I Run Because I Now Remember How

Boxes sit in the garage waiting to be packed.  Thus far the only actual motions I have gone through to prepare to move are mental.

How do I let go?  How do I discard the comfortable familiar for the unknown?

I now know this is the question that has held me back in so many ways for such a long time.

I have felt a change in the winds on my neck and it came to me as I stood comfortably in a hallway, that letting go is the easy part. 

How do you let go? 

You just do.

I have bemoaned my actions and reactions to the point where it cuts to a comforting darkness.

Today, I am resolute in my thoughts and decisions. 

Today I leave the darkness behind and follow through with actions. 

Today I let go.

Holding a sobbing child in my arms I cried for and with her.  I cried for the pain she feels that I can  not stop.   I cried for the losses she has endures.  I cried the for the very glory of her existence.

For her I let go.  For her and all the others I have held in my arms crying I let go.  For the ones who I can no longer hold I let go.

For the one who wants to hold me, I have to let go so that she can have that chance.

I sit here and I write and I find it difficult not to giggle.  There is a spirit I can feel emanating from my body right now that I can no longer contain.

Today I know what I have been thinking about and dreaming about, mentally packing for has arrived.

It is not a moving van, or a signed lease, that has arrived. 

I have arrived.

With this arrival comes letting go.

I let go of the past.  I am ready.

What arrived today was one simple sentence.

It is with this sentence that I will leave you as I prepare for the next step, the next chapter.  It is with this sentence that I put an end to some things and begin new ones.  Is is with this sentence I say good bye.

I am happy.

Who Am I Anyway?

Dear Baby Girl,

Soon you will be given a name you will never identify with but one day will fight for.  You will call yourself many names over the years but hearing "baby girl" will always make you feel loved.

What I am going to tell you may come in handy when you are sitting in front of a screen writing your thoughts, ideas, dreams and aspirations.

  Take heed precious one.

The words that have cut you and left scars have turned into artwork that are now complimented when you walk down the street.  The scars lay beneath but all you will see is the beauty.

You have been given many talents and you will eventually find the right one to focus on, until that time enjoy playing all parts of the minstrel.

On the dark days disappear. 

You know how.  You will not remember the actions beyond the feel of the knife and a few spoken words.  You have been given a way to fly away from that scene, so fly.

Develop those skills as you will use them time and again when the world lets you down and continues to take away the ones you love most.  Cry until you  get to the place after the tears.

You will stand at many grave sides and feel nothing.  This nothingness will come out later in the arms of someone who wants to protect you.

 Let them. 

Open your soul no matter how frightening it is. 

You will make mistakes Little One.  You will fall, you will be Judas to some but mostly to yourself. 

Let the better voice take reign and listen when it points to signs of danger.

Learn to be weak.  Learn to ask for help when you need it, it will only make you stronger to accept the outstretched hand that is offered.

You will dance better in your head than your body will allow, but someday someone will see you dance the way you see it.  They will take your hand and dance with you.

Words will form in your mouth that will hurt others, and you will know immediately.  Accept that your words will have a reaction and a consequence.  You will lose friendships over words.  You will cause scars the way others will scar you.

Be humble, see your mistakes but do not let them define you.

Forgiveness is always there for you, even when others do not grant it. 

Take the forgiveness you give to others and return it to yourself. 

People will tell you life is a game, not fair, short, a bitch.

To you life will always be a dance.

There will be times when the dance is a glorious pas de deux.  Focus then on the adagio, slow your breathing and dance.

Do not rush so much baby girl, even without a name you will make a mark upon this world.

Every hurt you feel or create will serve you later when you need the reminder of love and humility.

Block out the scarring words you will hear, they come from a place that is not your own.  Do not take the words that scar, release them in tears if you must, but do not let them reside within.  Those words are not your truth.

I tell you now that there will be times when your truth seems too difficult to own.  There will also be times when your truth is self intoxicating.

Every time you dance be it solo or ensemble, leave a part of you behind and take a new part with you as you go.

Your tears have not been precalculated, neither has your laughter.

Someday there will be someone that says, "I love the way you think...dance with me."

You do not need a name to dance, you only need the desire.

You have danced into this world nameless and will spend many hours searching for the definition of who you are.

You will be named.

 You will be called: friend, daughter, mother, cousin, wife, sister, aunt, niece, widow,writer, photographer, stylist, reader, giver and lover.

