Our Best is Yet to Come

 

"When the required minimum becomes your chosen maximum, the sum of your life is mediocrity." ~Anonymous

Try as I might, I could not determine the source, the author, of this quote. It was shared last Sunday by Karen Wing, a beloved member of my Artist's Way twelve-week creativity group as a final footnote to the good work we'd done individually and collectively, and it hit me hard. I knew I wanted to devote a column to unpacking its meaning.

Then to follow up, almost intuitively, another long-standing member, Pamela Salisbury, texted me an article, 7 Reasons Why You Will Live a Mediocre Life, that supports this bold claim. (I have linked it here: https://bit.ly/3v7sGMl.)

Perhaps the first thing we should do is define the word itself. 

“Mediocre is a word that describes something ordinary or less than average. It is not generally a positive word. Saying that a person, thing, or event is mediocre often suggests that it could be much better with a little more effort. Many people and things can be described as mediocre.” ~Macmillan Dictionary

Mediocrity is almost always rooted in fear: fear of standing out, fear of what others will think, fear of failure; and/or laziness, lack of imagination, not wanting it bad enough, and toxic associates.

I just finished reading a wonderful work for one of our 2023 Monthly Muse Book Clubs. It's called The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles by Steven Pressfield. (You can check it out here: https://bit.ly/3WuU1nM.) Pressfield posits that mediocrity hurts us all. Here he is on the last page of The War of Art:

“If you were meant to cure cancer or write a symphony or crack cold fusion and you don’t do it, you not only hurt yourself, even destroy yourself. You hurt your children. You hurt me. You hurt the planet.

You shame the angels who watch over you and you spite the Almighty, who created you and only you with your unique gifts, for the sole purpose of nudging the human race one millimeter farther along its path back to God.

Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention. It’s a gift to the world and every being in it. Don’t cheat us out of your contribution. Give us what you’ve got.”

Why should I care? Why should I care whether you reach for the stars? Why should I care whether you wake up every morning pumped to give your creative life its due? I care for the same reason I choose to hang out with sober friends. I care for the same reason I hate small talk. You and I are so much better than average. You and I have so many more intellectual and creative functions to express. Show up and tell me your idea. Show up and brim over with enthusiasm, with passion. Show up and together we will devise a way to make it happen. Let's do this. Let's be our best brilliant unbridled selves this year.

If not now, when?

Good Eye

 

When my son played Little League youth baseball, I'd often hear the other parents shout, "good eye!"  when he wisely chose not to swing at a bad pitch. I receive similar praise as a photographer when I capture an image that resonates with my audience. Whenever I receive this compliment, I am reminded just how true this statement is. Since birth, I have only had one good eye. 

Born with an ocular coloboma in my left eye, I depend solely on my right eye for my sense of sight. According to Wikipedia, "a coloboma is a hole in one of the structures of the eye, such as the iris, retina, choroid, or optic disc. The hole is present from birth and can be caused when a gap called the choroid fissure, fails to close up completely before a child is born." 

My coloboma is hour-glass shaped, and every now and then I'll meet a stranger who will point, peer deeper and exclaim, "Oh, my God; your eye!!!" Sometimes I'll play along and feign surprise, but more often than not, I'll smile and fill them in on the nature of the malady. I am acutely aware, each and every time I pick up my camera, that I am blessed to have that one good eye. I don't sit around lamenting the eye I never had use of. Instead I protect the good eye by wearing safety glasses when doing yard work or any activity that could compromise my sight. 

I send up a silent prayer each time I venture out with my camera, aware of how fortunate I am. As I sat in the ophthalmologist's office for my annual eye exam last week, I was reminded just how blessed I am to have that one good eye. 

As many of us prepare to celebrate Christmas Eve, let's keep gratitude in our hearts. Here's another great article to appreciate: https://bit.ly/3UUI8WQ

An Open Letter to Men Who Co-opt and Women Who Let Them

 

                                                          Image by auzza38 from Pixabay 

Co-opt: To take or assume for one's own use. ~The Free Dictionary

At the end of October, I wrote a column, An Open Letter to a Woman Who Fawns, and perhaps this post reveals the flip side of the same coin (https://bit.ly/3W9zzsg).

Relationships (romantic and otherwise) that begin because one or both of the parties need something (companionship, attention, escape from boredom, financial security, status) rarely end well even if the individuals stay enmeshed for years. If you're happily married or in a long-term committed relationship today, my hat is off to you. But all too often men and women who find themselves suddenly single are all too eager to latch on like newborn babes to the first person who meets a basic set of criteria. In this column, I challenge men to resist the urge to latch on because they're lonely, bored, and/or insecure emotionally or financially. 

I'll assume that the men who co-opt women are lovely, respectable, successful men (God knows there are plenty who are not). On the outside, there is nothing untoward or unusual about these men. They come in all shapes, sizes, and ages. The issue is with what lies within---a pervasive fear of being alone. These are men who believe that in order to be complete, in order to find meaning, they must have a woman by their side, in their lives, in their beds. It's high time we swept a giant searchlight over this self-limiting belief.  

Ladies, as special as I know you are, men who co-opt will be satisfied with a warm body and a modicum of encouragement. Resist the temptation to become enmeshed, engulfed, and enveloped in someone else's life. Before you open that door (metaphorically and physically), ask yourself which aspects of your life are you willing to shrink, relinquish, short-shrift? Will it be your relationship with yourself, your adult children, grandchildren, fitness, passion, purpose, creative life, God? Don't be too quick to relinquish your hard-won independence, your autonomy. I shudder at how close I've come to being co-opted by men seeking a nurse and/or a purse, by one on kidney dialysis, by one with a sexually transmittable disease, and finally by one closeted gay man looking for cover. 

Men, it's not our responsibility to do your heavy lifting. It's not our job to pick up the broken pieces of your heart and put them back together again regardless of the glue you lay at our feet---flowers, candlelit dinners, poetry, jewelry, texting. Take time to work on yourselves. Immerse yourself in solo travel, take a class, join a gym. Learn to be at home in your own skin, to find pleasure in your own company. Discover your true essence. Stop bringing us your unfinished selves expecting us to set the table, provide the nourishment and then clean up afterward. We have our own soul work to do. And make no mistake, it is work, and that's why some women will let you co-opt their lives, women who need little to no coaxing, women who need no other sign than your eyes gazing deeply into theirs, women who will gladly take up the challenge of fixing, patching, raising you up---in order to bypass their own deep work and introspection. 

