In my morning reading, this caught my eye: 10 Great Cities for Young Adults. How could I not check it out, thinking about my own sons and where they might light in a few years, pursuing their opportunities?

I was also curious for myself. While not a young adult, in a year’s time, I’m (theoretically) free to move anywhere. Paris comes to mind immediately, but there are plenty of inconvénients in that arrangement, despite having lived in the City of Lights numerous times. Couldn’t there be cities to suit me in my own country?

Starting over

If you had to start over, do you know where you would go? Do you have a dream destination, factoring in your profession, your marital status, your age, your kids, your lifestyle preferences?

Sure, there’s the very first start – and fortunately, most of us get to do it with health and enthusiasm. We graduate college, embark with our sheepskin and vitality, and ideally, find our way to first amorous adventures, first jobs, perhaps marriage, first home, and children.

The recessionary economy has marred that simplistic scenario, but eventually we start, and it is the natural course of things (if we’re lucky) that the twenties and thirties give way to the forties and fifties. And that means more change – to how and where we live, reflecting evolving priorities.

Best cities for young adults

Whether you’re starting out or starting over, the article I cited relies on criteria such as population demographics, cost of living, average salaries, job opportunities, and thriving social scene. What ranks among the top for those setting out after college?

Texas does well – with Austin and Houston both high on the list. The Pacific Northwest is represented with Portland, Oregon. Washington, D.C. makes the cut, as do Chicago, Kansas City, and Salt Lake City. New York isn’t neglected, despite the cost of taking your bite out of the Big Apple.

Best cities for raising children

The economy has required flexibility when it comes to making moves. We follow the jobs because we must, leaving behind communities we may love. But when kids are on the scene, our priorities change. Commutes become concerning; we don’t have two hours to be a road warrior when we’re juggling carpool and play dates. The quality of schools is a key factor, whereas nightlife and even job opportunities may take a back seat.

Among the top contenders when you’re raising a family? According to a 2010 Forbes report on Yahoo, top locations for raising a family include Des Moines, Iowa, Syracuse, New York, Provo, Utah, and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Another Forbes report, specifically addresses the needs of working moms, putting Pittsburgh and D.C. on their list, among other metropolitan areas that offer professional opportunity along with quality health care and schools.

Top towns for Empty Nesters

As for my next stage? Empty nest is looming. There’s much I love about where I reside, but as a single woman of a certain age, my options are limited here, both socially and professionally. So what’s next, especially when it’s more than an issue of downsizing?

I know Paris; it’s more than my French fantasy. I also have no illusions about the French, or what it’s like to live as a foreigner, albeit comfortably. But I want to consider all my options, especially as a parent, and because it’s harder changing everything about your life at 50 than it is at 30, or even 40.

Empty Nest is a tricky demographic

So what are the best cities for Empty Nesters? As I zipped around the internet in search of answers, there were none that seemed definitive. Some articles assume that this stage equates to retirement. Do you know anyone in this economy who can actually retire? I don’t – in their 50s, 60s, or older.

I found Portland, Oregon and Austin, Texas on one list. (It sounds like these are great cities for every stage!) I found San Francisco, Boston, San Diego and Boulder on other lists (despite high costs in the first three). Climate is more of a consideration when you’re older (a sorry state of affairs, but true).

So what are the best places to live for the 50+ crowd? And doesn’t it make a difference if you’re single and looking, versus married and moving à deux? Do you have a good list?

Embracing change starts with imagining change

My life has been a series of changes I’ve initiated, and many that have occurred which were beyond my control. I’ve reinvented myself more times than I can count, living in more than a half dozen urban centers, including abroad.

Why is it harder to imagine doing so again? Is my comfort zone holding me back, or my very real constraints – financial, professional, familial, and more?

If I can imagine another life in another location, is that the first step to making it happen?