What possible prewritten name could hold all of that?

You will know your identity. Someday I promise, you will embrace it

A Practice of Metafiction

Most of the greatest love stories can not be believed, and if you do believe them, be wary.

A war story, a love story.  Tragedy must occur for either to be engaging, or at least passably interesting.

I walked into a field today and scratched my feet on briars.  Determined I walked further in to the field to reach the destination I was seeking.

I walked with my head down, eyes watching for landmines.  Landmines of roses that explode, or pine cones that share meanings with multiple people.  Landmines to  shred a heart, I walked on further ignoring the pain of the briars.

I knelt down and looked at the tall and dry grass.  She came up behind me and grabbed my hand.  I stood and smiled.  We kissed with the sun on my face, while hiding hers in shadows.

I  opened my eyes and stood alone with only the sun kissing my face.  In my hand I held not her, but rather a piece of dried out grass, crisp from winter snapping off easily.

She said, "Come with me to the forest, where we will pick pine cones."

She said, "Come with me to the mountain where our house is."

She said, "Come with me to the ocean where we will swim with dolphins."

She said, "Come with me to the city where we will dance all night."

I grabbed her hand and we ran.  We ran to the ocean and swam.  We ran to the mountain and laughed. We ran to the forest and she lifted branches out of my way.  We ran to the city and let our eyes be blinded by sounds.

Sounds are landmines.

She sounded off, "I love you."

I laughed and wanted to take my shoes off to ground myself so I would not float away. 

Only I really did not laugh, my shoes stayed on, and no one said, "I love you."

I turned in the direction of the rooster crowing and walked with determination.  I knew.  I knew I would die in that field.  I would step on a landmine and my heart would burst from being filled to capacity.

She followed.  I could hear her tracking me like a hunter.

 Always behind me, always beckoning.

Whispering, "Believe, fall, I will catch you."

I turned into the empty wind and away from the rooster's call.

I stepped over the dead bodies that fell victim to her.  The ones that died in that field as surely I would.  The suns warmth betraying me into a sleepy state of belief.

In my hand I held the hard dried grass sharp from winter.  I looked closer and saw it was not grass.  It was a long and over used artery that had once pumped blood to one of the dead in the field.  One of the ones that listened to her and believed.

I stood in the field, with the sun now to my back, turning away from the carnage she has left behind.  I put down my rifle, or was it my camera?

She said, "Just stay.  We will have our blue sky." 

She said, "I want you."

She said, "I don't need you."

  My eyes bled from the overwhelming beauty of the field and all of her victims.

I turned directly to her and shouted, "No!"

She twirled around in her white linen sundress and smiled.  "No one says no to me."

I picked up my rifle and shot it into the air, warning off the others that would make their way to the very spot in which I stood.  My shot told them to stay away.

They heard did not hear a shot, they heard the bells chiming at noon calling the faithful to gather. 

Each seduced by the call of the Siren.  Not three, but one reigns in the field.  One Siren.

I died that day in the field, along with the rest of the believers I had to lured in by warning them off.

On the edge of the field I now stood having been rescued by a whistle.  I turned and looked at her and it was my turn to laugh.  "You don't win today.  I have died a hundred times over for you but no more."

Her white linen sundress was torn and dirtied with the cries of her victims.  The dress itself was audible.

I shut my eyes, tossed my lit cigarette in the filed and watched my corpse burn.

She stood in the ashes watching carefully over the dead bodies as if each kill was a precious newborn to be taken tenderly to her breast for nourishment.

I got in my car and drove away and did not look back.

My white linen dress was unwrinkled. In my lap lay a piece of tall grass that snapped off as easily  as a crisp apple from a summer tree branch.


The above is true,or it is a lie.  Either way there is perfection in the death and resurrection of war and romance.

Can I See Your Claim Check?

I was sitting in the lobby of a hotel in Fort Worth this last weekend when I overheard two women talking.

"Seriously, is it that hard to find someone who does not have an entire closet of Samsonite?"

"That is why you have to get them young before they have time to develop any."

Ahhhh, "baggage."  I got it.  I wondered if she considered the fact that she herself is most likely someone's Samsonite.  Granted she may be a carry on or she may be a steamer trunk.