As the philosopher, Blaise Pascal once stated: "All men's miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone." Step into the quiet, and recall writer Joseph Campbell’s wise words, “The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.” 

Don't take my word for it, Check out the following articles: 

https://bit.ly/3WbxQmj

https://bit.ly/3hf6Tiz

https://bit.ly/3Hqll1Q

Full Circle

Image by wixin lubhon from Pixabay

Over fifteen years ago, I drove up to New Hampshire for the weekend, ostensibly to decorate my family's vacation home for the holidays. In the back of my SUV, I carried an oversized cardboard box with an artificial Christmas tree (some assembly required), a Tupperware container of glass ornaments, and a case of red and white wine, hand-picked for the outing, at the Hampton state liquor store (a virtual vending machine paradise that my children came to regard, euphemistically, as the candy store.) The truth is, I did plan to trim the tree, hang the stockings, and decorate the house, but I was really going away without my young family so I could drink.

At the house, I poured a glass of Merlot, ripped open the cardboard box, and to my horror, laid eyes on dozens of individually wrapped, color-coded plastic tree branches, and pages of instructions. I distinctly recall thinking, rather gleefully, "I may run out of patience, but I won't run out of wine." I inserted a lot of twisted, metal-tipped branches into pre-drilled holes that night, and I drank the way I wanted to---alone, and into the wee hours. To my surprise in the morning, the completed tree looked pretty good. My reflection in the mirror told a different story.

The memory of that winter weekend flashed back yesterday while I was standing in the fake Christmas tree aisle at Lowe's. As a child, I only knew artificial trees; my parents would never go to the trouble of displaying a real tree in the living room, but once married, with children of my own, it became tradition to tag, chop, and drag the prize home. I honored that tradition for a good, long time, but those days are behind me now. My children are grown, and it's up to me to decide which traditions to maintain, and which ones to create anew. Standing there in the aisle, I couldn't take my eyes off a 7 1/2-foot GE, pre-lit, frasier fir, looking surprisingly like the real deal. I wrestled with my decision, but I can think things through today. By the time I dragged that box up three flights of stairs into my apartment, made a cup of lemon tea, cut open the box (to blessedly find three pieces, not dozens, and a one-sided sheet of instructions), stacked the sections, and fanned out the branches, I knew---I'd come full circle.

I'm going up north again tomorrow, this time to Vermont, and I won't be alone, by golly. I'll be with a whole pack of women, sober women, women happy to be alive, celebrating this season with zest, vigor, a whole lot of laughter, and---no wine.

Restocking Our Intentions

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay 

'Tis the season, but not necessarily in the way the phrase is commonly used in December. Rather 'tis the season for us to take stock of 2022, soon to be in the rear view mirror. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines taking stock as: to carefully think about something in order to make a decision about what to do next.

As my hosting and teaching obligations wind down in December, my attention turns to what's next? And because I generally find myself a housebound Airbnb host between May and October, my wanderlust, my strong desire to travel, my Sagittarius nature, is mighty high in the winter. (I wrote about my travel intentions a few weeks ago in my November 8 column, Autumn: A Time for Puzzles and Wanderlust.)

I heard from a good friend recently who believes that she has, at best, twenty more years here on earth. Like me, she is in her sixties and longs to be free of obligations that no longer feed her soul, for a life with no strings attached. I can relate; can you? If I don't love it, and it can be anything from a sweater I no longer wear, to a job that drains my creative energy, to a relationship with a toxic friend, life is too short to spend surrounded by people, places and things that no longer invigorate me, that no longer align with my gypsy soul and hippie heart. 

Seven months ago, I claimed my right to write without hesitation, without fear, without restraint. Out of that commitment came my deep regard for the Substack platform and the ability to ask my loyal readers to support my writing with a paid subscription. Over two dozen readers have generously offered between $5.73-$7.00/month (less than the cost of some lattes) to keep the ink flowing. One special reader is even a Mighty Muse! It is my deepest desire that you will become one of those paid subscribers in the weeks ahead. 

As we begin the march into 2023, let's continue taking stock and restocking our intentions. What are you being called to do? What's dying to be birthed? As a creative midwife, I'd love to help. Tell me how. 

(Check out this great article about the importance and practice of taking stock: http://bit.ly/3OJDae3)t

Aging, Resilience and Relevance

Resilience is the capacity to recover quickly from difficulties. 

Relevance is how appropriate something is to what's being done or said at a given time.

~Your Dictionary

This whimsical graphic speaks volumes about resilience and relevance, flip sides to the same coin. Rather than lamenting a rainy day, the woman stands beneath a dark cloud catching rainwater to nourish a potted plant. As the saying goes, When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. There's a silver lining in every disappointment, every obstacle, every dis-ease, if viewed through a contemplative lens. Nothing happens to us, everything happens for us and our spiritual growth and development. Aging is no different, and it offers profound opportunities for growth and relevance, or stagnation and irrelevance. As Nikolle Goldman writes in her article, 6 Secrets to Staying Relevant As You Age (see link below), one must seek knowledge, embrace social media, stay fit, go out, dress to impress, and challenge yourself. I am happy to report that my relevancy meter is set to high. 

Yesterday was Thanksgiving here in the United States and for the first time since becoming a mother thirty-five years ago, I found myself home alone. Two of my three children and their families were traveling, and the third one lives over 1000 miles away in the midwest. All three made choices that suited their families, and I loved that they did so. I mindfully turned down countless offers of fellowship in exchange for a quiet day at home with my beloved Carla, a good book, jigsaw puzzle, and chicken in the slow-cooker. Doing so gave me time to reflect on past holidays when my relevance depended on providing a family feast. My relevance has morphed and changed over the years, and my resilience to life's changes has kept up. 

Last weekend,  my oldest daughter and her husband closed on a new house. The previous owners had been beset by a string of set-backs and bad luck over the years, and seemed to live under a black cloud. My daughter accepted my offer to smudge the exterior and interior of their new digs to invite positive energy (see link below). So when moving day arrived, I showed up at the prescribed time and fulfilled my promise with bundles of aromatic sage, lavender and rosebuds. Once complete, I offered to stay and help, but my daughter, like me, has her own way of doing things, and I knew the greatest help I could provide was getting out of her way. Later that night, her father and his wife showed up and built a wonderful fire in their fireplace. On Sunday, her in-laws showed up with an offer to take the grandkids off-site for a few hours. Each of us aging parents showed up in ways that suited us, ways that spoke to our unique gifts and talents, in short, our relevance. 

