Just Write 151 ~ Peace of Nature

The old stone pool outside my office window hasn’t been opened in two years now. But the black tarp that covers it offers a series of shallow leaf-littered pools that the local wildlife love. Especially frogs and toads, judging by the loud and ceaseless chorus of croaking and splashing that provide the summer soundtrack to my work day. The amphibians are joined by chittering chipmunks and about 100,000 birds that would put Adele to shame.

I’m not complaining. Far from it. I welcome these sounds of nature that draw my attention away from the day’s news.

Every day there’s a new scandal out of the White House, some other egregious thing our “president” or a member of his family or inner circle has said or done, some important ally he has offended, some brutal dictator he has embraced, some accomplished professional woman he ogled and thereby reduced down to a piece of pretty flesh.

It’s hard to keep up.  Or, rather, it’s depressing and discouraging and heart-breaking to keep up. If I read, listen, take in too much, I want to cover my ears and rock in a corner until 2020 (provided this national nightmare actually lasts that long). It all stresses me out and I’ve got the extra pounds and a new TMJ night guard to prove it.

So I’m finding it increasingly important to unplug, turn away, disengage, and find peace somewhere.

I can always find it outdoors, preferably in or near woods. I find myself absolutely craving it these days (as in I need to get OUT of here and away from all this s#$@).

I can breathe there. With the trees and the skittering chipmunks and buzzing insects and the rustling leaves. Things make sense in the woods. Nature makes sense.

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Nature is not trying to game the system. Nature is unconcerned with politics, power or money. There are no mind games in the woods. No party affiliations. No confounding beliefs that don’t jive with actions. No B.S.  No judgement. No religion.  Just the tangible and observable reality of what actually is. Nature is just doing it’s thing. Day after day after day.

It’s my safe space in a world that seems to have lost it’s f@#$ing way mind.

“It’s not that we don’t care, we just know that the fight ain’t fair.”

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About Just Write: Just Write is my adaptation of free writing, a technique in which a person writes continuously and quickly without little regard for spelling, grammar, or topic. It helps writers overcome blocks of apathy and explore everything from meaningful topics to mundane observations with the same effort and without the pressure of crafting perfect prose. I just start writing.

“What ends up revealing itself when free writing is that everything has meaning. That is a magnificent gift of writing. If we write from a free heart-gut place, our souls start speaking.”

Just Write 150 ~ Baby mamma

When I was 12 years old and in the 7th grade, I had a regular babysitting gig for a family down the street. They had three kids under 6, one was a baby. I remember babysitting a lot. Three three times a week, or more. Probably because I came cheap. I think I got paid $2 an hour.

I didn’t care all that much about the money anyway.  The hours I spent at the Bowser’s house was unsupervised time away from home and all my siblings. Time my mother didn’t hassle me because I was babysitting. Time I could spend in an air-conditioned house watching cable TV while eating junk food my mother wouldn’t buy and talking for hours on end to my friends and/or boyfriends, via phone or in person if they could come over.

Me, circa 1985 (Wow…do I look like Kelly here or what?)

I remember ignoring the kids a lot. The middle boy—he was probably 3 or 4—was a pain. He was always wrecking stuff, refusing to do what I told him, whining, and being a pain in my ass when I just wanted to smoke Newports on the back porch and maintain a social life.

The truth is that I was too immature to be any kind of a decent caregiver at that age, but…I kept them alive, fed and changed, which is all the parents really asked of me.

My daughters are years older than I was then and I cannot, for the life of me, imagine them taking care of any child, let alone a baby.  Let alone a baby, a challenging preschooler and a kindergartner.

They’ve never changed a diaper. They’ve never held a baby. They’ve never tried to hold onto a squirming 2-year-old hellbent on dropping skull-first to the ground. They’ve never dealt with a 3-year-old’s temper tantrum after giving them milk in a blue cup and not the yellow cup they wanted. They’ve never been back-talked by a 4-year-old.

