We Need To Do Some Mind Sweeping

 A part of me craves for the time without the internet, without our cell phones (which you might as well glue to our hands), no computers, no thousand stations on our TVs, and whatever else has really changed our brains and life. 

It truly has changed us.  I have trouble sitting down and reading a book, something which I truly loved to do. Nothing seems to hold my attention long enough. Why? Is it because I’ve become accustomed to the rapid fire headlines on Twitter? Maybe. Why do I need to constantly look at my phone? Twitter, email, news, weather app? Why do I do that? Is it to fill space, empty spaces of time? I hate what the cell phone has done to young people how they are constantly looking down at them rather than looking out to the world or in to someone’s eyes.  What have we all been missing?

Are we truly living? 

On the flipside, we have gained much knowledge and our worldview became expanded. We are all connected and need each other to keep this earth going. We can connect with people from all over instantly and that is really cool.  On Twitter, I have learned much from the people I follow but have sadly, learned to be wary of anyone that brings me down or too far afield.  The web has too much power and influence and bad actors have taken full advantage of that. This is the part where I don’t know how we get out of it. 

The evil force of disinformation is a powerful consuming beast.

Can’t we recognize that this is truly our biggest threat? How disinformation can trigger, trigger, trigger until it drives people to do horrible things? We need to shut down social media sites until we can figure out how to sweep them free of the dangerous influencing articles, posts, and ads.  Mine sweep it all ! 

Then we can enjoy the new technology, enjoy meeting new friends and learning of different cultures, and rid ourselves of the emotional monkeys that have been heavily perched on our shoulders for way too long. 

Can you imagine this? Imagine feeling worthy and loved and not filled with outrage and hate toward another? Imagine that. 

Well, if we can’t make this happen, we have to find a way to do our own “Mine/Mind Sweeping.”  We have to be careful who we communicate with, be protective of our egos and find the joy.  

Find the joy and when you do, make more of it.  

Peace and joy to you! 

Simply Susan. 

"Maggie May" Used to Echo In Our Family Basement

I stood in the basement of my childhood home. A couple of boxes of old Math Textbooks were all that was left. The circa 70's finished basement with its tiled floors and brown paneled walls complete with the must have built in bar was barren-much like my heart felt at that moment. Every last scrap of life built up year after year, milestone after milestone have been removed. God, it was like shoveling more dirt on the grave burying it for good. Stab. Man, it hit me in the heart how easily it all was tossed, cleared out. Wiped away like a dry eraser board went the tangible memories. My eyes started to burn and fill with my salty tears, first slowly and then in a rush. Damn. My siblings hauled it all out in no time at all and it felt, disrespectful. It felt like there was no moment to say, I don't know.... What would I want to say? It just felt so cold, callus, hardened how quickly our lives, remnants of our life became dust to sweep away on the cold basement floor.

I used to roller skate to Rod Stewart's "Maggie May" on the cold basement floor when it was gray concrete. My sister and her best friend's Barbie apartment complex was down there that they made piece by piece with every little miniature piece of furniture. In our teen years, my sister and I claimed the basement as our apartment. So, from childhood playground to sacred living space where the reverberating echoes of giggly laughter and serious conversations dissipated into the ether.

Deeper in the basement, the unfinished section where the oil burner was and my father's workbench stood loaded with old computers, typewriters that produced high school book reports, my mother's old Singer sewing machine that gave her such grief with the temperamental tension, tools, tools and more tools, coffee cans filled with nails and more old books....cleared away. Just like that, gone.

I remember the one and only time my father got mad at me. I was watching him work with a hot glue gun and a soldering iron at his workbench He was always fixing things himself. I was fascinated by it. He warned me not to touch it. What did I do? I touched it. I remember a good blister on my finger from it. This was the only time I can remember my father spanking me, one firm swat to the hiny.

My mother passed away in 2006 and my father, at 85 just last month. My sister, brother and I are moving swiftly in clearing the house readying it for sale. There is no time to process; there is no time to ease into the idea of saying good-bye to our childhood home; there is no time to digest that my father is not on this earth any longer. When I do have time to process it, I feel a punch in the gut pain.

I stood there in the basement, and I opened one of the math books. There was his beautiful swirly handwriting of his name and the name of his college. It must have been what he used to learn to be a math teacher at college. His large perfect cursive were the windows to his soul. Handwriting is full of personality and my father's large, precise, fancy script handwriting matched his fun, zesty and yet, attention to detail personality to a tee. I found among the boxed books my mother's nursing licenses, first her Licensed Practical Nurse and then, her Registered Nurse.  Damn. These were hard earned, something I didn't really appreciate until now. We were tossing it out. I kept those.