As I prepare to embrace my 69th December birthday, I am able to relinquish the mother I once was in order to embrace the resilience that keeps me relevant. 

https://www.nextavenue.org/getting-older-matter/

http://bit.ly/3U38TYL

http://bit.ly/3U2Hd67

 

I'm no Cinderella

Photo by Laura Chouette on Unsplash

"The Cinderella complex was first described by Colette Dowling, who wrote a book on women's fear of independence – an unconscious desire to be taken care of by others." ~Wikipedia

In 2014, it occurred to me, in a stunning and humbling moment of clarity, that I was waiting for someone else to show up with the key to my life. As a single woman, I was seeking a partner with a big life. In my mind, big life was not necessarily synonymous with big money, big house, or big car. Big life meant that I wanted a partner whose life was filled with passion, purpose, meaning, and depth. I wanted to be transformed, and carried from my own so-so life, into someone else's purpose-driven life. What the universe provided me with, however, was an opportunity to experience, and utilize, my own sense of lack as a vehicle for transformation. In short, so long as I sought, outside of myself, that for which I desired, I would continue to attract that missing piece in others. And while I never thought of myself as a woman seeking rescue, that moment of clarity was a game changer. I discovered that in order to find people who led deeply passionate and purposeful lives, I had to become a vibrational match. 

The universe wasted no time delivering direction. Almost instantly, I was given an opportunity to attend a class at the Rhode Island School of Design, aptly called, "Become the Art Director of Your Own Life." From the first class, I began a process that continues to this day, of creating my own big, rich, passionate, purposeful, meaningful life. And lo and behold, now that I have taken responsibility for that creation, now that I am an energetic match to all that I seek, I no longer have to look outside of myself for the key. 

I was reminded of my fierce independence a few weeks ago after celebrating my solo art exhibit at a local gallery. I had worn my favorite pair of matte black heels to the event and at night's end, I switched into flip-flops for the drive home. Once home, I realized I had misplaced one of the shoes. The next morning when I searched my car, I found the missing heel under one of the back seats. Metaphorically speaking, the moment wasn’t lost on my sense of self or humor: there’s no Prince Charming waiting in the wings to rescue me, no knight in shining armor pledging to battle for me. 

Happily ever after is my responsibility. 

Autumn: A Time for Puzzles and Wanderlust

In last Friday's column, I'm No Thoreau...but I Choose to Live Deliberately, I wrote about the joy and creative energy I experience living in my unfinished garage, and my reluctance to return to my cottage once the summer hosting season ends. 

Autumn is a time of restoration, rejuvenation, contemplation, and taking stock. I took a reflective look back while writing my morning pages earlier, and discovered on paper, what my mind and body already knew: it's been one helluva year creatively for this aging Sagittarius! As I ticked off the creative chances I took—-from launching guided group meditations three times weekly on Heygo, to publishing my column here, to running for political office in my seaside community, to undertaking the financial pressure of two major home improvement projects, to hanging my first solo photography show at a nearby gallery, to embarking on a six-week short story course at my local university, to hosting monthly book clubs and meet-ups, to facilitating one twelve-week creative recovery program for members of my private Facebook group—-I realized how hard I'd been pushing. Like Mother Nature, who generously birthed her splendor all year, it's time for me to let go, go within, and hunker down. 

Mentally, I have given myself permission to move back into the cottage and to have fun doing things I don't normally have time for. Today I bought a 750-piece jigsaw puzzle, CLOSET CATS. I love making puzzles and have all the frills---a non-slip felt mat, low-wattage illumination that adjusts the spread of light, and a fold-and-go table is on my Christmas gift list. I like knowing that this activity improves brain function and short-term memory.

That mint-green Volkswagen bus lain diagonally across the puzzle box is intentional. In January/February 2023, I would love to rent a camper van and leave town for a month. My plan is to head down to Hunting Island in South Carolina (I camped there in 2014), revisit Old Car City USA (a car junkyard on over 34 acres) and my buddy, Dean Lewis, in White, Georgia, and ultimately get to Pensacola, to hang out with my daughter, Lindsey, her husband, Cooper and my grandpup, Mochi. Cooper is part of the America's Cup sailing team and they are based in Florida this winter. 

Tell me about your plans for restoration this autumn. How will you honor the changing season? How will you tap into your inner balance? 

For more on autumn and its symbolism, check out: https://www.bustle.com/life/fall-autumn-season-meaning-symbolism

For more information about my weekly guided group meditations, visit: https://www.heygo.com/the-footloose-muse

For information on Hunting Island, South Carolina, check out: https://southcarolinaparks.com/hunting-islandhttps://southcarolinaparks.com/hunting-island

 To learn more about Old Car City USA, visit: https://www.oldcarcityusa.com/

I'm no Thoreau...but I choose to live deliberately

My Garage 

From Memorial Day to Labor Day weekends here in southern Rhode Island, I manage a robust hosting season on Airbnb. I am one of those old-fashioned hosts who still believe in the platform's original mission to share our rooms, homes, communities, and economies with like-minded travelers from all over the world. In order to be on hand to welcome, recommend and be of service to my guests, I move myself and my beloved Carla from our four-room cottage into my 20' x 20' unfinished garage across the lawn (think shabby chic). My garage boasts no kitchen, no running water; I do, however, have an air fryer, microwave, mini refrigerator, outside shower, and a gym membership.

My life in the garage is simple, uncomplicated, and uniquely me. I choose to remain out there long after my last summer guest has returned home. Why, you ask? The answer hit me while I made the six-step journey from the corner where my iMac is located, over to the twin bed where I sleep like a baby. Henry David Thoreau came to mind, along with his 10' x 15' one-room cabin on Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts and the two years he lived there with only a desk, three chairs, a fireplace and a bed. I'm no Thoreau, but I share his desire to live deliberately, with nothing but the essentials on hand. I've come to understand that my fascination, my love affair with this simple life is rooted in the quiet inspiration and divine mind that I partner with. With no encumbrances, no distractions, I am free to create to my heart's content.