• Could you up tear up roots, and start over alone, elsewhere?
• What’s your dream location for your current stage of life, or the next?
• Is managing change a woman’s issue, and her cross to bear?
• Do you believe that if you can imagine it, you can live it?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

But each day as I stare at it, poke at the dirt, stubbornly water the skeletal form, I know it’s more than a tree. It’s a connective thread – history holding the past to the present, and the present to the possibility of a future.

It is hope. And I don’t want it to be dead.

Reaching and climbing

What child doesn’t love to climb a tree? To feel the exertion of stretching, of reaching higher, of perching on a limb, and gleefully surveying whatever is around?

For years I watched my little boys climb an old Japanese maple. They loved that tree, with its branches low enough to the ground for a manageable climb, and cradling them as they went higher and higher with each season, and their own longer limbs.

Shortly before we left our family home, the tree had seedlings. And so we dug up three, tenderly, when they were barely three inches high. We planted them in tiny pots, and transported them to our new house.

Surviving change

New environments are never easy. Adults bring perspective and other coping skills to unwanted change, and as parents, we focus on the transitions our children must make. Perhaps that saves us from the worst of our own pain, which isn’t deeper, so much as it is more specific.

After all, adults can articulate feelings. Kids can’t. Instead they rely on whatever healing we can provide – our arms and our singing, our routines and our presence, familiarity as we paint it, the new histories we will construct, together.

Two of the seedlings didn’t make it. But one did, toughing out the change and growing steadily these past six years. I have watched it, nurtured it, transplanted it, moved it around, watered it. Loved it, like a child.

When trouble comes

I first noticed three weeks ago. It seemed burned by the heat, literally overnight. And I’ve wept like a damn fool over such an insignificant thing compared to everything else there is to manage. Over a small dead tree, as I refuse to accept that it’s over.

I brought it inside for 10 days. I added new soil. I placed it back in the sunlight when the temperatures cooled. Now I water it, move it around, and wait, trying to will it back to life, to convince myself that it’s only resting, that somewhere inside, work is work being done to enable it to survive.

“It’s just a tree,” I tell myself again. “Give it up.”

But I can’t. Perhaps that’s the child in me. Or the mother.

Fighting acceptance

Life goes on with its usual rhythms; there are my sons and their adventures, my organization project and its slow progress, my writing, like a daily vitamin.

And I return to the tree each morning and each night. In it, I see the other tree, the mother, my sons in her arms as little boys. I know they will reach and climb, now long past trees. But I am smaller. I face narrowing options. I fight acceptance.

New growth

I look at the tree and know that my parenting job is changing, dramatically.

I look at the tree and know that I need to move past it, that I must find acceptance of what is beyond my control – inevitable evolution of roles, of bodies, of circumstances.

“It’s just a tree,” I tell myself. But I keep watering, I keep checking, I keep waiting.

This morning, at the base of the thin trunk, I saw a cluster of small red-brown leaves. I am at a loss, and cautiously optimistic. I don’t know why, or how, and I don’t need to know. Maybe there’s something to be said for willfulness. For refusing to accept that growth isn’t still possible.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

It’s a great concept, isn’t it? An all-knowing “Answer Man” – whether you call him your Guru, your God, your favorite book, your favorite site. Or possibly your imagination.

When we’re children, we’re all about the questions. Big questions. Little questions. Everything touches off wonder – we ask why the sky is blue, why ants work together but grasshoppers don’t, why we taste with our tongue instead of our fingers, why the moon is shaped like a sideways smile, how stars can really be planets.

We ask where babies come from. Why things hurt. Why people must die.

Of course, as adults, we often have few answers. We look inward. We look elsewhere. We grapple with what we can’t comprehend.

Who, what, when, where, etc.

Some of us are about the data. We want facts. We seek what is concrete: who, what, when, where, and how.

Some of us are all about the why. Our balance depends upon it, though we recognize that we have no answers, no wisdom, only unending questions and along with them, an inability to find acceptance.