They’ve missed out on so much, and like any good mother worth her weight in ulcers and worries, I’m now convinced that I’ve failed them. They’re going to be one of those women who have never changed a baby until they give birth to one.

But the fact of the matter is that times have changed. People don’t hire 12-year-olds to babysit anymore (do they?) and there just weren’t any babies in our family when they were younger for them to cut their teeth on.

Also, I’ve deliberately tried to preserve their childhood and not rush growing up. I’ve done nothing to encourage the packing up of Barbies, the cleaning out of childhood book shelves, the wearing of makeup, or the acquisition of boyfriends. I’ve not prevented any of this stuff, but I haven’t pushed it either.

It’s going to happen anyway, I know.

This weekend, Lauren decided to clean out the playroom. She’s going through all the toys and making piles — to give away, to pack away, to sell on Ebay/Craig’s List.

I went up briefly to see her progress and, wow. I don’t know what possessed her (probably the riches she expects to reap through eBay), but she’s really cleaning house up there.  Leaving childhood behind. Piling up Lightbrights and Etch-a-sketches and Polly Pockets and Zhu Zhu Pets and pop-up play tents and dress-up clothes and dollhouses…

So I guess it’s time to move on. Time to swap giant stuffed Care Bears and Little Golden Books for teenager-y stuff like gaming chairs, stereos, and lava lamps. Time to turn the playroom into a hangout. It’s probably about four years past due anyway. And yet I’m still not ready.

In her to-sell pile is a popup play tent we got plenty of use out of. It often annoyed Dan when they would put it up  because it took up half the living room and we would constantly trip on the tent legs, but I never cared.  It was a clear and visible, if inconvenient, sign that two happy little girls lived in my house.

They still do. Though the signs have changed. It’s all cereal bowls and YA novels and elastic hair bands now.

I’m not selling that tent. I’ll find a place to tuck it away in case I ever have granddaughters to play in it again. I imagine they’ll be over a lot. Their moms aren’t going to know how to take care of them, you know.

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About Just Write: Just Write is my adaptation of free writing, a technique in which a person writes continuously and quickly without little regard for spelling, grammar, or topic. It helps writers overcome blocks of apathy and explore everything from meaningful topics to mundane observations with the same effort and without the pressure of crafting perfect prose. I just start writing.

“What ends up revealing itself when free writing is that everything has meaning. That is a magnificent gift of writing. If we write from a free heart-gut place, our souls start speaking.”

Just Write 149 ~ Lost wallet provides humanity lesson

Body Pump class starts in 5 minutes and I luck into a jackpot parking spot right in front of the Y. I’d been listening to a podcast on my phone and suddenly it beeped that I had an incoming call.

It’s my 20-year-old niece. We’d just been texting back and forth before I left to go to the Y. She had been telling me how much she liked the new grocery store she was at on upper Peach Street.

When I answer, she’s sobbing.

She had lost her wallet somewhere between home and the grocery store. She’d checked all her bags, her car, her backpack… No wallet.

She’s your typical working-class, 20-something college student — working three part-time jobs just trying to pay for rent, groceries, and ridiculously priced books, all while racking up tens of thousands in student loans.

Suffice to say, the kid can’t bear to lose even one of her hard-earned bucks.

She had been trying to call the store, but it was ringing into some corporate headquarters located who-knows-where.

She assumed the worst. I knew that was unlikely.

“You need to get in your car right now and go back to the store,” I told her. “I’ll bet you someone turned it in. I swear to you, honey, people are inherently good. Ninety-five percent of the people who see that wallet, will take it into the store and give it to a cashier. Go now.”

30 minutes later she texted me: “You’re right, someone turned it in! I’m so thankful there are good people out there.”

I said: “Most are. Think about anyone who went grocery shopping. They’d be terrified to lose their wallet and wouldn’t want that to happen to anyone else.”