In the fall of 1996, I was a Fellow in Residence at The Virginia Center for the Creative Arts in Sweet Briar, Virginia. I was granted a one-room studio with a desk, a chair and a bed. I spent two glorious weeks finishing my short story collection: Underbelly. Twenty years later, in the fall of 2016, after a two-month whirlwind cross-country book tour to promote Linger Longer: Lessons from a Contemplative Life, I spent a month in a three-room cabin on a horse farm in rural Elgin, Arizona, a few miles from the Mexican border. It's there I discovered that less is more: less baggage, less stress, less attachment, more freedom, more connection, more memories. When I returned to Rhode Island that year, I sold my 2000-square-foot designer condo in downtown East Greenwich and embarked on a minimalistic lifestyle, the same one I enjoy today.

As November dawns here in the northeastern United States, I will have to leave my one-room sanctuary and move back into my cottage, and while geographically not much will change, spiritually my center will shift as I lay down new tracks for self-discovery and creative expression.

Tell me where, when, and how you connect with divine mind? 

For more information on Thoreau, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and/or Sweet Caroline's Vintage Cottage, check out: 

https://bit.ly/3WdLXIz

https://www.vcca.com/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8FUPrd5ra0

An Open Letter to a Woman Who Fawns

 

Photo by Alice Alinari on Unsplash

Fawn: to behave abjectly before a superior, to seek favor by servile flattery 

or exaggerated attention, to ingratiate oneself by a menial 

or subservient attitude. ~Merriam-Webster dictionary

You impressed me. The way you carried yourself---erect, poised, sure-footed in sensible shoes on the cracked city sidewalk. Your patterned vintage scarf paired nicely with your tweed jacket and upswept hair. I sensed a breezy que sera attitude as you and your partner window-shopped on an overcast October day. Then you did something that destroyed that impression. And in that moment, I was seized with a repulsion that took time to unpack.

I do not recall making eye contact with you as I briefly held open the antique oak door to the cafe for one of you to assume. I went left to make my way to a window seat overlooking the gardens while you went to take your place in line. By the time I got behind you, your man was ordering for you while you held back, just off to his right side, and slowly, deliberately stroked his back. 

Your fawning spoke volumes, it was code for, “He’s mine.” That circle you traced on his back? It was symbolic of the wall, the protection, you intended to draw around your relationship. Circling the wagons, taking defensive action, preparing for an attack, your fear was palpable. Fear of losing something you had, fear of not getting something you wanted. Energetically, you cast me an unmistakable air of one-upmanship. 

“Fawn types seek safety by merging with the wishes, needs and demands of others. They act as if they unconsciously believe that the price of admission to any relationship is the forfeiture of all their needs, rights, preferences and boundaries.” ~Pete Walker

[As an aside, and before you jump all over me, readers, for not having a romantic bone in my body, let me say, this was not about romance or love. Love is expansive, it’s welcoming, it’s inclusive. Fear, its opposite, contracts. It keeps people at arm's length. This one-way fawning, one-sided touching, was a shot across the bow, fired to warn me and other women, to back off, to keep our distance, to move along.]

Without reciprocity, your man stood stock-still, letting you fawn, more intent on eying the barista beyond the counter. Tell me, does he enjoy, encourage, require you to fawn? Does he expect it? Does he get off on your public caress? Does he need to be revered in public, and if so, what does he demand in private? 

Who imprinted on you? Who taught you to fear, mistrust, suspect other women? Where did you learn to sacrifice self for love? Who told you that fawning would prevent your man from straying? 

"No matter how well you think you carry yourself, if you do not value yourself it will show. And you'll be treated by what people perceive you as. Know who you are and be confident in it. Know your worth and act on it." ~Author unknown

Like an animal marking territory, territory that I, thirty years your senior, had no intention of violating, you staked your claim. Fear not, child; I have no interest in, no desire to touch, hold, fawn, fuck your man. I'd never interrupt the symbiotic underpinnings of your coupling. 

Sadly, you underestimated, undervalued me, my womanhood, our sisterhood, and for that I pity you. 

For more information on the psychology of fawning, check out: https://bit.ly/3NbTOSY

Tell me, mom. What do you remember?

 

Vintage photo on Pinterest

“Remembering is mental time travel.” ~Endel Tulving

Stream of consciousness, longhand writing triggers memories, excavating them layer by layer, and if you resist the urges to interrupt the flow, to worry about grammar and syntax, if you just WRITE, 

some amazing insights and recollections will emerge. One thing will always lead to another.

The following excerpt is an edited version of a prompt I received this week during 

the first day of a six-week creative writing workshop, and as such is richly experimental in nature.

Prompt: "I remember..."

I remember a time, a table, a table in the round, and round the circle the wooden chairs went. Chairs with seats mere inches off the floor, chairs that held the body and bones and brains of a new generation. Chairs that scraped up against the linoleum floors of my elementary school. School days I faced the door, a door leading out to a hallway, a hallway leading to the unforgiving playground where my limbs never got the climbing, the running, the hopscotching quite right.

My mom remembered, and I remember my mom, my mom who told me once, once or more, about that classroom, a classroom whose vision is clouded by time, blurry like a cataract. But mom, my mom remembered, she remembered to tell me, and how I wish today, and I'll wish forevermore, that I'd asked, queried, plumbed the depths of 92 years of memories, hers somehow more intact than mine. I remember, my mom remembered to tell me, "You were part of a group, a group of kids who were good writers. Your teacher singled you out." How many kids, who knows now, tapped to write creatively, and at what age? Seven, eight, nine, no, not nine, by nine, I would have been too scared, too scarred by all the dizzyingly dysfunctional drama at home. Home life with a screaming father, drunk on beer and melancholy, so I must have been six, or seven, or eight, no, not 8, not 6 either. I'll bet 7. I'll bet 7 years old for sure. 

Second grade, at that school where I went, Ellen P.. Hubbell, the one I went to when we moved to Fifth Street in Bristol, after we got kicked out of the apartment on Union Street. In Bristol where there was a whole block of streets named after numbers--First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth. I wish I could call mom, my mom, and say, "Hey, mom, remember, do you remember Fifth Street? Remember all the streets that had numbers in their name? What street number were we? I remember Gloria who lived on the other side of the duplex. Remember her, mom? Remember how she turned yellow from the cancer drugs they dripped into her? I remember, so how old were we, mom, how old was I, when we moved to Fifth Street? I remember too, mom, going to the other school, the one I walked to with older kids. I know I was older, mom, because I had my first crush on a boy. I still remember the delicate blonde-haired boy; I remember his name: Jay Prikocki, and I still remember his phone number, the one I used to dial and hang up: 203-583-7915. That's crazy, mom. Over sixty years later, I still remember a boy's phone number. We used to walk, leave that school and walk to a lunch counter, to eat hotdogs, I must have been a pre-teen, or in my early teens. And then high school, mom, walking in the opposite direction still from Fifth Street to Bristol Eastern, so did we live on Fifth Street for ten years, mom? 