Funny though – we rarely question the good things – moments of happiness, the great job, the healthy child. Periods of smooth sailing which may go on for years. We assume we’ll fall in love, marry, have work we care about, make a home with our families. Tragedies will happen to other people, not to us. So we don’t ask “why am I in love” or “why have I been offered this opportunity.” Yet we torment ourselves over why a marriage ends, why a parent is abusive, why we can’t find happiness, why terrible accidents happen to good people. 

Why me is the question born of suffering, not of joy.

The Answer Man: asking big questions

He’s a delicious fictitious character, reclusive and curmudgeonly, a middle-aged author of the best-selling work on spirituality. A man who seemingly can talk to God, yet his own life is a mess. The film is called The Answer Man, with Jeff Daniels as the protagonist. It’s a delightful tale of human failing and human spirit. Its quirky characters include a struggling single mother and a young man recently released from rehab. They’re trying to make sense of their lives, and they encounter the Answer Man, who has no answers at all.

The movie touches on “big questions” in life, like why there is suffering in the world, is there such a thing as destiny or fate, how much choice do we exercise, really. Underlying themes appear – second chances, reinvention, and our perpetual search for connection in a disconnected world.

The Answer Man is also one of the few films I’ve seen that deals with fathers and sons as a leitmotif – both their absence and presence in each others’ lives. That in itself is a topic worthy of elaboration; the plot offers us the love of a father who is taken by Alzheimer’s and then death, as well as the abandonment of two very different fathers – one who deserts his child emotionally, and the other, physically. We see the legacy left to each of the sons.

Open to further religious interpretations? No doubt.

Human to question, divine to whisper?

For me, the tale sparked a series of realizations, and of course – questions. But questioning is a gift. While I am no longer bombarded by the how and why of everything from two little boys, that doesn’t mean my sons have stopped questioning. And nor have I.

As adults, we often channel our questions into orderly categories. We pour them into spiritual vessels, compartmentalize them in order to cope with daily life, or turn to science, philosophy, or possibly a shrink.

Have you found your coping mechanism, your acceptance, your answers?

Some of us choose to believe in the divine, whether it’s a clear voice or an occasional whisper. Some try to obliterate the questions, to silence them at all cost. Some accept the human condition in a different light, even as we chafe at its realities – equal parts capacity for wonder and for suffering, and the inevitable journey in which we seek meaning – with or without an Answer Man.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

If there’s an effective panacea for parenting, I’ve yet to discover it – even after 18 years on the job. The mother job that is. And I’ve been hitting the Excedrin Migraine pretty hard these past hours. Good thing there’s plenty in the medicine cabinet, along with half a bottle of Pepto Bismol.

Yes, it’s one of those days. Just the usual stuff of parental worry, as Teen Number One is flying over the ocean following two months of summer internship – as a factory worker in Europe, and then in an office.

In order to utilize frequent flyer miles, his travel route is convoluted; he’ll be sitting in a US airport on layover for almost as long as it takes to cross the ocean. How to turn a long trip into a horribly long trip – but save more than a few bucks!

At 18, my elder son is resourceful and responsible. (This is why I didn’t worry when he was semi-out-of-touch, wandering France, Belgium, and the Netherlands these past two weeks.) Still, I’ll be on edge until he texts me when he lands, and again, until he arrives home quite late tonight.

Teen Traveler Number Two

As for Teen Number Two, he couldn’t be more different than his brother. At 17, he’s also away, in an academic program. However, it appears that the silence of the past 10 days have something to do with a pertinent fact. He lost his cell phone, which I found out yesterday afternoon, indirectly.

Did I say I was popping Excedrin Migraine?

Right. I’m trying to reach him through alternate means in order to make sure he has cash for the next two weeks, not to mention can print his airline ticket, has money to pay the baggage charges, money to ship home art and architectural models, and money in case of contingency. (Contingencies like losing a cell phone?)