Despite our differences and divisions, by and large, people look out for one another and care for one another. Not always. Not in every neighborhood. I know. But, we do not live in the cesspool of hatred, violence, and crime that some politicians would have you believe.

The irony there is that those politicians trying to convince you our country is “a mess” don’t have a clue what it’s like to live in the real world as they dwell in golden penthouses and McMansions far removed from the kinds of common folks who shop at Aldis.

I had no doubt her wallet would be there. I have every confidence in the inherent goodness of common people.

Now, politicians, lawmakers, corporate CEOS, billionaires? I have every confidence in the inherent evilness that overtakes any person in a power of position and wealth because they have so much to lose and people they must keep down if they are to stay on top.

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About Just Write: Just Write is my adaptation of free writing, a technique in which a person writes continuously and quickly without little regard for spelling, grammar, or topic. It helps writers overcome blocks of apathy and explore everything from meaningful topics to mundane observations with the same effort and without the pressure of crafting perfect prose. I just start writing.

“What ends up revealing itself when free writing is that everything has meaning. That is a magnificent gift of writing. If we write from a free heart-gut place, our souls start speaking.”

Just Write 148 ~ Teaching tenacity

On a rare weeknight in which K had nothing to do — no musical practice, no piano lessons, no voice lessons, no homework — she dug up a pom-pom animals craft kit she had gotten for her birthday in July.

There were illustrated instructions, but…of course, things like this are always confusing the first time (ever try to read a sewing pattern? Keep your seam-ripper nearby!)  I figured it would end in frustration and anger, and it did.

When I asked what happened to the pig she was working on, she said it got all tangled up and she put it away. She quit.

*sigh*

I find this happens a lot with her. She’s a perfectionist. This is not a good thing as it means if she can do something perfectly, she often doesn’t want to do it at all. Or bother trying because that involves the risk of failing (i.e. imperfection).

I knew that if I let that pink tangle of yarn sit shoved in that box, it would never see the light of day again. She’d never try to make another pig…or any pom-pom animal. She’d tried once. She failed. She was done. It was too hard. Done.

When she gives up on things, I always ask, “If you don’t try and keep trying, how will you ever learn to do anything? Hoping and wishing doesn’t work.”

Sometimes I can get her to try again. Sometimes I can’t.

The ukulele she wanted so badly for Christmas sits zipped in its case. She halfheartedly tried to play on Christmas Day. She immediately learned she wasn’t a musical prodigy and so, to my knowledge, hasn’t picked it up since.

Tenacity. Grit. Staying power. Dedication. Perseverance. Whatever you want to call it, I’ve found that teaching kids to stick with something is one of the hardest lessons to teach.

The pom-pom pig presented an opportunity.

“Kelly, you can’t give up on something that easily,” I said. “Bring it here. We’ll do it together.”

I patiently (and if you know me…you know this is miraculous) untangled the wadded up bundle of pink yarn, while K sat beside me. I followed the instructions and just when I was about to tie up my bundle, it slid off the end of the fork I was using to wrap it.

Again, I spent five minutes unraveling and untangling. I started over, being more careful this time to stay away from the top tines of the fork and holding my finger over the yarn so it wouldn’t slip off again. Because I had learned something from my failure.

This is how it works. You try. You fail. You learn. You try again.

Writing. Playing instruments. Making crafts. Sewing. Careers. Algebra. Running marathons. Life.

I’m finding it’s a very difficult concept to explain to kids, but a much easier one to demonstrate. Even more so with a low-stakes project like a fuzzy pink yarn pig.

I had to take L to swim practice, so I couldn’t help K finish the pig, but we did most of the hard part (making the pom) together before I left.

Ten minutes later she texted me this:

Today a pom-pom pig. Tomorrow maybe an algebra equation. Five years from now an overwhelming college project. Fifteen years from now…who knows?

