspaper articles and to conduct over three dozen personal interviews with former students, administrators, and teachers. Though I regret to say the process took me much longer than I anticipated, it’s finally complete. Ok, it really isn’t complete. I couldn’t cover everything. But the basics are there and I’m happy with the answers to my own questions.

Now I’m free to push on with some detective fiction ideas and manuscripts I’ve started. But, honestly, I’m going to float on this lovely cloud of accomplishment a bit longer. And I love that people are enjoying the book. It was such a labor of love to produce.

Levels of love among friends…

Aristotle said, “A friend is one soul abiding in two bodies.” Rather profound. Winnie the Pooh said, “A day without a friend is like a pot without a single drop of honey left inside.” I get that. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, he of that damned albatross, said,”Friendship is a sheltering tree;”. I can picture that.

And so it goes that there are an infinite number of quotes, sayings, poems, songs, about friends and friendship. Are you all aware of the meaning of the word “epiphanic”? It’s an adjective meaning a striking and sudden realization. Picture a light bulb going off over your head. I’ve had several epiphanic moments in the past few weeks.

I know not why nor do I care. I’m taking the ball and running with it. The other day I took my 95 year old mom out to do some errands. We ran into someone we both knew, though through different contexts. I first knew her in high school where she was two years my senior. We played on the tennis team together. In a school both competitive and ruled by cliques, she transcended those things. She was kind and fair to each person she met.

Her dad and my uncle were longtime friends from childhood. Her family went to my uncle’s services and my mom and I went to each of her parent’s services. It’s what we were taught to do by the older generations of our families. It’s oddly comforting to be able to share a common bond during an emotionally fragile time.

This woman recounted how her dad would visit my uncle in his last several months of life. And she disclosed there were times when her dad would return from the visit and cry. We can only assume he was crying over the impending loss of a friend. These were men who spent their childhood in the Great Depression, then went off to unknown places to protect America’s democratic way of life. Upon return, each man went a different way. One married and raised five children along with his wife. The other worked and cared for his elderly mother.

Whenever they chanced to meet, the joy on their faces was immediate and genuine. Regardless of the passage of time, it was like they had run into the other on the school playground each time they met. Even as their chance meetings took place at numerous wakes as they aged, they found comfort in their memories and their feelings for one another.

As our friend spoke about the connection between these two men, the light bulb turned on in my head. I got it. These men, now deceased members of the Greatest Generation, truly loved one another. It was that simple, or rather that complex. What they had was true friendship, in my estimation. They loved one another with the depth of spirit and the ferocity that their life experiences shaped in their personalities.

Would my life have been incomplete if this epiphany had not occurred? No, but I’m so glad I had that epiphanic moment because it allowed me to see the absolute beauty of a true friendship. Since I believe in an afterlife, it warms my heart that Jack and Bill are reunited, talking and laughing like they’re still on the school playground.

I don’t get it…

We are able to make weapons that fire accurately and remotely. We can launch into space like we’re taking a bus. We can split an atom. Why are we unable to make eyeglasses that stay clean? I know, oils from the face and blah, blah, blah. Don’t care. Just make some eyeglasses that clean themselves, please.

I began wearing glasses in my mid-40s in order to read. Soon I was wearing progressive lenses because my teaching career involved me holding books and referencing them while I was teaching. The constant motion of looking from the text to the class would have caused constant nausea if not for progressive lenses.

Here’s a thought process of mine…glasses dirty again, clean them, think of teaching, think of spring, think of stress at the end of the school year, think of one true sign we were getting close to the end. Most mornings when I drove to school I turned left to go down the road to access the parking lot behind the school. On the corner of that road were a couple of old lilac bushes. They were the traditional light purple blooms. When these showed themselves, I knew the end of the school year was that much closer.

And then, my mind would quickly flit to the words of a great epic poem. “When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d/And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night/I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.” These are the first lines from Walt Whitman’s poem “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” It was written as a personal response to Abraham Lincoln’s death.

Whitman expressed his grief over Lincoln’s loss all the while glorifying the beauty of spring. Lincoln died on April 15th, certainly a time when varying blooms of spring would be present. My memory would then skip to second grade when I recited a poem in front of the PTA. It was my first experience with Longfellow’s poetry. The poem was “The Children’s Hour,” a lovely lyrical poem celebrating family and love. All of this in the two minutes it took me to drive down to the parking lot. My purpose is not to teach these poems to you, just merely to illustrate a thought process.