I look at what can be considered my baggage and I do wonder how many people I have scared away simply by having children; by being a financially unstable; having an ex-husband, a dead husband, ex-girlfriends; and any other number of daunting things in my life that may tell someone to cut and run.

What makes someone's baggage Louis Vuitton and another's a black roller bag held together by duct tape?

What makes one more attractive than the other?  Is there a mental process people go through when they meet someone and marks are deducted for each thing that resides within their own suitcases?

"Oh you have kids? That is awesome!"...."Wait -- five kids?  Yeah, umm., it was nice meeting you."

At what point when meeting someone do you divulge certain things about you that may be dealbreakers?

"Dinner was awesome, did I mention that I am married?  Well, I may or may not be."

 When you meet someone as teenagers and have nothing behind you and everything ahead of you, it is so easy to simply let go and dream of all the possibilities.  Hours can be spent imagining a future together.

As we get older and we develop our own special brand of accoutrements, the dreaming becomes harder. 

So nice to picture a tract house of our own, somewhere that's green. 

So difficult to get to that little house on the hillside made of ticky tack.

How much of our past has to go with us into the future? 

There are obvious things that can be worked out -- will your big dog eat my little dog?  Will my cats kick your cat's ass?

When is the time to put away the baggage and just be?  To just lie down and have the world open up and move out the way for the lovers that walk, oblivious to anything but each other?

People say that the first three months of a relationship are the easiest because we are filled with endorphins and blinded by possibilities

I disagree.  The first three months are when we are slammed with the small nuances a person may possess that at once we find endearing but become annoying.

The start is when we spill our guts, we unzip our luggage and hand it over to the other person to run through it like a security checkpoint at an airport.

"I am so sorry, Ma'am, but I am going to have to take this if you want to continue on with your journey." 

"Wait, I have had that forever.  Is it that big of a deal that I (smoke, have children, don't drink, am overweight, have really sappy taste in music)?"

Sometime between hello and goodbye is an unzipping, an unpacking, a time to decide if you can take on someone's baggage along with your own.

If you never try, you will never know.  Call the bellhop, get a roller cart, load the bags, put them in storage for a while and take time to just be. 

Walk hand in hand and unpack as you see fit, discard what you feel you need to discard for you and cling to that which you know to be authentically yours.

Take the time to look the person in the eyes and just see them as they want to be seen. 

See possibility, see openness.  Look not at the baggage claim ticket but rather at the adventures in which the bags were packed and filled in the first place.

After This Call There Will Be a Brief Survey

I slept for seven continuous hours.  This is always a noteworthy occurrence for  me as I gave up sleeping around the time my youngest was born.

With a deep uninterrupted sleep comes long uninterrupted dreams.  Last night I dreamt of murder.  No, I was not the murderer, I was witness to the crime, and then later being chased my faceless murderer.

After the discovery of how many hours I slept I decided to do some research on the meaning of dreams.

Common theory of murder dreams is that the people being killed are actually aspects our ourselves.

Various forms of our personality that either need to be, or we want to be killed off.

It is more interesting in that case that the people I witnessed being killed were a young mother and her young daughter. 

And they were black.

So I killed off my inner black woman, my former self and my childhood?

Why could I not have witnessed a woman eating McDonalds being killed?  That is a part of me I would not mind killing off.

If I am to read this dream correctly than I am left wondering why the inner child was killed?  I had an amazing childhood.  The girl in my dreams was brutally raped and then slowly killed,  her mother witnessed it happening and I witnessed all of it.  I tried in vain to call the police but damn AT&T kept dropping the call. Instead I kept getting the operator telling me my bill was overdue.

After the mother and child were dead the killer turned toward me.  The rest of the dream was spent in an exhausting race where I am quite sure I kicked my legs like a dog when dreaming.

I woke up feeling as if I had a work out.  Perhaps I need to step on the scale.

 Killing off half of me and running to hold on to the rest I should be heroin chic thin this morning.

As I get back on track to becoming all that I can be (sans joining the Army) I expect I will have many anxiety  based dreams.

It is a scary thing to face change ,mistakes, loss, and the AT&T operator. 

Maybe the vulnerable child within did need to be killed off so that I can move forward.  Maybe the young overprotective mother had to go to be with the child thus making room for an older wiser mother to come into my psyche.

At one point in my dream I did turn to face the murderer (probably because I was tired and needed oxygen from all the running) and yelled at him. 