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About Just Write: Just Write is my adaptation of free writing, a technique in which a person writes continuously and quickly without little regard for spelling, grammar, or topic. It helps writers overcome blocks of apathy and explore everything from meaningful topics to mundane observations with the same effort and without the pressure of crafting perfect prose. I just start writing.

“What ends up revealing itself when free writing is that everything has meaning. That is a magnificent gift of writing. If we write from a free heart-gut place, our souls start speaking.”

Just Write 147 ~ What is there to say?

I just haven’t wanted to talk. To anyone. About anything. Because I just couldn’t.

Because a misogynistic, racist, tax- and draft-dodging, selfish millionaire who brags about sexually assaulting women and mocks disabled people was promoted to the highest office in our country.

FML.

F. M. L.

For the first few days post election, when I wasn’t at work, I wore a hoodie—hood up—and refused to make eye-contact with anyone I didn’t know for sure was on my side. It was the first, and probably the last time, in my life when I wished I could wear a burka so nobody could look at me and I wouldn’t have to look at anyone.

I took Facebook off my phone and turned my profile photo to a black square. I stopped writing anything anywhere because why? What was there really to say? What was the point?  People believe what they want to believe. When it makes no sense at all.

The night of the election, when it was clear that human decency lost, I couldn’t sleep (and I haven’t slept well since, honestly), so at 4 a.m., I put on my hoodie and sneakers and went for a walk. I didn’t wear my reflective vest or jacket because I just didn’t give a shit anymore. Don’t mistake that for being suicidal. I wasn’t contemplating jumping in front of a car, but I just didn’t care if anyone did hit me because then I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this shit anymore, you know?

Maybe you don’t. And, maybe I’m doing a poor job of explaining how one can be not suicidal and yet not really care to live in this fucked up world anymore, but…this is the gray area I’ve been living in since Nov. 8.

Dismayed. Disgusted. Angry. Sad.

Back when I worked at the newspaper, in one of the many rounds of layoffs, editing Letters to the Editor was foisted onto my plate. It made me hate my life and my job. I dreaded reading those letters and fixing the grammar and spelling of people who I thought should have their letters appear just as stupidly as they had written them. I made dumb people look smarter and I resented it.

In editing Letters to the Editor, I learned that some people are truly rotten inside. It was a terrifying glimpse into the scariest parts of humanity, but I comforted myself with the fact that they were the minority. They had to be. Right?

Wrong. So says the election of 2016 when hatred and fear was used so effectively by a man who lives in a golden castle to pull off his biggest con yet, tricking the very people he intends to screw over. (Remember, he loves stupid people). Into thinking that he could help them. That he would help them. That he knows anything about running a government or a Democracy.

The truth, evidence, actual proof, does not matter to these people. So, really, what is there to say?

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About Just Write: Just Write is my adaptation of free writing, a technique in which a person writes continuously and quickly without little regard for spelling, grammar, or topic. It helps writers overcome blocks of apathy and explore everything from meaningful topics to mundane observations with the same effort and without the pressure of crafting perfect prose. I just start writing.

“What ends up revealing itself when free writing is that everything has meaning. That is a magnificent gift of writing. If we write from a free heart-gut place, our souls start speaking.”

Just Write 146 ~ Strong women

Just 14 and a freshman in high school, our niece, a star defensive player on the school’s high school varsity soccer team, was playing in the District 10 playoff game Saturday night at Edinboro University.

We happily bundled up and joined the dozen other friends and family members who had come to cheer on the Bobcats. With just one loss the entire season, they deserved to be there.  So did the other team.

My brother was an avid soccer player when I was growing up. Suffice to say, I’ve been to a lot of soccer games, and I’ve seen plenty of dirty players, a lot of red cards, a ton of thrown elbows and deliberate knee hits.

I did not see that on Sunday. From my vantage point, I saw two very talented teams full of strong, athletic young women who played aggressively and passionately, but with respect for one another.

However, behind us, were several rows of “fans” from the other team. Mostly young men. Mostly un-athletic looking young men. The kind of guys who can’t actually do, but feel free to judge and criticize those who do.