Tell me, mom, what do you remember? 

Can We Leave Now? Overcoming Generational Alcoholism.

"Yes, your family history has some sad chapters. But your history doesn't have to be your future. The generational garbage can stop here and now." ~Max Lucado

Walking out of my favorite bookstore on Saturday afternoon, I saw a little girl, maybe 7 years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a book in her lap, while her mother stood nearby perusing the stacks. As I passed, I overheard the girl ask if they'd be leaving soon, and I was taken back to my own childhood, and all the times that I’d asked the same question. In my case, I was asking my father if he, my brother and I could leave, but we weren't in a bookstore. We were in a noisy bar room, and my brother and I spent a whole lot of time there. My mother worked nights to help make ends meet in the late 1950s. My father always answered my query with, "In a little bit. Charlie just bought me a drink." If it wasn't Charlie, it was George or Hank. "Here, go play the jukebox," and he'd toss us a quarter. My brother and I would swirl around on the sticky dance floor for a few songs before tugging at his shirt again. 

My father only drank beer, but don't let anyone ever tell you beer drinkers can’t become alcoholics. And even though I swore I'd never become my father, once I got to college, I became a daily drinker with no regard for anything other than my obsession for that next drink. And by the time I became a mother at thirty-three, my preoccupation with alcohol had blossomed into full-blown alcoholism. I was a functional alcoholic with a high tolerance for booze, so unless you were a trained professional, I hid it pretty well. But make no mistake, I became my father the first time I took my 18-month-old daughter into a bar for the first time, sat her up in a high chair, fed her a meatball, and deluded myself into thinking this wasn't a barroom because they served food.

Fast forward. Blessedly, my three grown children have had a sober mother/grandmother for over 14 years now. Twelve-step work saved my life and slowed (hopefully, halted) the curse of generational alcoholism.

Today, that 18-month-old daughter I’d dragged into barrooms is a beautiful mother of three children of her own. I love our Thursday mornings when she and I routinely take her brood to the library. 

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Change the Voices In Your Head: Make Them Like You Instead

imposter syndrome (noun):

the persistent inability to believe that one's success is deserved or has been 

legitimately achieved as a result of one's own efforts or skills

According to an article in Healthline Media, "Imposter syndrome, also called perceived fraudulence, involves feelings of self-doubt and personal incompetence that persist despite your education, experience, and accomplishments." 

I am familiar with the manifestations of this soul-crushing trait. 

Back in the mid-1990s, I wrote a monthly column for a national trade magazine, my first book of informational non-fiction was about to be published, and I owned and operated a company that wrote marketing plans for small businesses. I had every right to call myself a writer, yet, I had gotten it into my head that I wouldn't be a real writer until I could write fiction. On top of that delusion, I also believed I needed a post-graduate degree, so in 1995, I embarked on a two-year low residency master of fine arts degree, where for my final thesis, I wrote Underbelly: A Collection of Short Stories. 

Upon graduation, I went on to publish my poems and short stories and enjoyed the success of my second book of informational non-fiction. In hindsight, did I need that MFA? Probably not, but while in the throes of imposter syndrome, I used it to quiet the voices in my head and to create legitimacy for myself. 

Fast forward to 2012. Without premeditation, without practice, without a degree in photography, I became a contemplative photographer. (Remember, my MFA was in creative writing, not photography.) In a moment of divine inspiration, I was inspired to create Earth's School of Love, an inspirational greeting card company making use of some of the photographs I'd begun taking with my digital Sony. A Facebook group grew to over 13,000 global followers as folks signed on to read and view my work. It never occurred to me to pursue an advanced degree in photography.

So what changed in those fifteen years? Certainly the wisdom of age, and I also stopped worrying about what other people would think. I stopped defining my talent in terms of framed certificates. Today, I am an urbex photographer who chases opportunities to photograph abandoned churches, schools, hospitals, buildings and junkyards. I learn from other photographers; I practice consistency: I take creative chances. I have a solo show coming up at a respected gallery in November, but every now and then, that imposter syndrome kicks in. Then I have to remember, I'm not a photographer because of the camera I own, or the number of lenses in my camera bag, or the certificate on the wall. I'm a photographer because of the way I choose to see and interact with the world. 

Who might you become, what latent talents might surface, if you shrug off your self-imposed doubts,  perceived fraudulence, and just go do what you love? What if you change the voices in your head? Make them like you instead.

Here's a great article on this subject: https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/imposter-syndrome

Your body as compass

 

“My body is a compass – and it does not lie.” ~ Terry Tempest Williams

I teach weekly meditation classes on the touring platform, Heygo, and one of the things we do prior to each session is a body scan (https://www.heygo.com/the-footloose-muse). During the body scan, I invite participants to check in with their physical bodies, to notice any areas of tension, stiffness, pain. From there, I direct them to send some intention to those areas, to send some love, some light, to invite those areas to soften, to yield, to release. 

Too often we either deny pain until it's too late, or we push it away instead of embracing the lessons it has come to teach us. Pain or dis-ease is instructive; it acts as a roadmap, a compass, an indicator that some part of our life is out of alignment with spirit, with source, with the divine. Pain points us to our true north, the course correction we so often need to lead happy and healthy lives. In order for pain to inform, we must first ask, "What have you come to teach me?" and then we must listen for the answers.  

I wrote about the instruction I'd received a few weeks ago when, seemingly out of nowhere, two frightening episodes of vertigo rocked me (https://carolmossa.substack.com/p/what-had-the-frightening-episodes).

Vertigo is an inner ear imbalance, so I framed the question, "Where in my life am I experiencing an imbalance?" and the message was loud and clear, "Find time for more play." I heeded the call and blessedly, vertigo is no longer an issue.