Then there’s figuring out how we’ll communicate over the next weeks, unless he somehow gets another phone.

• Absent-minded artist? Yes, he fits the bill.
• A struggle to teach him common sense? Yes, that, too.
• Do some kids learn the hard way? Yup.
• Concerned? Naturally.

I know my son. If losing a cell phone is the only thing that goes wrong with his summer, I’ll call it a win. Until then, I’ll wish I’d had the foresight to understand the real nature of parenting. I would’ve invested in Novartis, McNeil Labs, Bayer, and Procter & Gamble.

Meanwhile, please pass the Excedrin. It’s going to be a long day, and night.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

What about coffee? What if it’s the last of the coffee in the house, you had a terrible night’s sleep, and you desperately need the caffeine, the comforting heat of the cup, the aroma, the rich taste?

What if it spills all over papers, electronics, and more? Then can you cry? Whine? Whimper?

Not only did my mug take a tumble onto the floor this morning, but the coffee soaked my cloth purse, a pile of papers and folders stacked by the side of my bed, along with a flashlight and computer cables.

Surly sound-off (coffee crazy?)

Bleary-eyed and pissed, I wasn’t revved up for rapid response. But I scurried to the kitchen, grabbed a roll of paper towels, scooped up everything and began dabbing, wiping, and otherwise trying to clean up the mess.

Might I add that in this process of bending and lifting, sopping and mopping, I was all too keenly aware of the morning’s aches and pains?

Every fucking day it’s something.

It’s not a good sign when cosmic rains start before seven. Not only was I without food in the house again – that’s manageable – but I was without coffee. Not manageable. So any thoughts of putting off Starbucks and Target and Kroger for one more day went straight out the window. Or rather, into the garbage with the dripping, inky blur of article notes and to do lists that were beyond saving.

The bright side

On the bright side, I salvaged a good deal from the spill, which was hardly of BP proportions. My makeup inside the drenched black bag was intact, as were my business cards and my wallet. I dried the cables, and as for the files and folders that took a hit, one slightly stained page was something I needed and might not have found otherwise. Serendipity?

So I dressed, went out, did grocery shopping Part 1, picked up coffee, and even received a free cup, while woefully waiting for my French Roast to be ground. Part 2 of shopping will come later, after writing, after emails, and after the caffeine has worked its miracles.

Into every life a little rain must fall

When it rains it pours. Got it.

Into every life a little rain must fall. Got it.

Rain, rain, go away. I know – right?

Yeah, yeah. It’s only coffee. It was nothing. But when you’re inundated, “nothing” isn’t nothing. And I’m weary of carrying an umbrella at all times, ready for a drizzle here, a cloudburst there, and relentless thunderstorms, more often than not.

• Any aches and pains slowing you down?
• Weary of being the adult, constantly cleaning up?
• Do you feel like you live under a storm cloud, and the rains won’t stop?

Perspective (one of those “critical life skills”)

Sure, I even found something I needed as a result of this commonplace mishap. As for aches and pains, they’re a part of my life, and so I deal with it. Yet the rains keep coming. Another downpour earlier this week which I simply set aside for now, so I can continue with the tasks at hand. But it reminds me again that there is much we can control, and far more that we cannot. All we can control – to some extent – is how we handle ourselves in the midst of storm, and its aftermath.

So I’ll cry over spilled milk or spilled coffee. Then I’ll clean up, as best I can. Facing the reality that there is no life without spills, without stains, without incidents beyond our control. There is also no appreciation for the good days without the bad.

Could I do with fewer bad days? With help to get through them?

You bet. But I’m thankful to retain perspective, and to know the difference between torrential rains and daily drizzle.


© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

And I think of interventions. Of those that are intentional, when we stop, take stock, reorient. I think of those interventions initiated by others, when they observe that we are overdoing or nearing the danger zone in some way, interventions intended to prevent harm, to point out changes needed for our emotional or physical well-being.