They were loud and obnoxious, and immediately irritated the family and friends of the Bobcats players around them.

They cheered when our girls missed. They insulted our players, commenting on their bodies. They wanted a red card, a foul, a corner throw on every single play that didn’t go their way. They questioned the size of the nets and the age of our girls. They loudly bragged about going home to shoot guns that Hillary didn’t want them to have (I’m not really sure what prompted that comment…because if they knew the first thing about Bobcat country, they’d know it’s rife with proud card-carrying members of the NRA).

We tried to ignore them. I repeated whispered to my girls: “When they go low, we go high. Ignore them.”

But, at one point, a particularly nasty comment forced me to turn around and look several of them directly the in the eye. I didn’t say a word. Of course, the cowards looked away; they always do.

At half time, they moved.

Later that night, I found myself thinking about those boys and where their parents went wrong. How do you raise sons who are that disrespectful? Would their mothers have put an end to that behavior? Would any of them have been that way alone, or was it pack mentality? Did they not realize that the young girls they were criticizing were our daughters, nieces, cousins, and granddaughters? That they were surrounded by people who love and cherish these women?

But, then, how we can we blame them for mirroring behavior that they are seeing demonstrated by a candidate for the highest political office in our country (and many men in positions of power)?

He belittles. He shouts. He loudly and brazenly spreads lies. He openly makes comments about women’s bodies. He cries that things are “rigged” if they are not going his way. He attracts followers who have no courage to do what they know is right.

Maybe they think this is normal.  Maybe they think this is OK. Maybe they think this is how it is now.

But, on that field, those young women—on both sides—gave me hope.  They played with heart, and strength, and talent, and power, and grace. And, when it was done, they shook hands and congratulated each other on a game well played.

They were leaders.

And today, my friends, for the sake of this country and for Democracy and for common decency, may we elect them because we are stronger together.

 

 

 

Just Write 145 ~ Here’s your sign, ladies

I have to drive down a busy rural road every weekday after work to pick up my 15-year-old daughter at XC practice. Week by week, day by day, more and more Trump signs have appeared. Gigantic billboard-like Trump signs (don’t we have ordinances about the size of political signs?) are everywhere and every time I see another one, I die a little more inside.

I was certain some of those signs would disappear after last Friday’s release of the disgusting and vile comments Donald made about sexually assaulting women.  Surely there are women living in those houses. Surely some of those people have daughters. Surely some of those people are outraged enough at his behavior. Surely there are Christians in some of those houses.

To my utter dismay and terror, even more signs appeared.

My own neighbor has one. I liked them. They have a daughter — a recent college graduate tall and beautiful — just the kind of girl that Donald would feel entitled to fondle without her consent. And, yet, that sign is still there…in their yard…showing their support for a xenophobic, tax-evading, draft-dodging, racist, misogynistic, sexual predator.

These signs I’m surrounded by have forced me to realized a brutal truth: There is more than an undercurrent of misogyny and racism in this country, there’s a whole deep, dirty sea of it.

And it’s been there all this time…right under our noses, brewing and hiding in people we know, people who live right next door to us, people whose businesses we support, people who are nice to our faces, people who’ve been to our houses, people who go to church every single Sunday and sit there….listening to message of love and forgiveness and compassion. The hypocrisy is maddening. What would their Jesus think?

As I drive, I try to ignore the signs. Because that’s what we women always do — ignore the signs. I try to shut them out of my peripheral vision. I try to narrow my focus to only the car immediately in front of me. I keep my head up and try to appreciate the clouds and blue sky and the landscape rich with autumn color.

But I know the signs are there. I know hatred is all around me. And, I don’t have a clue what to do about it or how to protect myself or my daughters from a country that reduces us down to nothing but a body. Flesh and bones. Breasts and butts. Hair and teeth.