Four years ago, an MRI revealed crippling arthritis in both knees. My orthopedic doctor suggested surgery, but I resisted, choosing to do the mental work of asking my pain what it had come to teach me. Surprisingly, I discovered that contrary to slowing down, I was actually being challenged to move forward towards a fuller and more expansive life. I had created a perfectly comfortable yet complacent life. I wasn't reaching, wasn't stretching outside of my comfort zone. The pain subsided once I began building in outings and new experiences. 

This week, I find myself in the midst of asking and listening again. I have a tooth that was scheduled for extraction last year, but I chose to save the tooth by innervating the nerves around the gums. A year later, the tooth is acting up again. What has the dental discomfort come to teach me this time? Might it be time to let go, to surrender? Where in my life am I experiencing a similar reluctance to let go of something that no longer serves me? (If you read last week's column here, you already know the answer.)

Always seek medical attention for your dis-ease, and simultaneously, undertake your own inquiry. Identify where the discomfort is located. What is the pain preventing you from doing? For example, is back pain preventing you from bending? Next, frame a question like: "Is there somewhere in my life where I'm unwilling to bend, to compromise?" Endeavor to fix that area and you may experience pain relief.

The answers will come if you ask the right questions and then take the time to listen.

I prefer freedom

 "Safety is all well and good: I prefer freedom."~E. B. White

I like money; I make it welcome in my life. I do all those things metaphysicians tell us to do when manifesting wealth: I keep my wallet tidy; I smile when I pay my bills; I have a mindset of abundance rather than lack. But I value freedom more. I value my personal freedom---freedom of movement, freedom of choice, freedom from soul-crushing encumbrances---more than anything else, more than all the tea in China. 

I lead an unencumbered life. I am not weighed down by debt, by other people's expectations of me, by relationships that require more than I have to give. Yet every so often I find myself spread too thin, too engulfed in obligations, too stuck. Last weekend caught me off guard. Waves of discontent engulfed me and I had to pause to examine why. I am an instructor in a wonderful adult education program and I love the curriculum, I love the students, and I love the other instructors. But what I love more than anything else in the world is freedom to come and go as I please, freedom to go through life with no strings attached. Those are difficult objectives to achieve if I'm bound by other people's expectations of me. I realized last weekend that it may be time to reevaluate my commitment to this gig that offers me a chance to put in one weekend a month for four months in the fall and winter. The compensation is fair and it always comes in handy. 

One of the greatest sources of unhappiness is the feeling of being stuck. ~Dr. Robert Anthony, Doing What You Love, Loving What You Do

But for this Sagittarius who has been unabashedly self-employed for decades, one who has known lean and prosperous times, I agree with E. B. White: I prefer freedom. And while it's not necessarily an all-or-nothing proposition, at my age, I ain't wasting time chasing anything but my heart's desire. 

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Don't die with your history still in you

 

Rose (Longo) Mossa (b. November 6, 1924 - d. January 6, 2016)

"A mother is a child's first looking glass into the world." ~Richelle E. Goodrich

The last time I devoted a column to my mother was back in January 2016, a few short days before she passed away at 92. At the time of that column (archived here https://hjfree.blogspot.com/2016/01/a-legacy-of-love.html), my mom was lying in a hospital bed after surgery to repair a broken leg suffered while living independently and alone on New Year’s Eve. While the surgery was successful, metabolically my mother’s body could not tolerate the pain medications and rigorous toll that hospitalization had on her body.

Unless we’ve been diligent and forward-thinking, much of our shared history dies when a parent dies. When my father predeceased my mother by twelve years in 2004, I should have (how I wish I had), gathered up all my questions and spent more time interviewing (ok, not interviewing, but querying) my mom about her younger years and our family’s history. With both my parents and all of their siblings now gone, the only family of origin left to speak of (and to) is my brother and a few distant (in more ways than one) cousins .

I passed by a mirror the other day, and I was surprised to see my mother’s face looking back at me. I inherited my mom's shockingly white hair, and though she wore hers cropped and continually begged me to do the same, mine is shoulder length. On this particular day, I had my hair swept back in a high ponytail, and the resemblance was uncanny and dreamlike.

I won't say it was unpleasant to be reminded that I am my mother's 68-year-old daughter, but it was a humbling reminder that I am now the elder. My brother and I are now the last line of defense, the final hedge between our kids and the great beyond.

I hope my three adult children get around to asking me questions. 

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Where have all the readers gone?

 

"The best friend a man can have is reading and writing." ~Hojo Soun

I've suspected for some time, long before launching my newsletter on Substack, (a home for great writers and readers), that folks aren’t reading like they used to. I was just spitballing until I googled it and discovered that my hunch might have some merit.

“According to a study done in the early 2000s, the average attention span of humans has decreased from 12 seconds to 8 seconds.” ~Microsoft

Further study reveals that it’s not so much that people aren’t reading, but that they are simply inundated with too many sources. In the age of Twitter, Facebook, and TikTok, people are accessing their news and other content throughout the day, across devices, in videos, bullet points, and sound bites.

I’m an avid reader, but I wasn’t always. In high school, a history teacher once told me, "You'll never succeed because you aren't a good reader." My parents, to their credit, took this teacher's blunt comment to heart and bought me an electric, variable-speed, mechanical device with a metal arm that moved down the written page. I’m doubtful it did anything to increase and/or improve my reading speed and skills, but it did make for interesting conversation. 

My oldest daughter is a voracious reader and clever writer, and we trade books regularly. My two younger children, not so much, although I was heartened recently when my younger daughter posted a selfie spread out on a blanket with an open book in her lap.

As a writer and content creator, I have seconds to capture and keep your attention. Personally, I prefer short, visually appealing content, and my reading preferences inform my writing practice and style. As a reader, I won't shy away from reading a long novel, but I prefer short chapters, opportunities to come up to the surface for air, to breathe, to assimilate. I'm turned off by long drawn-out posts. You’ll lose me if you're not succinct, you’ll bore me if you ramble, and you’ll irritate me with flowery language. That’s why I try to keep it simple, to say what I have to say, and to exit the page. I’m a ruthless editor and by the time these words reach your smartphone, tablet or computer, you can bet I’ve eliminated words and phrases that impede the narrative. I rarely exceed six paragraphs, and I even record in audio form for those who don't like to read. 

I'd love your take on this topic. What kind of reader/writer are you?

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What is the chakra system, and why should I care about it?

