Maintain an human err. 

I saw a meme on Facebook today. It said, “it is not how we make mistakes, but how we correct them, that matters.”

Which got me to thinking about correction and such. 

I am thinking that there is something to be said for owning a typewriter. I remember using my grandmothers when I was a kid. The old way would have been to either re type the entire page or to just strike out the error. But grandma had these newfangled correction cards. You’d go back to where the word was, insert the card between the paper and the mechanism, and re type the word causing white-out to cover over the error. Then you could correct it. 

Computers have rendered much of the work of correcting an error obsolete, or at least, simple and nearly thoughtless. 

Perhaps it shouldn’t be so. 

Certainly not when it pertains to other humans. 

Every Day is Mother’s Day. Unless it isn’t. 

I struggle with Mother’s Day. Mostly because it’s always been my moms more than mine because her birthday is may 13. So sometimes they even fall on the same day. When we didn’t live near each other it was okay because I got it done (whatever “it” was) in time to mail it to her. When she lived near me it just, felt like it wasn’t very much my day. And then she died. So it’s just pretty much hers now. And since my husband died there isn’t really anyone to sneak off with the kid to do anything. It’s okay mostly and we are in a transition period, so things will be able to be different in the future should we want them to be. 
What’s actually bothering me this year is people keep sharing these post about how you have to “love your mother, you’ll never have another” or whatever about how you have to love your mom. I shared one and said that this all well and good if you have a good mom. I did. Whatever struggling we did, my mom was one of the good ones. But some people have moms that suck. And posting that you have to love your mom no matter what is bull. Unless you have a mom that loves you AND SHOWS IT THROUGH HER LOVING ACTIONS, you don’t have to love her just because she birthed you. The tricky thing, of course, is that you probably do love her just because she birthed you and so it’s super difficult to break away. I think sometimes with a parent, we love the idea of the mom they should have been. So if you can, go love her quietly and from afar.

Here is a link to a great post about taking back Mother’s Day if you hate it. Whatever the reason. 

Learning to Talk

I’ve been reading this book. Actually I keep reading it. I have a few that I do that with sometimes. They are often about regular people overcoming hardship and finding a way to carve out a nice life with a person you love. Not usually as much with the chronic bad communication that I think romance novels love to exploit. 

This particular book is rampant with miscommunication. But not so much because of failure to talk when they should or overhearing the wrong thing as is common. In this book, the main characters base their interactions on their own histories and on some superficial assumptions of what they think they know about each other. 

Because of that, they think they are talking to each other but in truth they might as well not even speak the same language. 

Most of the book is them figuring out how to hear each other without the filter of what they expect to hear. 

I think that’s huge. 

Getting out of your own way so you can actively participate with another person seems like a great way to show you care.  Not just about them, but about yourself, too. 

For me, this is a much better way to use the famous miscommunication tool in your storyline.  Allowing them to feel their way and muddle through trying to learn what the other is saying. Or, perhaps more importantly, how they are hearing what you say. For instance, a person who has self esteem issues will hear a typical witty comment completely differently than someone who has no issues with confidence. 

Normally, that might not be such a big deal (although being more kind in general is a good thing) to you, but if you want to have a chance at a close relationship with them, then it behooves you to try to understand where they’re coming from. 

And, of course, that is hard stuff. I think a lot of people don’t want to have to try so hard at it. Maybe that’s why we look for people who have things in common with. At least that way we know a little bit about where they are coming from. 

But maybe the hard stuff is where we get to draw out the best flavors. 

At least that’s how it works in romance novels, right?

“How Young Are You? How Old Am I? Let’s Count the Rings, Around My Eyes”

So the other day I was in this coffee shop. There were two young women working in there. A song comes on the radio. Girl #1 says what song is this? (It has really distinctive instrumentals at the start so I recognize it, but I can’t get my brain to supply the name of it even though it’s super famous.)

Girl #2 says I don’t know. Just some old stuff on the radio. 

Guy in the drive-thru says it’s Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen! I can’t believe you don’t know it!

I have trouble believing it as well and look for somewhere else they might have heard it. My brain says Hey you’d think they would have heard it in Wayne’s World. 

Half a second later it occurs to me how long ago that came out. They probly haven’t seen it either. 

I decide I’m not getting into this conversation which seems to really be about how old I am now. 
Then a couple of nights ago I’m recounting this story and they agree with me that since Wayne’s World came out in ’92 and we were all in high school at that time…
Yeah, the baby chicks at that coffee shop probably hadn’t seen it.
Of course, one of the friends at dinner has to chime in that, she apologizes, but she was born in ’92.
well, damn.

(I forgot to ask her if she was familiar with the movie and/or the song.I’ll try to remember that later.)

Water and Waves

I have, in my life, mostly lived near water. The ocean, a lake, river, or stream have nearly always been, at least, a backdrop, at most, an active participant in the making of the diarama of my life. 

I find much of the thing that I would name religion in my life in the vast and eternal embrace of the ocean. I am both in love with and petrified by it. The ocean is both full of awe and awful. 

The enormous size of her physicality and also of her eternity in time serve as reminders of my proper perspective in the universe. 

I remember that while I may be the emperor of the universe inside my head (this is debatable, but I am certainly the chief communications officer and the information technology overlord), outside of my head I am small, powerless, and infantesimal is duration. 


So are the trials and tribulations that I must face and overcome. 