School is never far from my thoughts. I spent a large part of my life in schools. They were happy times in my life, though I know it wasn’t that way for everyone. If it was a rough time, I’m very sorry for that. Naturally my thoughts about school are likely to turn to music.

Most every year at the end of the last day of classes, I’d play the joyous song “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper just for my enjoyment. This was an anthem from my school days. “We got no class and we got no principles/And we got no innocence/We can’t even think of a word that rhymes.” Youth personified, much like the Who’s “Baba O’Riley.” “Teenage wasteland, it’s only teenage wasteland…we’re all wasted.”

There are many, many songs that reference school days and school daze. Another popular anthem is Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall.” “We don’t need no education/We don’t need no thought control.” For some reason these words seem especially timely. Enough said.

“Rock ‘n’ Roll High School,” a song written for a movie of the same name, features The Ramones singing “Well I don’t care about history/‘Cause that’s not where I wanna be/I just wanna have some kicks…”. Everyone should have fun in school. It should be a fairly carefree time of life.

Times have changed so much that a parody song that was wildly funny in the 1980s now seems distasteful. I once found the song to be very humorous and that was its intent. So much has happened in the ensuing decades that it isn’t as funny. It’s a song that was sung by a gal named Julie Brown. Look it up and decide for yourself. “The Homecoming Queen’s Got a G*#” is the title. Remember it was a much different time.

I’ve traveled through lilacs, spring, poetry, music, and school gun violence, all with an image of glorious spring flowers in my head. As always, I’m left with varying levels of thoughts. Most are positive, some are downright joyous. But there’s the sadness of the loss of classmates, former teachers, and former students. And the memory of a time of innocence that can never be replicated.

I did! I did! I did write a book!

And two points on your average if you guess the inspiration for the title of today’s post. All kidding aside, today is a proud moment for me. It represents the culmination of a great deal of work over several years. And it’s almost a miracle that it came to fruition.

It’s taken a great deal of my lifetime to determine some of my strengths. I’m thankful to have been able to reach that realization, though there are more that may never surface. As strong a person as I am, I may not have the strength to permit myself to let those things shine. And, yet, I’m loathe to leave this world without shining all of my light.

In the past few years, I’ve allowed myself to see that I am stifling my own existence. I began another blog (sporadictravel.com) where it is my mission to help others overcome challenges in order to get out and live their lives. Whether a person is challenged by mental or physical health issues, each of us deserves to be able to enjoy our lives. That blog is still in its beginning stages but please check it out.

It has become apparent to me that, throughout much of my life, my actions have directly related to a specific goal. But those goals were those set by others or what I felt was expected. Due to circumstances in my early life, I was constantly seeking approval. I’ve spent much of my adult life achieving goals that were expected of me and not necessarily what I wanted.

Don’t get me wrong. At this point I’m not unhappy with the way things have turned out. Is it what I envisioned for myself? No, but neither is it unpleasant. After all, if I hadn’t become a teacher I wouldn’t have been touched by the lives of my students. I poured my heart and soul into my teaching. It took a great toll on me, leaving me literally unable to continue due to physical health issues. But I wouldn’t change that decision to teach.

In reality, it’s taken me a great deal of my lifetime to learn who I am. It sounds trite but there it is. I was a happy-go-lucky kid. I was interested in everything, especially if it involved being outdoors. Once my motor ran down enough, I’d go inside and read. And read. And read some more.

But when it came to school I found myself daydreaming constantly. While I did well in most subject areas, some were difficult and required a concentration that I did not possess. I wiggled in my seat, bounced my legs up and down, gazed endlessly out the window.

I was also the kid any teacher could turn to for help. I’d pass out papers, help another kid learn to tie his shoes, go into the girls room after the girl who ran off crying, deliver things to the office, etc. Oddly enough, despite my lack of ability to focus, I managed to leave high school in the top 20% of my class and graduated from college and grad school with honors…all the while being chirped at by my teachers and my mom that I really could have done so much better.

Deep down I knew it was probably true but when I expressed that I could not make improvements, I was not believed. The importance is in the word choice. Never did I say I would not or I chose not to improve, I said I could not. I physically and mentally could not.

