Everything is about me.

As it turns out there is no one I like to think about, talk about, hear about, complain about, or care about than myself.

I am my absolute favorite person. Some worry or concern someone else is having? Whammo! It's about me. The conversion rate of it being about them to being about me is really fast. Like sometimes a matter of seconds.

I think I need to watch this video again.

Bah. I have more to say. Cause I can talk about me for hours and hours. But I ran out of time.

Ah, maybe I don't need to say much more. That video says it all. And quite well too.

Cows and addiction

I can hear cows. Cows this morning, cows as I was falling asleep. Last night I drove an hour round trip just for some chocolate and kombucha.

Part of driving last night was just for something to do. And I also really wanted chocolate and kombucha.

I'm afraid it is quite easy for me to get addicted to things. I didn't use to like coffee. I mean, from a young age I was captivated by mocha's and coffee ice cream. I did like the coffee flavor so long as there was a great deal of sweetness involved too.

But one time in college my professor, entirely joking, told us that coffee was mandatory for our 8am class. I started bringing coffee to class with cream, no sugar. I didn't love it at first, but I didn't hate it either. Within a week or two I couldn't do without it. And it wasn't even the caffeine. I'm one of those people who can drink decaf coffee and be just as happy.

I didn't like the taste of alcohol before I was 21. I didn't much care for the taste after I was 21. Eventually I developed a taste for it and now I enjoy it a lot, but I don't need alcohol and am quite happy without it.

I didn't like kombucha the first several times I tried it. I thought it tasted like apple cider vinegar, which I hate! Now I love kombucha and will apparently drive an hour to get some.

Even developing a taste for alcohol it took me until this year to really enjoy beer. If I drank it at all I wanted the darkest of the dark, smoothest of the smooth. I still don't like IPA! But I will drink a few beers in an evening and be happy.

I wonder if I could do the same thing with olives, pickles, tomatoes, fish and other things I really don't like the taste of. I have tried a few times, but sometimes it just doesn't change until it does. Beer took 10 years. Still waiting on fish.

So, I don't know if I'm really addicted to any of the above, except chocolate. Definitely chocolate! But it's interesting to me how quickly I can go from disliking certain foods to loving them and craving them!

Now I'm cold. My coffee is gone, and my toes are cold. I'm sitting on the most delightful screened in, wrap around porch, and it's so chilly out. I love it. My favorite weather and I love the slow life here!

Cows. I can still hear you.

Reflections on painting

Sometimes I tell myself to wait. Like today, I wanted to make some reflections about painting. I'm two paintings away from being done my month long commitment to paint. I should wait for two more days to reflect on this. But I should never stop myself from writing on the rare occasions when I feel inspired to write before I even begin.

So I'm reflecting on painting, two days before the end.

I just went through my album and looked at each of my paintings. Some I didn't want to look at for very long, and others I lingered on for a few moments before clicking to the next. And you know what? I like my paintings. And I can see improvement. When I take the time to paint something, it turns out well!

I was worried that switching back to watercolors after 24 days of oils would be a challenge, but challenges are good. My watercolors are fine, and I miss oils, but even over 4 days of watercolors I am improving that skill again! I painted watercolors every day two years ago, and very sporadically since. I have only done 4 watercolors this September. The first two are okay, but I really like the most recent two. There are always things I could improve, but that's a dumb thing to observe. I'm gonna focus on the fun techniques and skills I'm learning and just linger on the good feelings of actually being good at something!

Yesterday's watercolor!

You know Ron Weasley? You know how when he looks in the Mirror of Erised he sees himself as Quidditch captain and head boy? He's only an 11 year old boy longing for some recognition. He feels overshadowed by his 5 older brothers.

I hate to say that I feel overshadowed by my siblings because I love them and never felt a lack of love or recognition because there were many of us. If anything, I got more love from having such a large family.

Ron definitely loves his family too and there's no lack in the Weasley household, but he does long for something of his own, and then of course (spoiler alert) he goes on to help save the wizarding world from the evilest wizard ever. I think he succeeded in doing something original.