In 2011, I graduated from Bancroft School of Massage Therapy in Worcester, Massachusetts and embarked on a decade-long career as a bodyworker. During my tenure at BSMT, I became fascinated with the chakra system and energy work. For the uninitiated, let me explain. 

The word chakra is Sanskrit for "spinning wheel" or "disk." According to ancient yogic traditions, there are seven major chakras or energy centers in our bodies. Each of these chakras corresponds to a particular color-coded vibrational frequency in the universe, which influences our physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being. 

When our chakras are perfectly aligned with the universal flow of energy, every aspect of our life becomes harmonious and joyful. We reclaim perfect health and our love and passion for life becomes renewed. These seven chakras run from the root of our spine to the top of our head (see graphic above).

Unlike the body's major organs, chakras are not visible to the naked eye, nor can they be detected on an x-ray or other diagnostic tool. Chakras are energetic in nature and all learning about them is experiential. As a former massage therapist, I was often able to correct dysfunctions simply by helping my clients activate and balance their blocked chakras. The mind-body connection is powerful, and often an imbalance can be traced to some unresolved emotional issue. For example, a sore throat could indicate a need to speak up, speak truthfully, openly, clearly and/or to make an amend for overstepping a boundary. Upper back discomfort could be a result of not being able to forgive someone. Anyone can tap into the teachings and use the chakra system to improve overall physical, emotional and spiritual health.

Keep reading if you'd like to learn a few basics.

1. Root Chakra. Color: Red. Location: Base of the spine. Represents our foundation and feeling of being grounded.

2. Sacral Chakra. Color: Orange. Location: Lower abdomen, about 2 inches below the navel. Represents our connection and ability to accept others and new experiences. Center of creativity and passion.

3. Solar Plexus Chakra.  Color: Yellow. Location: Upper abdomen in the stomach area. Represents our ability to be confident and in control of our lives.

4. Heart Chakra. Color: Green. Location: Center of the chest, just above the heart. Represents our ability to love others and ourselves. Compassion. Forgiveness. 

5. Throat Chakra. Color: Light Blue. Location: Throat. Represents our ability to communicate clearly, openly and honestly. Creative self-expression.

6. Third Eye (brow) Chakra. Color: Indigo. Location: Forehead between the eyes. Represents our intuitive nature.

7. Crown Chakra. Color: Purple. Location: Top of the head. Represents our connection to our divine natures.

I’m not suggesting you skip a medical diagnosis for any dis-ease or disorder; I am suggesting however, that you take seriously the possibility that healing is often an inside job.

 

Light My Fire

 

Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash

Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.” ~William Butler Yeats

My two granddaughters start school next week, and that got me thinking about school days. I love the end of summer and the return to the classroom. 

As a young girl growing up in the 1960s, I didn't care much for school. I was an awkward child from a dysfunctional home, a little agoraphobic, and afraid of my own shadow. I don't remember liking school, but that attitude had more to do with social anxiety than a distaste for learning. Fast forward sixty years, and I am a voracious adult learner. Possessing two masters degrees and several certificates, the last thing I need or want is another piece of paper in a frame on my wall. While my diploma-seeking days are behind me, my thirst for knowledge is keen. 

As I age, my curiosity is at an all time high. At 68, I am a lifelong learner passionate about discovering everything from horseback riding to oyster farming to airport architecture.. Fortunately, I live in a state with robust adult learning programs and opportunities. The Rhode Island School of Design and Brown University are within driving distance, and there is a major university minutes from my home. The University of Rhode Island hosts the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) on its Kingston campus. You probably have a chapter of OLLI in your state.  Founded in 1999, OLLI offers noncredit courses with no entrance requirements, no tests, and no grades, (just learning for the sake of learning) for adults over age 50 in all fifty states and the District of Columbia. 

I just registered for my fall classes (for under $100), and I can feel the fire beginning to burn. 

Interested in taking a class? Here's the link to OLLI locations around the country: https://www.osherfoundation.org/olli_list.html

Finally, I've compiled a short list of quotes about lifelong learning. Which of these quotes resonates with you? Feel free to add one or more of your own.

"A lifelong learner is someone who is passionate about learning." Sharlene Habermeyer

“Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty. Anyone who keeps learning stays young.” ~Henry Ford

“Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.” ~William Butler Yeats

“Intellectual growth should commence at birth and cease only at death.” ~Albert Einstein

“There are few things more pathetic than those who have lost their curiosity and sense of adventure, and who no longer care to learn.” ~Gordon B. Hinckley

“All the world is my school and all humanity is my teacher.” ~George Whitman

“Read daily to renew your mind.” ~Lailah Gifty Akita

“The education of a man is never completed until he dies.” ~Robert E. Lee

What had the frightening episodes of vertigo come to teach me?

Photo by Greg Rosenke on Unsplash

"The supreme accomplishment is to blur the line between work and play." ~Arnold J. Toynbee

As an energy worker, someone immersed in studying and working with the mind-body connection, I knew that the frightening episodes of vertigo that I was experiencing were a wake-up call. The spins, as I call them, had come to teach me something as all dis-ease does. It didn't take me long to connect the dots: vertigo manifests itself as an imbalance, an inner ear disorder. Where in my life was I experiencing an imbalance? Without hesitation, the answer sprang forth: I needed to put the word play back into my vocabulary.

I love the work I do---writing, creating, photographing, teaching---the range of tasks associated with these endeavors is deeply rewarding, but sometimes, without warning, the output can drain me. Most days I don't recognize the drag on my psyche, but it was hard to ignore the spins. I realized that, in order to heal, I needed to breathe fresh air into my creative blood.

"To heal illness, begin by restoring balance." ~Caroline Myss

Prior to the pandemic, I’d been an avid student, taking adult education courses on oyster farming, near death experiences, the U. S. Constitution, and even airport architecture. For me, learning is a playful pursuit and it activates a childlike exploration within me.

I've been a devotee of Julia Cameron and her groundbreaking work, The Artist's Way, for decades and have always subscribed to her two main tools: Morning Pages, and Artist Dates. A weekly artist date to a bookstore, cafe, museum, or secondhand shop could always enliven me, fill me with creative capital, but even those outings have dwindled.

The time has come to correct the imbalance.  