Looking back I can see it’s affected most every part of my life. I was a decent athlete when younger. I should have been much better than I was. Again, I could not. Though I practiced and tried over and over, I just could not.

You know that joke about being easily distracted? It’s the one where someone yells ”squirrel” to distract another person from a task? I’m the definition of the person who has to look. I often explained to my students that I had to keep the classroom door closed because I was too easily distracted. Truer words were never spoken. My mind never stops any sort of thought process and it can change its focus at an abnormal super-human rate. And my mind’s thought associations go far beyond other people’s capabilities of understanding. I’m not slighting any one else’s intelligence.

Sometimes I wonder if it stems from my being mostly left-handed. I say that because I’m somewhat ambidextrous though I tend to perform fine motor skills (writing, eating) with my left hand and gross motor skills (sports, tools) with my right hand. I learned the hard way that I cannot successfully wield a truth brush with my right hand or I lacerate my gums.

That’s all well and good but it’s darn confusing. When being shown how to do something, I find I’m automatically translating in my head from right-handed instructions to left-handed use. But at any moment I may find myself doing something equally well with either hand…think ping pong or cross stitch. I clumsily knit and crochet right handed.

Unless I’m involved in an activity that I truly enjoy/love, I am unable to sustain any focus. And so the fact I’ve written a book is astonishing to me. Plus it’s non-fiction requiring documentation and organization. Here’s the rub…I love to research. It appeals to my squirrelly distracted nature because while looking at one thing, one finds something else interesting and needs to run that idea down only to find another…you get the drift. In the meantime you’ve thought of another idea and the process starts all over again.

That’s enough. I am going to label this strange phenomenon and some of you will take umbrage. I honestly don’t care because I once was one of you, scoffing at this. But I’m going to own it because of the challenge it has presented to me throughout my life. It’s called ADHD. I know I seem anything but hyperactive but that’s only on the exterior. My interior is running at a rate that is exhausting, but hey…I wrote a book!

Love them while they’re here…

This has been a tricky couple of weeks for me. Two different people whose paths crossed mine, and were friends at different times during my life, could no longer sustain their lives on this Earth. They left us, on their own terms, far too soon. I get it. I struggle with mental health issues and understand the darkness that breeds those decisions. It didn’t stop me from being angry, though. How dare they leave? We weren’t done yet. There were still many laughs to be had.

You heard me right. Times I spent with each gal was guaranteed to be full of laughter. They shared my occasionally goofy sense of humor. They were smart. They were fun-loving. They were friends. One gal became known to me during our school years, mainly junior high and high school. We encountered one another sporadically in adulthood and always had a smile and a greeting for one another. There were some wild sleepover memories associated with her. And in a time when we identified each other by whichever of our mother’s cars we were driving, she drove the Betty-mobile, the Demon Duster. I’m sure there were a few times the Demon Duster may have been at the red light being circled by a gaggle of giggling teenage girls. Most of the time we were back in the car (fill in any mom’s name here…Joan, Lee, Marge, Charlotte, Helen…you get it) by the time the light turned green. How would we have ever known then how life would treat us?

My other friend I’ve written about more than a few times. We had several fun trips to Cape Cod. She smoked cigarettes and I would have my annual cigarette while sitting on the beach. And that was due to the dizziness I knew would happen. So, if seated, no chance of wiping out. I happen to be good at wiping out and it doesn’t take much for it to happen. Again, we participated in so much laughter together. When I recall many of our antics, conversations, etc., I laugh all over again…out loud and by myself.

Though these two are never far from my conscious thought, they are in the forefront during the first few months of the year for reasons I won’t mention. Winter is not my optimal time of the year for excellent mental health, so it’s hard to bear some of those thoughts. I feel things very deeply, though I’m also stoic so most wouldn’t say I’m a deep thinker. But I am and I never know what’s going to trigger my emotions…a thought, a smell, a setting.

Today as I sat browsing the news, it happened. Some of my friends know I’m still an avid sports fan and have been since my early childhood. I follow different sports through television and other media. I especially admire those sports reporters who write well. Think Curt Gowdy, Mitch Albom, Mike Lupica ( though he’s annoying), Bill Ryan, Will McDonough.