That is what the ocean does for me. It tells me that eventually it wears the mountain down until it becomes  a beach full of sand. 

The beaches at Lake Tahoe are really rough and hard on your feet. It occurred to me last time I was there that it’s because they are little chunks of granite that have been bitten off and chewed up by the wave action of the water. That granite is what those spectacular mountains are made of and given enough time, the lake will just make more beach, thank you very much. 

The thing is that the ocean (or lake) does not care about me or a mountain or a volcano. It just does what it does, as it wants to, forever and ever, amen. If I tried to stand in it’s way, it would eventually turn me into sand. Or pudding anyway. But not out of some vendetta, just because that is what happens to things in the path of the waves. 

This is one of the things that has always fascinated me about surfing. I find myself torn between wanting to learn to do it and entirely too scared to do so. 

From what I’ve seen and read about it, there is something very Zen about surfing. You must be entirely present in the moment on the wave. You can’t be worried about whatever your life strife is at home. You can’t be worrying about the future or the past. You have to just be, and pay close attention to the moods and movement of the water horse you are trying to ride. 

And then there is Laird Hamilton. 

Rather than gush much about him, let me say that I love to watch people doing things they love to do and that they’ve mastered.  Even if it’s not necessarily my favorite thing. 

But surfing is one of those things I do like, so watching the surf and the surfers, for me, is probably not unlike going to church on the days when the pastor has his oration skills on point and the message is aimed directly at you. 


And then there are these outliers. These crazy devotees who aren’t content with everyday worship. Not unlike monks who hermit themselves in secluded caves, these disciples seek out bigger and more dangerous waves to ride. 

And hope that with a little luck and lot of skill, they’ll get to skim on the knife edge of rapture without getting cut. At least not too much anyway. 

According to Oprah, luck is where preparation meets opportunity. Which is almost the definition of Big Wave Surfing. Training and prepping in order to be ready when the conditions line up to bring you the opportunity of giant waves upon which to cast your mettle and see what it’s made of. 

That’s where you’ll find Laird Hamilton. Perched upon the knife’s edge, seeking neither glory nor death, but that sliver between them where the rest of us mere mortals fear to tread. 
I think I need to learn to surf. 

Untitled Post (I’ll try to think of something later unless I forgetstinate to do it.)

Strange and beautiful.
I love the Bloggess. Her humor, her openness about her struggles with mental illness, and her ability to put it into words that other people can hear and feel and use really is a gift. I struggle with some of her same issues, but not to the same extent as she and others do. I have never felt any urge to self harm or suicide. And that is a very good thing. But at the same time, that would be a very clear sign that something was going on a perhaps an outside view is required. 

I have had some things in my life in recent years that were very sad. I believe that it is right and good to be sad and/or depressed when sad depressing things happen. But if that is the case then with time and maybe some therapy or whatever helps you process your feelings, then those feelings will ease and become less urgently painful. 

Through a series of events, some my own fault, some really not (I don’t actually control the universe) I have some things that have been unresolved and therefore I have been stuck. 

Sort of in this in between place where I can’t make any real meaningful decisions about the future.  I can imagine, of course. But it’s really hard to plan without the tangibles in place. 

So I’ve been waiting. 

And waiting. 

I’ve got to say that I’ve never been really good at waiting. I usually mask it pretty well. But this suspended animation that I feel like I’ve been in has been wearing me down. 

Some of the things are finally coming to their conclusions. So that, I think, allows me to see inside my chrysalis a bit better to be able to remember that there are probably things I can do to nudge myself out of my chronic ennui and apathy low energy corner that I’ve painted-been painted into. 

Right now everything feels hard and not worth the effort. That’s what I notice is wrong. So I need to remember that that probly isn’t precisely the case and work on re calibrating my brain a bit. 

If I Wrote A Thing…

I have a lot of ideas. And not always a lot of follow through. 

Does everyone (or anyone?) else do the thing where you’re in a restaurant and something is bothering you about it and so you think if I owned a restaurant, I’d ______?

No? Just me? Ha!

(Mine would be very plain food. I have some food sensitivities and I know a lot of people who have dietary restrictions for any number of reasons. It is such a PITA to try to sort through all the sauces and salads to find things that don’t bother me or that I even just like. I’m finicky. Long before I discovered any physical issues, I just didn’t like a lot of foods. So plain dishes, perhaps with a sauce bar or something.)

I’m not looking to open a restaurant  anytime soon. I’m not nearly type A enough to want to do that. But in my armchair quarterback knowledge I’m sure my restaurant would be fantastic. 

The same thing often happens to me when I read books. There is almost always a point in the book when one of the main characters fails to communicate with the other in a pivotal conversation that would have saved both of them a lot of grief and heartache. And probably ended the conflict in the story thereby rendering the rest of the book unnecessary. But I digress. 

So I think gees, these people need to talk more.

But then I get a book where the author has tried to have them talk to each other and I take it back because I can see how hard it is to make the dialogue happen in a real way that doesn’t just sound like it came out of a psychology textbook. 

But I hope that when I finally get around to writing the book(s) in my head, they strike a balance between noncommunication and lectured presentation. 

Writing is hard. Writing well is harder still. Editing is often painful and tedious. I have nothing but respect for folks who manage to write the story all the way to the end, rewrite it as many times as it takes, and then get it out into the world. 

Even if you didn’t write it the way I would have. 

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