Where was I going with this? Ah, yes. I still strive for some sort of originality, something that makes me unique from others. I already wrote a blog post about wanting to be unique in my writing and realizing that I only need to tell the truth to write well. Is it the same for painting? Do I tell truths with my paint brush?

I don't know. A thought just struck me so I'm gonna write it and see if it rings true: Write truths, paint loves. I dunno, you clearly need truth and love to write and love and truth to paint. So whatever. It was just a thought.

I don't need to stand out to be worth something. I don't need to save the wizarding world or even my world. I just need to keep moving along, writing the best that I can, painting the best that I can, and being okay on the days when my writing sucks and my paintings aren't working. I'm still good at these things, even when I'm bad at them.

Man and wolf

Warm sticky blood oozed from his leg. He looked down at the wound and then back at the wolf in front of him. His eyes narrowed but he smiled at the beast.

"You won't be so lucky next time," he spat. The wolf sprung at him again. This time the man was ready. The weight of the wolf still knocked him off his feet but he was able to keep the wolf's teeth from piercing him. As they wrestled, the wolf's claws tore at the man's chest.

The man let out a startled cry as one claw pierced deep. For a moment the man thought the wolf was withdrawing, and for a mad moment he tried to stop it from going. But the wolf had no intention of leaving. He growled deep in his throat and bit down hard on the man's left shoulder.

"No!" The man tried to plead with the wolf but it was of no use: how could the wolf understand?

The man fumbled to find anything of use and at last he was able to reach a small jagged rock. He brought it down hard on the wolf who yelped in pain.

The wolf stood stunned, the man's blood dripping from his fangs. He watched the man.

The man held the rock high and made a threat to hit the creature again.

"I'm sorry!" the man said, looking at the pathetic beast. "Go!" he yelled. "Be gone!" and he hurled the stone at the wolf. It hit him square on the jaw and he gave the man one last reproachful look before dragging himself away.

Before the breakup

Mindless, mind numbing, dumb. "I don't have to be doing this," I said to myself. I could be writing."

But did I want to write? Sometimes mind-numbing and dull are exactly what I want at the end of a long day. So scrolling and scrolling and scrolling. My eyes falling out of their sockets.

"Maybe I should just go to bed," I muttered out loud.

"Don't go to bed," Henry said. I started. I didn't realize he was close enough to hear me. He got up from his chair and came over and kissed my forehead. I didn't even want him to, but I didn't protest.

I ignored his plea that I not go to bed, slammed my laptop shut, and set it down on the table. He took that as an invitation. He plopped down on the couch and tried to snuggle up with me. As he took my hand and kissed my neck a thousand thoughts went through my head.

This is what I wanted. I wanted someone who would want to snuggle with me and hold me and not want to let go of me. I wanted an affectionate and sweet guy. Henry was all of these things. He always reached over and took my hand when we were watching movies. He went out of his way to get me things or do things for me, and he was always ready with a smile and a compliment. I believed that he loved me, but as I sat here, passively receiving his affection I didn't think that I loved him.

Yes, he was so perfect in so many ways. Affectionate and loving to the extreme. Always anxious to make sure that I felt loved and appreciated. But something was missing and I knew it. I didn't want just love. I had always longed for this. Someone who would stroke my hand and make me feel special.

The Beatles "All you need is love" played in my head. "No it's not!" I thought. "You need more than love, stupid Beatles!" I was clearly not in a good mood, and I was surprised that Henry was not picking up on this.

But love is not the answer. It's not even the question. It's only half of it. I liked Henry, a lot. I imagined our life together and could picture us getting married and growing old together. But when I threw kids into the picture things got messy. Not boogers and barf messy, but gritty parenting clashes messy.

Henry was lovely. He would be a loving and wonderful father. I could picture him now, bouncing our imaginary curly haired boy on his knee. But his discipline and upbringing would not be what I wanted for my son.

I couldn't have kids with Henry, because we would never be able to agree on what to teach our children about the way life works. And that mattered too much to me. Henry just wasn't on the same page as me. I wanted to create little people who would grow up to be the most amazing lads and lasses. Who would one day be angels in heaven, but in the meantime would make the world a better place. In short, I wanted a heavenly host. I wanted my little people to be strong and courageous and to wield swords of truth, and be unceasing when it came to standing up for the Truth.