It’s humiliating and it’s hurtful and it’s deeply disturbing.

My cheeks are red and burning as I write this.

I could go on, but I can’t possibly say it any better than Michelle Obama did in 28 minutes in New Hampshire:

“It doesn’t matter what party you belong to — Democrat, Republican, independent — no woman deserves to be treated this way. None of us deserves this kind of abuse.”

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About Just Write: Just Write is my adaptation of free writing, a technique in which a person writes continuously and quickly without little regard for spelling, grammar, or topic. It helps writers overcome blocks of apathy and explore everything from meaningful topics to mundane observations with the same effort and without the pressure of crafting perfect prose. I just start writing.

“What ends up revealing itself when free writing is that everything has meaning. That is a magnificent gift of writing. If we write from a free heart-gut place, our souls start speaking.”

Just Write 144 ~ Strong women

It’s her first cross-country meet and I’m not sure who is more nervous about it—Kelly, her father, or me.

Kelly wants to set a P.R.and see if a month of daily training has helped her improve. Dan wants her to do well. I just want the whole thing to be a positive experience. I don’t want to see her cry mid-race, and I don’t want her to hate herself for not keeping up with the 5’4″ 120-pound girls.

As we follow her around the course, cheering when they pass, she seems to not be hating it. She even gives us a few half smiles. So far so good.

I wouldn’t want to run this freaking course. 

She’s battling back and forth with couple other girls who are around her pace. They are the back of the packers. These girls probably still had a mile to go when the winners were bent over and gulping for air  in the finisher’s chute.

Little by little, the finish line crowd thins and Dan and I can get right up to the rope to cheer when Kelly comes through. She’s not last, and she got a P.R.

She’s tired and sweaty and red-faced, but happy. We get her some water and walk back to her team’s tent.

On the way, she stops under another blue tent — not her team — but a rival team with the same royal blue school color. I watch her walk up to another girl, one of the girls she’d been changing places with during the race, tap her on the shoulder and say something.

I can’t hear the conversation, but it’s short and sweet. I assume it was something along the lines of “Hey, congratulations. Nice race.”  I think there was a small hug.

I rarely cry but, at that moment, I found myself fighting tears and had to look away. Because of all the things I want my daughter to be, kind (especially to other women) is at the top of my list.

In these teen years, when I don’t have a clue what I’m doing or if I’m doing the right thing or what will happen or if my daughters are ever listening to me, I can take comfort in that unprompted gesture of goodwill and consider it a sign that the really important things are getting through.

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About Just Write: Just Write is my adaptation of free writing, a technique in which a person writes continuously and quickly without little regard for spelling, grammar, or topic. It helps writers overcome blocks of apathy and explore everything from meaningful topics to mundane observations with the same effort and without the pressure of crafting perfect prose. I just start writing.

“What ends up revealing itself when free writing is that everything has meaning. That is a magnificent gift of writing. If we write from a free heart-gut place, our souls start speaking.”

Just Write 143 ~ Angry

I had stopped by my mother’s house after a workout to wipe down, literally (thank God for baby wipes) and change clothes and toss on a baseball hat before going to a pool party at a friend’s house. No time to run home and, anyway these are my workout friends and they don’t care if I show up with a sweaty ponytail, sporting the faint scent of Wet Wipes.

I was leaving in a rush (as always), when I heard a loud, angry honk. Not a friendly, beep, but a you’re-an-ass-and-I-want-you-to-know-it laying on of the horn. I looked up to see a youngish woman, gesturing and screaming at the a$%hole who, I’m guessing, she thought pulled out in front of her and forced her to slow down.

I thought: Of course it’s a woman. It’s always a woman. We’re all so angry today. So rushed. So stressed out. So overloaded and overburdened.

And who could blame us for being angry? We’re paid less for doing the same (and often more) work than a man. We’re continually having to fight the same damn fight we’ve been battling since 19freaking73 over our own damn bodies.