Entertainment intervention?

I joke at times about needing an intervention. I recognize my tendency to overdo – to work excessively, to pour myself into activities to the point of exhaustion. To sacrifice sleep for whatever my children might need, not to mention for yet another Mad Men marathon, or my viewing habits when it comes to Reality TV.

Yes, I’m fascinated by the New York Housewives, by Top Chef and its spin-offs, by Bethenny’s Getting Married (most recently), and of course – there is Work of Art.

We do not process in a vacuum; naturally, my musings in recent days are interrelated. I’ve touched on the public face and the private self, on beauty and its advantages, on demystifying contemporary art, art being one of my passions. And so I’ve written about the pursuit of our passions.

Authenticity is an underlying theme in all of this, and certainly when talking about “buzz” – whether it enhances or obscures. Are our beautiful smiles genuine? Who are we, really? Is there a single self, or even a single self that evolves as time passes? Are some of us a jumble of multiple selves we delight in, whether others understand us or not?

How much is real? How much is spin? Can we tell the difference? Does it matter?

Language, assisting

I am drawn to the pleasure of language: I see the word invention, to be plucked from the confines of intervention. And I allow my mind to wander.

When we abuse substances, when we stretch our physical capacities beyond reason, when we border on obsession in an undertaking or pastime, do we know why?

• To what extent does excess serve some deep and private place that may enable us to better face the world, or ourselves? To be “authentic?”
• How do excesses facilitate our creative sides, for those of us who live and breathe the need to create? Do they open doors to invention, and reinvention?
• Is excess about escape, about anesthesia, about coping? Is it all about survival?

I reflect again on my own public face – or more specifically – the roles that any woman (or man) feels bound to play. And for women, there’s no question that beauty is a factor – whatever a culture deems beautiful. There is the fine line to walk – beauty as it assists professionally and personally. Beauty as it distracts in the very same circumstances. It becomes a painful subject as women age, as physical beauty fades, as opportunities and power lessen in the process.

I think again about the public faces we wear in our behaviors, some of which remain even with our most intimate partners. Isn’t some element of persona always present? Don’t we exercise filtering and editing skills based upon each situation?

I find nothing inauthentic in this; it is social necessity.

And as long as the public face retains its connection to some sort of authenticity? Whether you are a performer, an artist, a teacher, a lover, a writer, a motivational speaker – isn’t that as good as it gets? As long as we always know who we are in the process, and the whys and wherefores of what we are doing?

Intervention, reinvention

I feel no need for any intervention at present; invention and reinvention are much more on my mind these days. Ways to put my skills to use, to meld them into a means to make a living, to reduce the stress that is a constant in my daily life, to work from my passions, in yet another reinvention of myself, if necessary.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Burnt popcorn. And I wanted that popcorn for breakfast! Of course, it was nearly six in the evening when I tossed the package carelessly into the microwave. Yes, I’m running a little late today. Ten hours late to be exact.

It’s been a day of paperwork and priorities. Parenting paperwork, though not the sort you typically think of. Insurance, finances, research. The machinery that keeps a household going. The stuff of adulthood that our kids never see.

This morning, I needed to flip the switch and lock into auto-pilot. To get things done. Big things. Necessary things.

Responsibility, thy name is single motherhood

So I begin my daily writing later than usual, and sluggishly, after another day dedicated to the ongoing Whole House Organization project, that seemingly endless purgatory of emptying boxes, sorting files, revisiting legal papers, scanning financial documents. Discovering report cards in envelopes, and baby teeth wrapped in tissue.

None of this is for the sake of “cleaning.” It’s for my younger son. It’s what I owe him as a parent. As a mother. My best possible preparation so he may have his best possible shot at the future. So if I’m not feeling up to par? If the car needs to go in the shop? If the air conditioning craps out? Irrelevant. These activities of sorting and organizing are now top priority. And there’s a deadline, approaching fast.