But truth alone would not do. I didn't want my little ones to be monsters or to be cruel. They would have to learn to lean into the truth with strength and conviction, but to do so with love. To nurture and  bend, not brutally break. I believed in my future people, but Henry was not their father.

"Henry?" I said timidly. It had only been a matter of seconds since he had joined me on the couch.

"Mm?" he responded, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, but clearly not really in the mood for talking.

"I'm tired," I said. "You should go home."

He listened and stopped to look at me, disappointment in his eyes.

"Alright," he said getting up and pulling me up from the couch for a good night hug.

I let him. I even let him give me a long goodnight kiss when he leaned in for it.

"Good night," he said, holding on to my hand for a minute longer before he turned toward the door.

"Good night, Henry," I said closing the door behind him. And as I closed the door I started to cry.

A dream that brought understanding

I had the craziest dream last night. Actually, it probably wasn't that crazy, but it felt super intense when I was dreaming it.

I was wandering around New York with friends. I've never been to New York City, but have always wanted to go. Apparently not enough to make it happen, but that's beside the point. I was in NY with a big group of people. It got to be night and I was determined to go to Time Square because I wanted to see if it really was as bright as day.

But we never got there. We started wandering, and I got lost in a parking garage in the city at night. I have had other nightmares about just such things. Nighttime can be a bit worrisome. Cities scare me a little, but parking garages are downright creepy! So this is a recurring theme in my nightmares.

I got separated from the group and was going up or down some stairs and ran into a black man who started pulling a gun from inside his coat. I started running and crying. And I ran past several other black people, all pulling guns. I was so terrified that when I got out on the street I wasn't looking where I was going and ran straight into someone.

"Hey, there," he said. I looked up at his dark skin and wondered if I was safe. Now that I was out in the street and not in a dark garage I felt a little safer. There were at least more people around.

"Welcome to Harlem, little lady." The man said, and I decided I trusted him. I wrapped my arms around him, buried my head in his shoulder, and sobbed.

The men who had been chasing me had disappeared.

I started talking to the man. I don't remember what we talked about.

Then the crowd of friends I had been with showed up again. They were all heading toward center city for something. I grabbed one of their hands and was like "Don't leave without me!" and I wouldn't let her go. But I wanted to say goodbye to the gentleman who had made me feel safe when I had been lost.

"Shouldn't go wandering around Harlem alone, white girl," he said to me. And I don't know if I said it or just felt it, but I was thinking about how outnumbered and unsafe I felt: one white girl alone.

And I looked into his eyes and asked him: "Is this how you feel in your day to day life? Unsafe?" His soft brown eyes were kind as he looked at me and answered, "Yes."

My eyes filled with tears as I hugged him and then let my friend pull me away.



Sometimes I analyze my dreams. I think dreams hold meaning, but I think that you get out of them what you choose to get.

So my thoughts as I woke up this morning were something like this:

I don't think of myself as racist. I'm not color blind, as some people claim we ought to be and others claim is just as offensive. But all growing up I noticed skin color, yes, but I don't remember feeling any different about people because of it. Only as an adult, living in a world that is highly sensitive and apt to take offense to literally everything, I over analyze my thinking.

Sure, as a white person I guess I am somewhat racist. So this dream was interesting to me because it felt like I was actually empathizing with this man. Now that I'm fully awake and aware of the criticism I will invariably get if anyone reads this I can picture the responses: "You don't understand at all!" "How dare you think that you understand!" "There's no such thing as reverse racism!"

But in that moment in my dream it felt significant to feel like I understood.

Start of my two weeks in Kempton

Dude, I need to write. It's been too long since I just wrote thoughts on my blog.

I'm staying in Kempton for two weeks so that's fun. Helping a family that just had their 3rd child. Yesterday I worked for about 10 hours with an hour break in the middle. Today should only be 8 with a break.

The 6 and 4 year old seem to like me so that's good. Two week old is less sure of me, but that's okay. He's still cute.

This morning I was able to do my Duolingo lessons, get in a visit with my aunt and cousin, and now I'm quickly writing before reporting for duty!

I hope it's less hot today.

Super thrilling blog post! Pip, Pip!