He was nonplussed and kept trying to kill me.  I ran on until I could run no more.  At that place I woke up.

Now I am awake, refreshed, decidedly thinner, and done running.

I may have to look into another cell phone carrier, because in dreams sometimes a snake is just a snake.

Excuse Me is This Tone Taken?

If you knew someone was going to be in your life for just one hour would you treat them any differently than if you knew they would be in your life until you take your last breath?

This is a question that has been circling around in my head. 

People come and go from our lives all the time.  They arrive for various reasons, and leave for just as varied reasons.  From the first introduction to the departing goodbye how should they be treated?

Obviously this can be somewhat contextual as I may not see the bank teller at the drive thru daily, or (hopefully) for even more than five minutes.  Does this give me permission to be rude, or act as though the bank teller does not even exist?

There is a saying about always acting as if someone is watching you.  This may be fine for things like picking our nose, or giving someone the finger, but does it count for how we feel about people?

The people who make it into my life I would like to think I treat in a more intimate way.  By that I mean I am more open with them, more honest, more vulnerable, and just generally a better person and friend.

If you are in my phone and have your own ringtone, you are close to me in some way.

Today I took stock of my phone and therefore my life.

 I deleted at least ten contacts.  Some had their own ringtones.  Some were considered close but now are gone from my life.

Of the ones that possessed a place in my heart and in my phone that are now gone, I have had to do some reflection upon.  I refuse to beat myself up over the loss of friends, even if I am willing to admit I was the cause. 

Did I know when we met that they would be close to my heart and I would unwittingly hurt them to the point where friendship was no longer desired?  No.  I do not want to think I begin any relationship with the thought that I will be a bad person.

In the last month I have strayed from my path.  One of my previous friends asked why I was in a destructive cycle and I could not answer.  That is unusual for me as I tend to know the reason behind most of my actions.

I have always believed that people come and go for a reason and it is our job to find out what that reason is.  It could be so simple as learning a new way to do our hair, discovering a book you never heard of, or a song that makes you smile.

I have always said that I consider myself an optimistic person, but as I said goodbye to friendships I realized that I do not think anyone who enters my life will be a permanent fixture. 

I met someone not too long ago who I get along with greatly, we laugh, we banter at the same speed, and have common interests.  I could see her being a good friend.  For a while.  The goodbye has already been written.

Knowing this I am still willing to try to be the best person I can be, the best friend I can be.  I will falter, as I have let people down in the past and I am not anywhere near perfect.

Sometimes I see my mistakes as I am making them.  Other times I do not know until after the fact.  I am working very hard on stopping the mistakes before they happen.  This includes financial decisions to how I treat the bank teller and everyone in between.

With every goodbye there is sadness, but there is also an opportunity to learn, to grow, to reflect, and to free everyone from any harm.

With every hello there is an opportunity to love, be gracious, caring, and honest.

I am a believer in love and happy endings for everyone in my life, and in my phone.

Perhaps it is time I assign myself my own ringtone.

Where Was My Earl?

2012  thus far not been stellar, and that is an understatement.  Besides the fact that I  began the year with burning my hand and having a pity party because I felt lonely, I now have added a new experience to my life.  One I had hoped I would never have.

Last  night I was arrested.  I have never been arrested and the only things I know about it are from TV shows, movies, and a few people that I know that have also had the misfotune of experiencing this.

Does it matter what I did?  If I write my guilty deed is that all anyone will take away from this?

Does it matter more that I was demoralized and humiliated or that nine years ago I did something I fogot about to have it randomly pop up last night?

I sat in Central Booking with my hands behind my back in cuffs that were digging into my wrists.  I wacthed everything around me.  I watched the officers make fun of just about every person brought in.  At first I was mad about this.  I felt anger that the officers felt so superior to everyone else.To me.   Then I thought they are doing their job.  I wanted each person to be treated indivudually and  not seen as just a criminal.

They did not know what I did, or what the woman next to me did, or didn't do.  They only knew we had warrants were caught and now in their fishbowl.

Still as you stand with your legs  being kicked apart for the fifth time and feel a strangers hand run up and down your entire body touching even the most intimate of parts, you want to scream.  I violated a law, which gave them the right to violate my body, violate my privacy and make fun of me to my face.