Today, I reached a major milestone. A first leg in a long race.

Revisiting your life

Plowing through two decades of my life has been an odd journey. I’ve waded through boxes and stacks, wandered through my marriage, the births of my sons, the end of one career and the beginning of another, monumental celebrations, the devastation of divorce, debt, death, and other kinds of loss that shook my world, and continue to disrupt it on occasion. Yet here I am – still standing. Still parenting.

There’s nothing unusual in persisting through life’s challenges to raise children. We all sacrifice for our sons and daughters. We don’t think twice, often parenting on auto-pilot for years.

Single parenting?

Then there’s rarely a break in stress or pace. Parenting is the quintessential iceberg, after all. What anyone sees is the third that rises above the surface. The other two thirds? Sleeplessness. Details. Facilitating. And everything else.

Life skills, burnt out

My organizing tasks are far from done, but I think I’m through the worst of it, grateful for life skills that help: persistence, the ability to visualize the goal, an eye for detail, understanding dependencies, effective use of checklists.

As for the physical toll, I’m feeling bleary-eyed and burnt out, but motivated to continue. I’ll have to push hard to finish on time. But there’s light at the end of this particular tunnel.

Now if only I had more popcorn. It’s dinner time, and I’m hungry.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

That’s not a question I answer easily. I know my public face, and my private selves. I keep them fairly separate for a number of reasons. And I like it that way.

Who are you may seem like a simple question, but it isn’t something I respond to carelessly, or without considering the context.

I’ve been called extroverted, open, and gregarious. (I believe I am.) And, I’ve been called secretive, mysterious, complex. (I am amused by those descriptions.) Some people understand that life has taught me caution. To share what I choose when I choose, and as I deem it appropriate.

I recognize the need for a public face that maintains appearances as a parent, as one who seeks work, in social settings, and as a participant in specific communities.

And I certainly know not to tell all on the Internet.

Maintaining one’s privacy

As for the man who emailed me “who are you, really?”

That was a one-off exchange, a lingering contact from another time. I was surprised by it, and equally surprised at how little I had to say, or more precisely, how little I was willing to say to a stranger. And so I responded:

I am a mother. I am a writer. I am a face in the crowd you would never notice, though you might nod politely when passing, and then go on with your busy day. I am struggling to finish the job of parenting. Who are you?

I wasn’t being capricious, or contentious. Only matter-of-fact. My mask, in place. But his question got me thinking, especially after a night of dreaming myself strolling the tiny towns of the Riviera, and then in Paris. France is a place where  my public and private selves coexist more comfortably.

Don’t we all wear masks? In the workplace, as well as among friends and family? At times, aren’t we compelled to hide essential truths of our lives for fear of discrimination or judgment?

France?

Yesterday I was writing and speaking in French. No doubt that sparked my dreams. And sure, I have my fabulous French fantasy, knowing that real life is very different – anywhere. As for masks, mystery, guile, authenticity, pleasure, ease, freedom – there is no perfect fit for most of us, but there may be places of better fit.

“I don’t know where I belong,” I said to a friend recently.

“I see you in Paris,” he remarked.

Belonging

I think about that, and the year that remains until my younger son is launched. I think about the professional opportunities that no longer exist where I live. The type of men I am attracted to. My viability as a woman of a certain age in this youth-obsessed culture. I balance that with the fact that the weather is good for my health, and more importantly – this is “home” to my children. A place of belonging.

Yet what I crave does not exist here for me. So I maintain the public face to the extent that I must, until I can explore options that may fulfill my private selves.

• Do you live a public face and a private one?
• Do you do so to protect yourself, your children, your living?
• Do you do so out of deference to cultural, regional, or familial expectations?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

There are certainly ways to accomplish a less irritating mix of high brow and low brow, but it will take tinkering with the format, a willingness for the producers to attempt it, and bottom line – the bottom line. If it isn’t profitable, it’s pack your palette knives and go – for the show.

