What’s Your Vision for 2020

I don’t make resolutions. Why bother with a mission that gets broken in the first week? Instead, I opt for challenges. Some short term. Some long term.

I do choose a word for the year. Last year it was “clarity.” Did I gain clarity last year? Perhaps a tiny bit. I did finish the memoir. I didn’t publish it. Why? Because I still need a little more clarity. It’s a work in progress until I figure it out. I’ll carry that word into 2020.

And, I’ll add a new word. This year it is “compassion.” There I’ve said it. Now, as to what that means to me. I see it as letting go of some of the baggage of the past to make room for peace and understanding going forward. How else can one develop compassion? We’ll see how that goes.

Now about those challenges. I’m stuck.

I signed up for #1wordpromptchallenge on Instagram figuring I could do anything for one month. But that seems like such a long time. Maybe I’ll rethink that.

Commit30 seemed like a good option. That’s one day less than the 31 days of January Instagram commitment. Seemed doable. That is until I discovered that it means you commit to one thing for 30 days. Then you choose another commitment for the next 30 days. And so on. It’s never ending and I can’t think of more than two things I want to commit to: No sugar and No Spending. Notice, I said “want” not “plan.”

I could choose the Top 10 Favorites list series. Oh, but what would those lists incorporate? Would I have to tell my 10 deepest secrets? 10 fears? 10 sins? Now that is just plain scary.

The options to on and on and on. 7 Things to Do for Yourself in 2020, 30 Days of Joy, 40 Questions to Ask Yourself Each Year, Success Maps, 20 Goals in 2020, Daily Gratitude, Writing 20 Minutes a Day, Writing a #50wordstory every day, Habit Trackers, Affirmations, Mind Maps.

AHA… I have just had a brilliant thought. I was thinking all these challenges involve writing, blogging, journaling, or posting to social media. Those are all accountability challenges. In the end we only must be accountable to our own selves. So, in that case, I’m going to choose to do whatever pleases me on any given day. Today I stayed in bed until noon, created a vision board and ate waffles for brunch.

What’s your vision for 2020?

Marijuana Has Arrived

Seven months ago there was another billboard on this corner. You might remember my Chase rant. Soon after my post, the offensive advertisement, “home ownership within reach in Oakland?,” was removed.

I see this corner every week when I take the 27th Street exit on my way to church. Each week the homeless camp spreads further out in all directions, new tents, more shopping carts, more hungry people, more debris. Does it make sense now to advertise that “Marijuana has arrived?” What’s next? Could we plant a different seed? Maybe just one mustard seed of hope?

Foiled Again

After 374 sleepless nights I have discovered it really is true that cats hate foil. The “nameless one,” has stopped climbing the blinds since I redecorated my bedroom with one full box of foil.

Several months ago I discovered scat mats. Cats hate electrical shocks. The “nameless one” has stopped rattling my closet doors since five foot scat mats guard each door.

So, I’m getting smarter in my old age. But now I must wear a sleep mask to avoid the glare of morning sun on foil and slippers lest I forget about the scat mat when choosing my morning attire.

The nameless one was such an sweet tiny thing, black with a sprinkling of gray, a quiet meow and a kinky tail. She begged to come home with us. My intuition was lost in the sorrowful gaze of this poor abandoned kitten. She crossed impenetrable boundaries and leaped into my arms. I’ll admit it – she has provided plenty of distractions from the serious side of life – but there needs to be a bit more balance. Which brings me to why she is called “the nameless one.”

After posting frequent exhibits of her behavior on Facebook for the last year, no one has been able to come up with a suitable name. There were great ideas – everything from Amber to Zelda. A couple of days ago I wanted to name her “Eve” after an “Eve of Destruction” (note the tattered edges of the blinds). She has been addressed as Shadow, Samantha, Mystic, Storm, Superwoman, Sabrina and many other names. She won’t answer to any except at dinner time. Then you can call her anything you please.

Next issue – the Nameless One has been thinking outside of the box. Ideas other than spraying my pillowcase with essence of lavender every night?

Favorite Books 2016

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With a reading goal of 24 books in 2016, I was surprised to see that I actually read (or listened to) 34 books. These are the ones that I recommend, in no particular order.

Since one of my goals is to finish my memoir this year, I’d have to say that Why We Write About Ourselves is a “must read” for anyone thinking about telling her story. For added inspiration The Magic of Memoir will appear on my 2017 list.

The rest of the books above I read for entertainment and gave each one a five star rating. Yes, I see that my favorites are not memoirs. I enjoy those too and I did give several of them a five star rating on Goodreads. So the question beckons – if I am so into fiction, why the heck am I trying to write a memoir? Bottom line, truth may be stranger than fiction but fiction might be a necessary distraction in dealing with truth.

Which aisle of the bookstore are you drawn to?

Reflections – Writing Groups

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If one writing group is good, would two groups be great? I discovered the power of a writing group a dozen years ago when I thought I was ready to write my memoir. The group was warm, welcoming and inspiring. But I wasn’t ready.

Last spring, following an e-mail signature-line link, I discovered a memoir class at a local library – exactly the push I needed. Several classes later I knew I had found the right place, a compassionate group, gentle critique, and a strong coach. Problem is, after eight weeks, the class was over. Eight chapter drafts sat untouched on the edge of my desk for the entire summer. Guilt began to sink in. I couldn’t risk letting another dozen years pass before I picked up the pieces – by then I might be too old. When September came and I found out the class had morphed into an official writer’s group, I grabbed my pink notebook and a couple of my favorite pens and headed to the library.

I am comfortable with this library group. It gives me a safe space to write and share that crappy first draft. I trust and accept the feedback from this group of eight women and one man. Our individual stories may be different but they all peek into the souls within us, all the way down to the soles of our feet.

But I still have that tough inner critic who tells me I am not author material. So I joined a second writing group, one made up of authors (by my definition, writers who have published their words). My thinking – wouldn’t this be the perfect place to take the draft from the memoir group, clean it up, and share with these “professionals?” Two chapters into it, confidence grows with positive encouragement.

Now I begin to reflect. This group is a mix of fiction and memoir writers. There may be some truth in fiction but as I reveal my story to this new audience, I wonder if I have the strength to share the whole truth. And, beyond that, do I really want the world to know? The answer comes. I have a story to tell. The grace to tell one’s experience, strength and hope, gives others the courage to tell their story.