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Distraction or Dream

 

Don’t be on your deathbed someday, having squandered your one chance at life, full of regret because you pursued little distractions instead of big dreams. – Derek Sivers

What's your distraction of choice? What's your favorite diversion when it comes time to enter the creative realm? Do you find yourself suddenly captivated by the dust bunnies under your bed? Perhaps you decide this is a great time to clean out that junk drawer in the kitchen. Then again, maybe you do sit down with the best of intentions, but your working mind tells you to check your emails, and then down that rabbit hole you go.

We live in an electronic age, an era of unprecedented communication. The ability to type out a text, email, direct message and have it, within a nanosecond, sent and received. But for all the convenience and efficiency this modern age has given us, notifications---email, text messages, voices messages, social media updates---can derail us and sabotage our creative efforts. 

We all have different work habits. For me, I must make my bed, feed the cat, clean the litter box, and empty the dishwasher before I can even think about doing anything creative. Left unattended, these household chores will rise up in my mind, they will intrude, interrupt and hinder my creative efforts. I know this fact about myself, so I wipe the slate clean ahead of time. If you know your tendency is to get wrapped up in endless scrolling on social media, call yourself out. Dedicate time before you engage in your creative pursuit. Set a timer. When those 10 minutes are up, set your phone aside, and turn your attention to your creative intentions.

What's your dream? Big or small, it takes consistent baby steps to see those dreams come to fruition. Refuse to be distracted, diverted, interrupted, disturbed, obstructed, and/or hindered. 

Don't let little distractions derail big dreams. 

Finding Time to Lose Time

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

 "There's a certain alchemy to the whole photographic process for me. I go out with anticipation, and soon enthusiasm sets in. Before long, I lose track of time, and I am transported to another dimension. When I come to, I am at my computer questioning the process, my abilities, and my eye and cursing my lack of good fortune. During the editing process, I lose track of time again, and the next thing I know, light and colors and textures dance across the page, and that's when I know God has been here." 

~Carol Mossa, Linger Longer: Lessons from a Contemplative Life

Have you ever gotten so wrapped up in a project, pursuit, or activity that the outside world melted away and time took on a life of its own? A time when the only thing you could think about was the project you were working on? This is often referred to as a flow state, and it's one of the most magical and fulfilling places to be. The creative process is one of letting go, of letting the divine in, of having faith in the outcome, but too often our minds hold us hostage, refusing to allow a contemplative respite.

“Experts estimate that the mind thinks between 60,000 – 80,000 thoughts a day. That’s an average of 2500 – 3,300 thoughts per hour.” ~Remez Sasson

Our minds are like hummingbirds, flitting from one thought to the next. Creative pursuits generate a break in the incessant chatter of our working minds. Like meditation, creativity is a journey within; it gives us a chance to fall into a more contemplative state of mind.

I'd love to hear from you. What activity, pursuit, occupation, venture. undertaking, enterprise, project, business, job, task, interest, hobby, pastime, recreation, diversion, entertainment, act, action, deed, doing, exploit, generates this sense of flow within you? Perhaps it's when you're chopping vegetables for a favorite meal, or cutting and assembling components for a craft project, maybe weeding in your garden brings on this hypnotic state. For me, it’s photography (see quote above). Pay attention to your inner promptings because whatever it is, whatever activity transports you to this other dimension, you'll want to find more time to lose time.

Uncertainty is my canvas

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

"Uncertainty is my canvas." ~Carol Mossa

If you bother to look up the word uncertainty in a dictionary, you'll find that the word has some rather negative connotations: doubt, anxiety, mistrust, skepticism, and suspicion, to name a few. What if we substitute the words: wonder, magic, surprise, opportunity and joy instead? 

I wake up every morning with a Ioosely formed plan for the day, but I always leave room for the unexpected, room for the divine to show up with a surprise or two. That surprise might be a phone call from an old friend, an invitation to lunch, perhaps a book I'd forgotten I'd reserved at my local library is waiting. I wake each day routinely expecting, as the late spiritual teacher, Eileen Cady, once wrote, expecting my every need to be met. the answer to every problem. and abundance on every level. I am rarely disappointed.

In 2015 I embarked on a two-month cross-country book tour to promote Linger Longer: Lessons from a Contemplative Life. I had a tentative itinerary, a thumbnail list of speaking engagements, but it wasn't uncommon to receive a message from an acquaintance along the way asking if I was going to be in his or her town. I'd pull my car over, look at a map, and more often than not remark, "I could be! What do you have in mind?" 

What if you let go a little, stopped clinging to the pseudo certainty of every waking moment? Go out on a limb. Go somewhere alone. Talk to a stranger. Try a new food. Take a class. Treat uncertainty as your canvas. I do my best work when I can’t see what’s around the bend, when I have more questions than answers, when I allow the process and spirit to move me in unexpected ways. 

Uncertainty redefined.

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Curiosity: my resurrection

Photo by Umesh Soni on Unsplash    

"Curiosity is the wick in the candle of learning." ~William Arthur Ward

As a young girl growing up in Bristol, Connecticut (USA) in the 1960s, everything scared me: drugs, boys, exams, shopping. I expressed the early signs, if not the full-blown manifestation, of agoraphobia. For those unfamiliar with the term, agoraphobia refers to the extreme or irrational fear of entering open or crowded places. Ironically, home was my comfort zone, not because I felt safe there, but because I grew up under a cloud of addiction and dysfunction. It was easier to hide my feelings, my longings, my fears. And fear had me in its grip for a long time; it followed me into adolescence and beyond.

It wasn't until I approached my sixtieth birthday in the fall of 2014 that I thumbed my nose at fear and took the ride of my life. Literally. That was the October that I crowd-funded a creative project and set out on a solo cross-country road trip. Those thirty days on the open road changed my life, my focus, my self-confidence and my direction. Upon returning, I may have looked like the same woman on the outside, but on the inside, I had changed in profound ways. Curiosity had resurrected me. 

Today, I am guided by an insatiable curiosity, a deep desire and commitment to travel, to experience new cultures, environs, vistas.  As an urbex photographer, I love exploring abandoned theaters, hospitals, schools and churches. I have grown my courage muscles and they carry me far, they open doors previously closed. I don't wait around for a partner, or a friend to offset my discomfort zone either. I am an eager and confident solo traveler. 

I was recently recruited to run for an elected position on my town's Planning Commission. After careful consideration, I threw my hat in the ring, not because I want to win necessarily, but because I am curious about local politics, curious about the process, the players, and service work. 

If, according to English philosopher, Thomas Hobbes, curiosity is the lust of the mind, then I am a hungry lover.

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