I know memories are not in things; they are in your heart and mind forever, but yeah, no. Memories are in one's life's work, the day to day planners with personal notes to oneself, a favorite shirt, a favorite mug, plate, bowl, the pens one wrote with, the music listened to, the books read, ...Memories are tangible.

My family house is now empty. I guess this is my ode to my family house. It wasn't always peaceful in that house, and as a matter of fact, there was quite a lot of pain and heart ache in that house. Yet, it was my house, the one I grew up in. I just didn't want it all dismissed so ...easily, irreverently. I respect the life lessons learned there and at the root of it all, love won the day. Love carried us all through, especially in my father's last dying days where us siblings who were distant and detached for so many years, finally got it together and found each other again when facing the foreignness of death.

So, I guess, now that I wrote this and gave my house its due, I can release all the physical tangible memories, ones that I didn't keep to the universe. I picture me holding a pearly white dove and tossing it upward watching its wings spread and flap toward the sky.

I feel peace like the sweet exhale you express when you clap close a favorite bedtime story leaving you feeling sleepy and satisfied as you kiss a child a good night's sleep.

The Pity Pot

The Pity Pot

My grandmother would never tolerate it when I was whining about this or that. She wasn’t haven’t any of it. She would say get off your Pity Pot!

Ouch.

It got me every time. Harsh, Grandma. Harsh. There was to be no feeling sorry for yourself around her. And , that was a good thing. It shook me out of my stupor and got me moving.

Well, the poor me tendency is still there as if I got dealt a bad hand. When in truth, most situations are of my own making. Why don’t I have a book published? Why can’t I stay home and write an advice column? Why is everything we own breaking and costing us a fortune? Why can’t our bank account be abundant and ever flowing?

This is the litany of Whoa Is Me that runs through my head again and again.

I can change this tune; I really can. It is all up to me. I have to get off my damn Pity Pot and do something! I’ve always said, “If you do nothing, nothing happens. If you do something, something happens.” So, expect nothing if you do nothing. Expect something if you do something, be it good or bad. The point? I have to at least try.

It’s much like Wayne Gretsky’s quote that goes something like this: It’s 100% certain you will miss the shots you don’t take.  Get it? Hockey reference. Take a shot. You have a chance of it going in. If you don’t at least take the freaking shot, it will NEVER EVER go in!  So, for God’s Sakes, take the damn shot, Susan!

Geesh. How’s that for a message to me?

 Take the shot.

Take the shot.

Take the shot.

Try. Try. Try.

Try what, though? Ahhh. That’s the hard part, eh?

Until next time, for ideas to get off The Pity Pot!

When Life Stressors Are Spinning Out of Control, Try This

Do you have a stressed mind that will not shut up?

Lately, the stress of world events, politics and personal worries become tilt overload for most people.  I know politics alone make me absolutely crazy and leave me feeling dumbfounded, exasperated and helpless.  On top of that, I am going through one of those major life stressors that rock you to your core and leave you feeling like a deflated ball; my father is in Hospice losing his fight with cancer. This has been the most challenging time in my life that often leaves me mentally and physically drained.

I know there are so many like me that have their own personal burdens that they are carrying around as well. I want to share with you what has helped me tremendously.

Art.

Creating art is a form of mindfulness, which is focused attention.  The troubled world melts away when you are creating. In that moment, all that exists is what you are doing. And, what you are doing can be many things. Art comes in many forms, thus known as The Arts. Creating and expressing oneself can be through sketching, painting, writing, singing, dancing, knitting, working with clay, photography and more!

When the brain is on fire running on all cylinders and you just can’t calm it down, what works for me is turning to art. It works every time. Art is a form of mindfulness in every brush stroke or pencil mark that diffuses nervous energy into the current task at hand, creating- thereby, quiets the incessant chatty mind.

#artheals #art4mentalhealth

Check out these hashtags on Twitter and you will see many submissions of art to help break the stigma associated with Mental Health. I participated with Art Therapist and St. Xavier University Psychology Professor, Nicola Demonte in the mission of breaking the stigma associated with Mental Health through the Twitter hashtag campaign #art4mentalhealth. Even though we were in two different locations, Chicago and New York we posted events and art online. The coolest thing was to see all the different participants who posted.  We had Refugee Art Project who used art to release their pain and feel a little joy through art.  Splashes of Hope are artists who paint murals in hospitals and waiting rooms for families in prisons to relieve anxiety and evoke a cheerier atmosphere in what can be certainly scary and unpleasant circumstances. There were artists who are homeless getting their amazing work posted and advertised for them through a group called Art Lifting to better their situations and at the same time use art as a means of healing. I certainly benefited from posting my art as I painted or sketched whenever I felt so distressed that I didn’t know what else to do make myself feel better. The pencil to paper focused concentration wipes the chatter away like a squeegee on a windshield.  The distress drips away into the ethers, every single last noxious thought as I sketch, sketch, erase, and blow.