Jail also smells bad.  The fact that the girl I was cuffed to was drunk and throwing up did not help much.  But this same girl who sober in the morning and shaking as we walked down the cold hall grabbed on to my hand when I asked if she wanted to hold it.  I whispered to her that it would be okay and to just hang in there.  She held my hand all through seeing the judge, walking back down the long corridors, up the elevator and until we were released from each other by the click of a key.

I did not ask her name, nor she me. But I hope she felt better having a hand to hold on to and let her know somone saw her as a human.

I sat in my cell and wrapped the itchy blanket around me.  There was plenty of graffiti for me to read and try and decipher.  I was surprised most of it was about God.  I guess people can find God pretty quick in a small cell after the door is slammed shut and locked.

I did not seek out God.  I saught sleep.

What I got was a lot of thoughts.  Twice I was asked a number of questions, the same ones.  One of the questions was, "Do you hear voices in your head that arent your own?"  The first time I was asked I laughed and said, "no."  The second time I just said "no."  In the cell I silently told the truth.

"Of course I hear voices in my head that arent my own.  I can hear my brothers dissapointment of me.  I hear my mother's worried voice with tears, I hear my boss telling me I wont have a job anymore.  I hear my children, some worried, some pissed off at me. I hear some friends calling me a dumbass and others expressing love and concern.  Yes I hear the voices."

People are supposed to have great epiphanies in jail.  I spent much of the time pondering why they still use black and white striped uniforms to make everyone look like they are in a 1950's cartoon.  I listened while other people talked and did not add to the conversation.  I wondered how long I could actually keep my extreme claustrophobia away with all the constant slamming doors and buzzing locks.

The only epiphany I had is that I am not such a great person.  I am not the person I want to be and need to be.  I suppose that does actually count as an epiphany. 

When in a hallway a man going through the same process of booking as me looked at me said, "Looking good baby."  Without thinking I said, "Shut the fuck up scumbag."  The man lurched toward me and guards were on him immediately.  It was after that I decided I should just be quiet.

I thought about how I would write this.

If I would write this.

Has this been a pivotal experience in my life or just a blip on the entire spectrum?

Have I been able to laugh about it already?  Yes.

But I also have not slept, lost track of time, friends, and dignity.

In 2004 I went to the grocery store and wrote a bad check.  Did I know I was writing a bad check?  Maybe.  I can't recall.

In 2012 I tried to find sleep in a jail cell and for half of one day I was seen as barely human.  I have been judged by strangers, family, and friends.  No one can judge me worse than I can do myself.

Am I a good person?  Am I a good parent?  A good friend?  A good employee?

When I ask myself these questions they now hold a hgher importance.

The answer has not always been "yes."

I accept my faults, my mistakes, and I will do what is within my power to rectify each and every one of them.

Tonight when I find sleep in my own bed under my own blanket I will think of only ways I can be a better human.

I will extend my hand out not just to a person who happens to be handcuffed to me, but to everyone.

Mostly I will extend my hand out to myself so that I can answer the questions above with a yes.

First I will try to repair some dignity, as I cry out the shame that remains.

A Crazy Little Thing Called Love

I have been thinking a lot about Shakespeare.  I asked my daughter who has recently read several of his plays which one was the one where he loves her but she loves another and that other loves yet another?  We could not decide if it was A Midsummers Night Dream, or The Twelfth Night.

With a quick search I came across the notes on Twelfth Night.  "Love as a Cause of Suffering" was written atop, "Twelfth Night is a romantic comedy."

Suffering and comedy hardly seem compatible.

In the play love is described as everything from a plague to a desperation that may lead to violent acts.

Although the play goes in to a more interesting question of gender, I am going to stick with the main theme of love.


Love can be a plague.  It can be desperate in nature.  A plague in the sense that it overtakes your physical reactions. Heart pounding, stomach flipping about like a fish, cold sweats, and other human reactions that we do not always have control over.

Love can also be desperate.  Everyone has seen the shows of countless crimes committed in the name of love.  But what if, for just one time, the lovers actually turn toward each other and feel the same thing for one another instead of feeling it for someone else?

Their coming together would be a desperate act of submission to their feelings and a giving in to the anguish of love.  Their kisses would almost be painful because they are so intense and perfectly received.

"It is hopeless, she does not love me, and I love her, and she loves someone else,"

Words I have heard today as I have sat and been witness to a Shakespearean love triangle.