There was a headline “Longtime ESPN NFL reporter Mortensen dies at 72.” My heart sank, my throat constricted, my eyes filled with tears. Chris Mortensen was one of my favorite sports reporters in the last few decades. Mort was refreshing and upbeat. He could write and was an excellent speaker. Most of all he had integrity and the respect of most of those around him, whether it was his colleagues, athletes, team owners, etc. People trusted Mort with information. I remember when it was disclosed that he had stage IV throat cancer back in January of 2016. It would cause him to miss covering the Super Bowl for the first time in a few decades, not to mention the threat to his life.

Mort managed to get back to reporting, finally stepping away in September 2023. He will be missed by many, including me. I’m just so happy to have enjoyed his work. RIP, Mort, resquiat en pace.

Chris Mortensen 1951-2024

N.B. A bit of an awkward (inappropriate?) thought related to a wacky sleepover memory…I wonder what happened to the “Kappy People” cassette tape?

“Dream on”

Dream on. Dream until your dream comes true.” This hit by Aerosmith allows one to believe that dreams could come true as long as one doesn’t lose the passion and/or sight of the dream.

I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet. Despite health issues that push me to the brink, there is a larger part of me that needs to give back. I’ve done a variety of volunteer work over the years and, honestly, haven’t found it to be rewarding. To me, it means I haven’t found my niche. But we’re talking about me, a person who rarely identifies with a niche.

Often I’ve written stories involving the cabin in my head. The cabin in my head is remotely intertwined with a fictional setting I’ve created for a murder-mystery in progress and is now more part of an unfulfilled dream. I’m great at creating dream scenarios, but far less adept at making them reality, mostly because I lack a sizable chunk of money to be used for charitable purposes.

My dream involves finding a property that has a couple of small houses, some acreage, a large barn-like structure, and a good-sized multi-purpose building. It might have housed a children’s camp at one time, something like that. Ideally we’d either find a group of skilled workers like the “Maine Cabin Masters” crew or put together our own. We’d repurpose and recycle what we could to refurbish the property.

The main purpose of such a place would be to empower the area’s kids (hopefully a rural-ish area) by introducing them to many kinds of skills that they could use for their own enjoyment or as a means to provide income. My ideas need to be refined. Old-fashioned skills would be taught like gardening and canning. Newer skills, like photography or jewelry making, would also be offered. There could also be programs involving writing, simple construction, forensic science, etc. OR sheep could be raised, shorn for wool, and various products could be made from the wool. Pipe dreams? Maybe, maybe not.

There are so many paths it could take. But I feel I know a variety of people who might be able to help me realize a dream like that. I’d really need an astute individual to find us some grant money, or I should start playing the lottery.

What skills do you have that you could offer? And I’m not talking money.

And then…

“Somewhere out in the back of your mind (somewhere)
Comes your real life and the life that you know
It seems like it was the creation of some of those same old things
It seemed to be the only thing left out in the light…”. Rooms on Fire – Stevie Nicks

Late this afternoon I had one of those “stopped me in my tracks” moments. Involved in the sameness of one’s life and then you turn the corner and then…wham! There it is. And you smile and say, “wow.” It isn’t an exuberant exclamation but rather, it slips from your mouth in spite of itself. And you’re in awe.

I like to think most of us have these moments. I’m thankful to have them. The best part is you don’t know when they will present themselves. Whether it’s spying a rainbow, watching a hawk in flight, watching the waves lapping at the shore, pulling a loaf of bread from the oven…and on and on.

These moments keep me humble. I’m reminded that I’m not the one truly dictating my life. And I’m reminded that any little thing may happen at any time. As the great Scottish poet Robert Burns once said, “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” One of my grandmother’s maxims was, “man proposes and God disposes.” It’s the idea that you may plan and plan and plan but there is no guarantee the plans will work out.

The astronauts on the Challenger weren’t thinking this as their families watch them launched into space on that chilly morning. People were not thinking their lives would be changed forever when they went to work on September 11, 2001. Students went to school at Marjory Stoneman High one morning as they did each day. It was not a typical day at all.

However, many of us are lucky enough to experience far more of the awe-inspiring moments than the horrific events I just mentioned. Don’t forget to be thankful the next time it happens to you. I wasn’t expecting to be treated to an epic sunset today when I turned the corner in my car. It gave me chills, made me smile, and I whispered ‘wow’ all at the same time.

N.B. My photo does not do this justice at all.