I sketched during blizzards. I sketched when I was frightened and horrified by tragedies around the world, such as the Paris Massacre at the Bataclan night club.  I shared music videos that marked an emotion that matched a news event, whether it be hopeless or hopeful that I felt others would appreciate. Music is especially powerful. Art helps. Art heals and is available to everyone.

It is a magical balm.

The other night my husband showed me a brown trout as he has been jonesing for fishing. Bam. That was my object du jours. I sketched a brown trout as it had been a difficult day with my ailing father. Somet days are better than others with my coping ability with his terminal illness.

  

It’s nothing fantastic, but that wasn’t the point.  The point was I needed relief from my own busy mind and faulty nervous system.  And, you know what? It helped. It really did.

It is a message of this much I can do to ease the pain. I can create something. I feel better.

Give it a shot. Color. Paint. Squiggle. Doodle. Knit. Create. I did, and I am telling you it set my emotions free.  It unleashed the untamable beast.  Isn’t there a quote, “Music soothes the savage beast?” See? It’s a tried and true, time tested healer.

You may find yourself on a new artistic adventure like me! #art4MentalHealth

Even with writing this article I am releasing and expressing my emotions. I am breathing easier because of it.

Create on, my friends for your good Mental Health! 

It's Not A Wonderful Life..Waiting for George Bailey

It’s Not A Wonderful Life – Waiting for George Bailey

Perplexed. Flummoxed. Aghast. Horrified. Waiting.

I still can’t get over it.

Donald J. Trump is our 45^th President. He is presiding in the hallowed halls of The White House.  You can’t take it back.  He is number 45 and kids will have to remember his name when they memorize all the presidents of the United States from here forward.  Ouch. It still stings to type or say it.

I see Speaker Paul Ryan shake the President’s hand and wonder to myself and to him, “How could you?” 

                                                    Photo by REUTERS/J. Scott Applewhite/Pool

I would have thought the Access Hollywood video would have been enough to stop the Trump Train from rolling down the tracks any further; it should have removed him from the Republican Pack.  It didn’t.

His association with an White Supremacist website, investigation into Russian ties, his not releasing his tax returns and his supposed lack of paying taxes, conflicts of interest profiting from the presidency, name calling, inappropriate disparaging of women heard on the Howard Stern show, on and on I could go that make him so wrong for the presidency.  

Yet, here we are. 

I am waiting for the “A-ha” moment.  THE MOMENT of the Awakening…

In “It’s A Wonderful Life” the Christmas Classic where a desperate George Bailey suffers financial hardship after his Uncle Billy “loses” the bank’s money (Old Man Potter steals it) and Old Man Potter has the upper hand on George and the little quaint townspeople of Bedford Falls charging exorbitantly high rent, foreclosing homes and threatening to close the Bailey Family Building and Loan, George is faced with a decision.  

Old Man Potter figures it to be better to have this smart bright young man on his side then as his enemy and lures George to come to his office.  Old Man Potter invites George to have a seat, and smoke an expensive cigar. George does and is feeling confused, off kilter in the lion’s lair. Old Man Potter spells it out.  He offers poor old George an enticing job with a big fat salary that will allow him to take good care of his family with plenty of money to spare, to even go on a vacation, perhaps. George has always longed to travel and see the world.  George imagines not struggling and is blown away by the offer, but he isn’t sure.  He reluctantly agrees to sleep on it and shakes Old Man Potter’s hand. When their palms touch skin to skin and release, it hits George like a lightning bolt; he stares in horror at his hand, the sullied hand that shook hands with the town’s oppressor; he swipes his hand on his jacket as if that would cleanse his debased skin.  He woke up! There is nothing to consider here. No! Not on your life would he ever stoop so low to work for a corrupt bully like Old Man Potter.  George Bailey would rather scrap and sweat his way through life honestly with integrity then accept a penny from a villainous heartless miserable Old Goat the likes of Mr. Potter.

                                                          photo credit: somewhere on the internet compliments of Frank Capra's, "It's A Wonderful Life"

To All Of You that stand behind President Trump and dutifully clap with each outlandish, perhaps, unconstitutional Executive Order that will harm humans, families, animals, our land, parks, water, and our liberties or Bear Witness to  potentially dangerous and/or reckless conversations in person, by phone or otherwise, I ask you this:

Which one of you is going to be brave and stand up for the goodness of America and its people? Who will be America's George Bailey to stand up for human decency and say, “No. This is not right!”?

Well?  Where and who is our George Bailey? 