Hopeless?  No, far from it.  Just being able to love at all speaks of hope.  The fact that the love is unrequited is painful yes, but that love was bloomed in the first place is hopeful.  Love can not blossom unless it stems from fertile ground.

Even my own heart, which I try to convince myself daily has been long uprooted and dead, still beats.  Still wants another heart to beat in unison with mine.

There is pain in love. Anyone who has ever been in love can tell you this.  Even if the hearts beat together there is still pain.  Loving someone may cause damage on a residual scale.  The loss of a childhood friend who wanted the same love as you.  The pain of jealousy that may occur.  The pain of fear that the love may not last.

I believe love is the reason we exist.  Like anything else it takes practice, patience, perseverance.  I may have to remind myself of this every now and again.

Whether I am the role of therapist to a Twelfth Night saga, a leading role, or just part of the audience, I remind myself daily that love may cause pain, but it is such an exquisite and intoxicating pain that if all the planets align, turns in to the best feeling.  Like laying down in the grass and taking in the sky, we open our hearts to the elements.  Hoping to be filled with stars knowing it may rain instead.

What a powerful and hopeful thing this thing called love is.

It's Gonna Be a Happy New Year

The first day of a new year.  People have placed such an emphasis on New Year's Eve, making resolutions, and attending parties.  I have never been one of these people.

I tend to become more introspective on and around my birthday.  That is my own New Year marker.  New Year's has never been anything to me than another mundane holiday barely worth celebrating.

Pessimistic?  Maybe.  I began a quest to find out what other people think of the holiday.  I was surprised to find out that I am in the minority of those I polled. Most rather like the holiday and see it as a chance for new beginnings, new starts, new promises.

Am I supposed to give up vices I have spent years perfecting? 

Isn't every day that we manage to wake up, take a breath and get out of bed a time for new starts and promises?

Do I have to call Jenny Craig on one day a year? 

While quizzing one friend she mentioned that she would be going out, getting drunk and possibly hooking up with someone. 

"So you want to start the new year hung over with a person in your bed?"  She laughed and said there was worse ways to start a year.

Another person told me her goal was to have sex within the next three months.  At least that was different than the usual lose weight, get in shape, get my finances together.  I did not ask her how she planned on going about attaining this goal.

Some people want to get tattoos, have tattoos removed, move, travel, read more, eat less, buy a house.  These are all worthwhile goals to be sure, but why do they have to be set on one night a year?

Shouldn't every day be a day of resolutions?  Should we not try every day to be the best person we can possibly be?

We will not succeed every day.  We will be grumpy, drive through a fast food lane in hopes of happiness in a milkshake.  We will drink too much when we swore we would not.  If that is the case then do we give up on all the goals?

Each day when I wake up I take inventory of what needs to be done for that given day.  If there is room to add to the list then I do.  However there are days when I look at the mental list and decide the best place for me is under the covers.

I like hearing stories about the way other people spend their New Year's Eve.  Yesterday I spent half of the day preparing a group of women for a wedding, I spent the second half of the day helping a few friends pick out their outfits for their various evening plans.

Then I went home.  I fell asleep early and the children woke me just before midnight.  I counted down with them and celebrated in the streets with them lighting off sparklers.

I kissed no one.  I made no resolutions.  I burned my hand lighting a sparkler and my first outing of the New Year was to a Walgreens to get ointment and bandages.

When I woke up today all I wanted was coffee.  But more than that I wanted someone to bring me coffee.  Not because I feel entitled, or am spoiled, but because I wanted to have someone there who would have been thoughtful enough to make us coffee and we could sit in bed and enjoy the early afternoon together.

I know that I am okay alone.  I know that should I remain alone for the rest of my life I will be okay.  But that does not mean I do not have those moments where I feel lonely.  Where the touch of another person feels palpably missing from my life.

New Years to me is just a reminder that I have not been invited to do anything more than help other people get ready to go out.  Something on any other day I would give  no second thought to. 

Yes, I felt sorry for myself.  I had a pity party for one, and I for one am glad it is over and we can all get on with our lives.

Every day is a day for resolutions.  If I was going to give in and make one, it would be : To be as far away from Valentine's Day as possible.

Until then I will wake up, take a breath, and think about what I can accomplish with each day I am given.  Today I hung the new calendar.