And, above all, we’re held to impossible standards. Not only should we be thin and pretty, but also strong, kind, generous, compassionate, caring, nurturing, self-assured, fashionable, witty, nice, and friendly.  Our hair should be long and always styled. Our ass should be firm and round, but not too muscular or fat. Our kids should be well-behaved and quiet, but also strong and self-assured. Our homes should be spotless and stylish and meals should be home cooked and healthy, but delicious and, of course, presented attractively in a Pinterest-worthy manner (hardboiled penguin egg, anyone?)

We work full time and we parent full time and between it all we need to cook, clean, exercise, socialize, get the kids to do their homework, clean up after the pets everyone else swore they’d take care of, and, oh, yeah, rock his world in the bedroom.

And, my GOD, we cannot do it all if you people don’t get the F%^$ out of our way!

So, yeah, we’re angry. And, we’re so tired. So freaking tired.

Today’s women can be and have and do anything. I’m not sure when it became expected that we actually be, do, and have everything.

It’s exhausting. It’s a race we can’t win and a sky-high bar we can’t reach, and so the vast majority of the female population is frustrated and perpetually pissed off.

So there you go, guys: women explained.

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About Just Write: Just Write is my adaptation of free writing, a technique in which a person writes continuously and quickly without little regard for spelling, grammar, or topic. It helps writers overcome blocks of apathy and explore everything from meaningful topics to mundane observations with the same effort and without the pressure of crafting perfect prose. I just start writing.

“What ends up revealing itself when free writing is that everything has meaning. That is a magnificent gift of writing. If we write from a free heart-gut place, our souls start speaking.”

 

 

 

 

 

Just Write 142 ~ Machines are in charge

Our 2 1/2 year-old, 55-inch Smart TV quit working a week ago. The kids were home, watching something and—they claim—the picture just went out.  I’m not sure I totally believe them, but I don’t have any evidence to the contrary.

Also, I don’t really care.

I refused to do anything about it. Which means Dan had to because, you guys, FOOTBALL SEASON IS COMING. You know this, right? MY GOD!

Somehow, a guy who took 2 years to finish the trim around the kitchen door, took less than two days to find the television instruction book and receipt for purchase (impressive considering he usually can’t find most stuff in the house without me), and call the TV manufacturer.

I knew she’d tell him he was S.O.L. I might have smiled to myself when he confirmed that.

Aside from missing all the running events at the Rio Olympics last week, which, OK, that did kinda suck because, you know, we’re into running, I haven’t missed having a TV.

I should clarify that we have two other TVs in the house, but one is upstairs in the playroom and isn’t hooked into the antenna, and the other one is in our bedroom and we’ve been too busy/lazy to A.) relocate to our bedroom for evening TV watching, or B.) move the bedroom TV to the living room.

Last night, Dan finally decided to move the bedroom TV to the living room (accepting the measly 35 incher) and the same thing happened — sound, but no picture, which tells us that there’s a problem in the antenna or some connection or cable.

This is good because it probably means I won’t have to shell out another $700 for another gigantic, but oh-so-fragile, 55-inch “Smart” TV. Surely the master electrician in the house will be able to troubleshoot the problem now. (He’s probably working on it right now.)

In the meantime, I immediately seized on the broken-TV week opportunity (and impending start of school and…so…need to finish those summer reading books!) to institute a family evening reading hour.

It’s something I’d really like to continue, but know it will be nearly impossible to enforce once the great screen blinks back to life.

The machines…they really do control us these days.

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About Just Write: Just Write is my adaptation of free writing, a technique in which a person writes continuously and quickly without little regard for spelling, grammar, or topic. It helps writers overcome blocks of apathy and explore everything from meaningful topics to mundane observations with the same effort and without the pressure of crafting perfect prose. I just start writing.

“What ends up revealing itself when free writing is that everything has meaning. That is a magnificent gift of writing. If we write from a free heart-gut place, our souls start speaking.”