We The People are waiting….

Daryl's House: Sweet Salve For My Soul

Rob Thomas, Johnny Resznik, The O'Jays, and on and on it goes.....all play in this gorgeous Connecticut Farmhouse studio.  They play Hall and Oates songs, and they play the visiting artist's songs with the infamous Daryl Hall twist of his vocal style.  It is magic.  It is beautiful.  Daryl Hall is the coolest chillest dude that welcomes all musical artists to come play / jam with him and his talented talented band.  Man, they all can play and sing and the pure joy they share together is so infectious. Geez, I wish I could sing with them, play the guitar with them.  I love to sing. I do.  I always did.  I sang Marie Osmond songs, I sang Linda Rondstadt songs. I sang and sing everything.  Guitar? I played when I was in 6th grade, minimally.  It sure looks like fun, though.  They play, they sing, they cook and share a dinner together.  Who could ask for more?

Daryl Hall is a beautiful soul who welcomes everyone into his house.  He plays every genre, music style with openness and sheer appreciation of simply, this...music.  Making music together is important.  Making music together is a gift.  Making music together is living life.

Daryl's House and the magic they create there is music to my ears! and food for my soul!

Give it a listen, people! 

I mean, look a their happy faces!

Blizzard? Make a Garden! Clay Play

So, I took my own advice and reached for art on a gloomy nerve wracking day feeling anxious with the Blizzard of 2017 bearing down in its full fury upon my house.  With the news being what it is, excruciatingly painful and scary as hell, as well, I was feeling beyond nervous and pent up with emotions bubbling to the surface that needed to be released.  

I had an old package of clay that I bought for my boys when they were younger and reached for it.  I had always wanted to play with clay to see what I could do, what I could mold with my hands, so I clay was the medium of art I chose!

Additionally, I have been missing my grown up boys, newly flown from the nest as they both joined the service weeks a part from each other.  It has been difficult for my husband and I as we had to let go of their boyhood, our parenthood, feeling a horrible sense of loss...I know. I know.  It isn't necessarily loss in a physical sense, but then again, it is.  They are not here.  They are not dependent on us any longer... It is a hole.  Sometimes, it really hurts, hurts bad.  I see a picture of them younger on their little bikes, or the picture of all us at the Cliffs of Mohr Ireland snuggled up against us tightly in the cold wind, all of us smiling.... God, why does that hurt so much?  I miss it.  I miss our closeness.  We all are still connected, still close but life turned with a click of a switch. Well, in a matter of months.  Boot camp was hell for us, as we dreaded what was happening to our babies...and it was happening to our babies.  Boot camp is boot camp, hell.  When it was graduation day for both, I felt like we were helping them escape from prison.  It has been tough... Another thing in addition to the mourning of our boys' youth, we are mourning the loss of ours.  We aged in massive acceleration mode.. I suddenly, am, well,...old.  I am looked upon as an older female now... it's weird. Everything got weird.  Hair loss, deep wrinkles, bones and muscles hurting when I do too much in the gym and extraordinary fatigue.  What the hell happened?

Again, like a switch was flipped. Click.  Time moved in a giant leap.

Yeah, so all of these feelings are swirling in me at once, in addition to my father failing as well.  And, he is failing seen so clearly in his withering body. This, too is weird and is heart wrenching for me.  Heart wrenching and tough to stare right in the face the cold reality of the inevitable.  My mother passed suddenly and unexpectedly.  There was no chance to think, anticipate or prepare.  This, is different, way different.  I am seeing it slowly happen and it hurts.  It is like peeling a bandaid off very slowly and you are almost at the end of what's still stuck on ready for that last yank, ripping it off altogether...  That's where we are at with my dad.  I feel like I've stuck the bandaid back on again and again and it has stayed on for as long as I can manage to re-stick it.  But it is falling off and ...

I can't even finish that sentence...

Back to art.  So, I pulled out the clay, rolled up little pipes of colors.  I pulled out a napkin as a placemat...and plucked some pink ..some green... It hit me. Flowers... I made a big flower like a Gerberia Daisy.  Then I came back thinking of a stone mosaic floor they uncovered in Turkey that looked like a painting. I thought of taking little dabs of clay and making a mosaic of a garden... it didn't actually turn out to be a complete mosaic..maybe the clouds and sky a bit, but I made flowers and more flowers, and grass and soil and rocks... I had fun with it.  I kept adding and adding.  It isn't any thing truly fantastic or anything, but was pleasing enough to  me that for a while....all that I thought of was just making flowers. And that was the point of it.  

Escape.

Art was my escape hatch of my own emotions for a while.  I gave myself a break from myself.

It was what I needed.

Everyone should play with clay once in a while.