Food, arghhh! It’s complicated isn’t it? I love food, I really do. Even at my most vulnerable, as a restrictive anorexic, I loved food. I loved watching people enjoy food. ButI loved chips and chocolate. My mother’s ongoing sabotage of my love of greens, probably helped to keep me alive.
Mama always kept treats in our pantry. It smelled delicious, like a deli. And it was. Treats included chips and chocolate. I caved time and time again gorging and then self-flagellating. It gets better right?
Retiring is like dying. If you are very lucky, you have a few practice runs before you go. I’m transitioning out of my professional life. With every, good-bye, I reflect on what have I have learned.
I’m a seeker, a would-be philosopher. It’s a vagabond’s life, the gypsy of the soul seeking meaning. But there are always stand-out moments, a person, a situation, a life. Most importantly there is a lesson.
‘Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who in this land is the fairest of all?’
Undoubtedly, the mirror is essential for grooming. But how do we feel about it? More accurately, how do we feel about what the mirror shows us about ourselves?
Like the fool card in the tarot, I jumped. My inner voice guided me to writing, something I’d informally done for years; random jottings here and there. My change of career past mid-life surprised me. Slowly I met, listened to and released the voice within.
The crux: What is the blog about?
Success it seems comes from niche, excellence, and passion. An avid note taker, I filled a few more pages of a notebook with advice. The question, however, rattled around in my head all weekend. An answer would come, sooner or later.
What is it that I am good at? What do I have the authority to comment on? What is it I am actually trying to do each Monday morning when I compose my post?
What entices you to read a memoir? I would love to hear your thoughts.
What makes me want to write my second memoir? The unscrambling follows please read on.
Researching this genre, I find an elegant and confusing list of memoir attributes. These hope to unite those impassioned writers who want to share something about their lives, often a deep revelation of some hardship overcome. Writing to heal or healing to write; who knows.
I am so excited! My last few hard copies of Schicksal are selling fast. If you’d like a copy, look under purchase. Just had to share.
I am sitting on an old couch, old because the cats have shredded the sides with their claws. My veggie garden springs to life after winter’s slumber. But it is far of blurred by the flyscreens and the misting rain.
At the back door, my dog’s large brown eyes look up mournfully. Due to the rain, the window of opportunity for our morning walk has passed. Even when wearing her orange jacket, she is too old to take out in the rain.
This poem came to me after my morning walk. Having recently taken a leap of faith, I meet people daily undergoing the same metamorphosis. Change is the best tool to meet the hidden self. Endless, I don’t know how to do that, moments arise. Self-doubt comes tot the party uninvited. It wants the fairy bread! Self-doubt is no match for Google.
The blurred a patch of the windscreen persisted even I moved my head. Silently I cursed the health centre car; why didn’t they clean the windows properly? I sat in a comfortable parlour with an old fashioned mantlepiece clock, 10:15, doing a home visit.
Assessment done, Issues discussed, began to write up the home exercise program. I derailed. My speech garbled and I lost the ability to write words. I looked at the clock,relieved that I could still read the time, 11:05.
‘Do you want to share this memory?’ Facebook asked. Did I? Not sure, I flicked through the posts and their images. Only you can see these, it reminded me. A glint of sadness passed by as I thought of Turkey and India.
No holiday this year.