Why has this week’s episode stayed with me, and stayed to the extent that even my dreams are flashing works of art I’ve seen and loved?

One of the primary reasons is a departing remark by Erik, suggesting that his Work of Art experience would mean he might no longer make art.

I find that statement ridiculous. Artists make art. Whether anyone approves, sees, or they never make a dollar at it. Just like musicians make music, and writers write.

The necessity of creating

Many years ago, an artist-poet friend said to me: “Can’t not.”

I recall smiling, because that phrase fits perfectly when it comes to pursuing our passions. Sneaking up into your attic studio to sketch and paint. Picking up the pen to jot your thoughts in the middle of the night, despite the arthritis, the early hour your work day begins, the stack of bills to attend to.

The artist in question has lived an unusual life, a jubilant struggle, a set of unconventional choices that few would make, sacrificing what most consider basic comforts so he may be free to travel, to paint, to write. He knows his passions. He lives them fully, whatever the cost.

My passion is language. My passion is art. My passion is learning.

• Do you know what your passions are?
• Do you allow them to breathe?
• Do you practice them, when and if you can?
• Do you own them, and your right to them?

Doing what you love, loving what you do

There are those who insist that if you are passionate about what you do, you will succeed at it. I believe life is more complicated than that. We can’t all “succeed” at what we love. That doesn’t mean we stop doing it.

I grew up in a household filled with books and funky art, and a mother who took me to art history lectures before I entered kindergarten.  Had I not been exposed to contemporary art as a child and teenager would it be a passion? I suspect the answer is yes, because I have always been attuned to the visual and the spatial. I am profoundly affected by it. In my immediate environment, and in the way I interact with the world.

If Work of Art has done nothing more than remind me how much I miss writing about art (yes, I used to do that regularly), sending me back to my favorite art texts for pure pleasure, then it is a “win” – for me. If Work of Art has done nothing more than remind me that I can no more walk away from the joy of writing (in all forms) than I could my children, then it is another “win.”

Passion is always a win, a reminder of life, a refilling of the personal well that allows us to learn what we love, pursue what we love (if we’re lucky), and contribute what we believe is important. Do we choose our passions or do they choose us? I have no answer, but I am grateful to recognize mine, and to find them still intact.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

I am not looking forward to visiting the supermarket this morning. It is one of the activities that is most painful to the arm and back injuries from an auto accident, in particular carrying my purchases in from the car, and putting things away.

I am looking forward to the car actually starting – and I’m not accepting any other possibility as, well… possible.

I am looking forward to the return of Bug Guy later today, sometime, who was here for hours yesterday (with lots of good mojo, but not everything he needed).

I am looking forward to Work of Art on television tonight, and wildly excited that Mad Men Season 4 is just around the corner! And tomorrow evening I can enjoy Bethenny Getting Married as well, a show that always makes me laugh.

I am looking forward to eventually finishing this nasty organizing task – there are more than forty files spread across my house, labeled. Where I store them when I’m done? Haven’t figured that out yet. Two more mystery boxes to empty, and one last corner in the den. I think I can, I think I can, I know I can. And I will get it done!

I am looking forward to somehow finding a degree of greater healing for my body. And yes, for my mind. For tough times I’ve had to relive in going through these stacks of papers. Facing the reality that life isn’t fair, then moving on as best I can.

I am looking forward to my sons returning from their respective summer adventures – a very different experience for each – and while I’ve enjoyed this time alone, largely to tackle these difficult tasks, as aggravating as it is to parent teens, I miss my boys.

I am looking forward to the hidden and unexpected laughter that is part and parcel of every life. It’s healing. It’s energizing. It’s there. Always.

I am looking forward to better days, because I insist on believing in better days. Stubbornly. And that belief has gotten me through a good deal, and I count on it to continue doing so.

What are you looking forward to?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy