Out Spot Out

Tags

carpet, cleaning, patience, planet, stories, sun, sunshine, travel

I rolled the vacuum over the spot on the carpet. It didn’t go away

“That sucks,” I punned to myself, rolling the machine back over the spot.

I’ve always had problems with expectations, especially when it comes to machines, the tools developed to make our lives easier. I swear they don’t make life easier, they make life harder. We have to work harder to make them work better.

When I make a shopping list, I head to my computer and it takes 10 minutes to make a note to myself, a note that updates to the cell phone. Unfortunately, I often head to the store, then realize I left my phone at home. If I’d just  picked up a pen and paper, the note would be written in seconds, stuffed it into my wallet, ready to go. But no. Instead I waste my time trying to make my life easier to use by putting my to do list on my phone. I should have made a note to remember my cell phone.

The thing on the carpet was still there.

How many times have I given someone or something an extra chance, a chance to change? Too many. I give everything a second chance. I learned the adage years ago to try everything twice. I might like it the second time. If not, I’ll know exactly why.

Sure, I’ve gotten burned, taken advantage of, and abused for such generosity. I think of it as my Starfleet training infused with Anne Frank philosophy. Give everyone a chance to do good as there is good in everyone, no matter how evil. Draw a line in the sand, but reinforce it with cement. Leniency only goes so far, then stand your ground hovering over your laurels.

Gees, I hate cliches and platitudes.

I shove the vacuum forward and back with no luck. It’s time to stand my ground over this spot. I really don’t want to get on my knees. I don’t have time for this. I’m getting angrier by the second, pissed off at this damn spot

I have so little patience for people and things. In spite of my lack of patience, my whole life has been a lesson in patience.

I used to joke that by 30, with all of my life experiences, good and bad, I’d learned patience. Then I fell in love and got married. I learned more patience. Patience was my new best friend. Then we hit the road full-time in an RV. I learned that patience meant more than dealing with people. It meant dealing with weather, mechanical problems, and other uncooperative people on the road. After two years of non-stop travel, dealing with every challenge to the best of my ability. I was done learning patience. I’d learned patience. I’d completed my degree in patience.

Then we settled for a short time in the southeastern United States to earn an advanced degree in patience, dealing with people who think that “don’t know about that” is the answer to everything whether or not they have the answer. All questions must be answered on the second or third try while they scope you out and get a feel for who and what you are, and what you really want from them. “An answer!” would be my mental scream to no avail.

Then we moved to Israel.

Israelis, Hebrew, religious mythology, suicide bombers, terrorism, Iraq, screwed up US Presidents, politics, war, peace, negotiations, third-world mentality in a first-world country, I earned a PhD in patience. “I’m done! I’m baked! I got patience. Universe, can we move onto something new? I’m bored with patience. I’m ready for a new lesson.”

The universe laughed.

We moved back to the deep south of the United States, back to slow moving minds with their own rules and regulations about social life, honoring a practice filled with rituals of exclusion more than inclusion. We arrived in time for an unusually early hurricane season and did the whole alphabet, starting with B and ending with W. Trust me, K wasn’t much fun in the middle. Mother nature became our terrorist, destroying all recognizable landmarks and lifestyles by grinding and soaking everything to a pulp. “Hey, Universe! I got this patience gig! Really? I’m good on patience. Done. Really done. Well done. Burnt. Can I stop learning patience in this lifetime?”

No luck. Now in the Pacific Northwest, I’m back in the land of cooler temperatures, calmer minds, peaceful green walks, no terrorism, save for the occasional earthquake, flood, and daily traffic jams. This is a land of peace, where patience is a part of daily life. A different kind of patience. An enjoyable patience. People are easy here, few agendas, going with the flow, whatever happens happens, and they are all understanding, kind, patience in their own right.

You would think I would be more relaxed.

Cursing whatever stained my carpet, my knees hurt as I kneel down and run my hand along the carpet to find an edge to the yellow thing stuck to the carpet – and find nothing.

I look down at my hand, moving closer. Aging brings with it a new form of patience, the patience of the body slowing down, muscles tightening up, joints not cooperating fully, and eyes seeing less than they did even five years ago

What? I stop my sweeping hand over the spot and the spot is now on the back of my hand. As my eyes focus on this new level through trifocal glasses, I see that the spot I’ve been scrubbing off my carpet is sunlight.

I follow the glowing trail of light to a small hole in the curtain through which the pull cord weaves. I didn’t even know there was sunshine outside. It was foggy when I woke up and my head had been down in house-cleaning mode.

I turned my hand over. The sunlight danced in the palm of my hand. I rocked it back and forth, watching the light flicker around, imagining its warmth, radiance, a tiny spot of radiation tingling my skin.

How far did this light travel before it reached my hand? The sun is about 150km (93M miles) from me. Astronomers call this an astronomical unit, the distance light travels between the sun and planet earth, at a speed that brings the light here in eight and a half minutes, literally at the speed of light.

Little spot, what did you see as you traveled here? Did you see the stars? Is that why you sparkle in my hand? Did you bring some star dust with you to greet me? Did you meet any interesting creatures along the way? Do you have some fun stories to tell about your journey?

What does patience mean to particles of light that travel from their home to my hand in less than ten minutes? Do they have a different perspective on time passing? Do those ten minutes feel like a year, or the same as ten minutes feels to me as I sit on the floor holding sunlight in my hand?

I blink and my hand is just my hand again. The sun has shifted around the planet. The spot is now hiding under the chair.

My knees creak as I stand up and switch on the vacuum, but there is now a smile on my face. I’ve learned something new.

I’ve sucked sunshine today.

Advertisements

Husband Writes

Tags

brent vanfossen, nature, poems, poetry, prompts, william carlos williams

With our writer’s group meeting on a holiday, I was able to bring my husband, Brent, to the meeting. The following are his poetic works based upon the prompt. The prompt was to write in the style of the provided examples by William Carlos Williams, specifically the poem called “The Red Wheelbarrow”, emphasis put upon the description of the item to tell its story.

Here are Brent VanFossen’s examples.

So much depends
upon

a woman’s
soft touch,

shared passions,
and love

on a warm
September evening.

So much depends
upon

a late
summer rain

falling gently

on white
thistle down.

So much depends
upon

a bull elk’s
bugling.

Antler rattling
begets

next year’s
offspring.

Going Home

Tags

divorce, family, home, identity, life, prompts, stories, travel, writing exercises

This is a story based upon my writers group prompt to write about going home. The story is a form of fictionalized truth.

“Life happens while you are making other plans.”

Sometimes that old cliche nags at me, especially when it comes to the holidays.

Holidays sneak up on me. I don’t know why. They happen the same time every year. You’d think the habit of the holidays would somehow incorporate itself into my schedule better. Alas, it’s three weeks before Christmas and I’ve not done a thing in preparation. There won’t be any going home for the holidays this year.

Home. That mystical word. Home and family. A mixed metaphor in my life. Home is a word that has haunted me from my earliest memories.

As a child, holidays were spent with relatives and friends, homes where I felt special and included, a part of something, a feeling I never had in my own home. Home was a place of divisiveness, arguments, unjust accusations, punishments that drove us into our various corners. Alone time was cherished, sought, welcomed. Togetherness brought frustration, anxiety, and the desire to flee.

As an adult, having two homes is a sign of wealth. In childhood, it is a sign of divorce, separation of state and state, each one with their own rules. Divorcing as began my trip through puberty, home meant confusion, uncertainty, mines, and theirs. There was the place where I spent my school days and a second place where I spent my weekends and summers. Step parents with children enlarged the family. I became theirs and ours rather than mine.

Feeling as if I had no home, no roots, I turned to travel, moving easily from place to place. It was just a bed. A temporary roof. Keep the suitcase packed, just in case.

Newly married, new husband and I took the art of living on the road to a new level, traversing North America and the world for years on end. We’d rest for a day or two, maybe a month, occasionally longer. Then on to the next job, next adventure.

The question of home arose on a daily basis.

“Where are you from?” is a common question in the traveling world.

For me, it became a question of “where did you grow up,” “where did you spent the majority of your life,” “where did you just come from,” and other between-the-lines answers sought. What was the answer they really wanted. What did they really want to know about us and our “home” that would help them define us in their community and world.

When falling in love together, my husband had a hard time first saying the words “I love you.” Understanding deeply my sense of lost self, he would hold me close and say “Home is where Lorelle is.”

Over the years his words sank in. Home is where Lorelle is. HOME is where Lorelle is. Home is WHERE Lorelle IS.

He taught me that home is where you make it, so I’m going home to me now.

Finding Creativity and Artistry Anytime in Your Life

Tags

acting, characters, comedy, creativity, ditzvids, entertainment, humor, inspiration, leslie, mentor, personalities, videos, youtube

My friend, Leslie, is an inspiration to me. She used to drive me “batty” – her term for it – but now she has come into her own in her olderness and is not just an inspiration to me but a mentor and motivator.

The niece of an Oscar winning actress, Leslie has come out of her turtle shell casing and into her own as the queen of Ditzvids.

In a form distinctive and yet similar to Tracy Ullman, the actress and comedian famous for her various characters, Leslie continues to unveil a wide variety of characters adorned in antique hats, veils, glasses, sweaters, and other paraphernalia.

She explains to me often that the clothes make the character. She’ll try on different hats and wigs and suddenly feel the entity coming out of her. They have unusual and creative names, often representative of their personality.

There are so many characters she’s created that get me rolling on the floor and literally peeing my pants from laughing so hard. I’m not sure if these are funnier because I know Leslie and know how out of character (and sometimes “in character”) these are, or because they are just that funny.

Sandra Ledbedter is one of my favorite characters. In the video above, she prepares for vacation with her boyfriend in Hawaii, and her nerves, as well as her query personality, comes out beautifully. In the next video, she’s on vacation with her boyfriend in Hawaii and decides to use “modern technology” to send a video post card. Honestly, I could see my mother sending the same post card back home.

Sandra’s brother, Ernie, is a character she describes as literally taking her over. She fell into the “ARCHitech” personality so completely, she lost herself. The brilliance comes through in this unique video.

“Flatulance Air” is a unique airline, and this “safety” presentation for the flight is brilliant, an airline really run on gas.

Estrella the Smari Swarmi is a hoot, the Swarmi without a glass ball as someone took it. LOL!

In this video, Kiki states the truth that all of us over the age of 40 wish: Shoe designers, please make shoes for us to not only make us feel good but look good, whether or not we’re heading for the dance floor.

During the Olympics, she came up with an Olympic Swimmer character that won an Olympic Rhinestone.

Eugenie is a royal house maid for the queen – Elizabeth – and she invites you for tea.

Watching the Ditzvids from Leslie, I am reminded of how little creativity I have in my life and that I need to get more. She is shining and thriving with these beautiful video characters, stretching her imagination in every direction, embracing different parts of herself as well as other people.

Her courage to put these “out there” in the world is wonderful to watch. She gets judgmental about herself and her friends and their opinions of what she is doing, saying she knows that everyone thinks she’s looney and “off my meds” but she keeps producing them, improving constantly. I’ve previewed some of the future releases and trust me, she’s come up with some amazing characters and outfits.

I need to put myself out there more again. I need to risk with my creativity. I need to push myself to do more and experiment with my art, in all directions.

Thank you, my dear friend, Leslie, for pushing me to become more fully me. Just one of the many reasons I love you so much.

Lorelle Writes

Tags

intro, introduction, welcome

Someone once added up how many articles I write and publish annually. The number shocked me.

1,975.

When I stop and look at my legacy, almost 2,000 articles a year for over ten years – I am humbled and staggered. That is a huge legacy and a lot of words.

Yet, these are all technical articles. They rarely take much creativity or imagination and I’m a fairly imaginative and creative person.

Recently, I decided to follow in the footsteps of my great-uncles who wrote and took creative writing courses for many years, one self-publishing his stories in a couple of books and the other hiding his creative tales with fellow family members until they could be gathered together and shared through my Family History site. I’m starting to attend writing workshops and events, expanding my creativity through the written word.

This site is a collection of those writings and my photography. While I will continue to share my stories on my other sites, this serves only me, not my fans, friends, and family.

I consider this my selfish site. Something I’m doing just for me.

Enjoy.

Election Day 2012

Tags

assignment, campaign, election, forest grove writers workshop, politics, prompt, writing assignment

The following was written from a prompt from the Forest Grove Writer’s Workshop. The assignment was to write about your feelings on the election.

“I’m not going to vote for Shawn Smith or Robert Taylor. They both suck.”

The pile of slick election ads, voter’s pamphlets, and ballots before us on the table, and time running out, I didn’t know what to make of my husband’s response to the position of state representative.

“I’m sick of them both.”

I stared at the tall, slender man I adore sitting across the littered table. A brilliant and over-educated, and thoughtful, engineer, his bearded face did not resemble the patient, tolerant expression I’d grown to love over the years. He resembled a red-faced lunatic at the moment.

“Look at all these. For Smith, against Taylor. For Taylor, against Smith. Taylor is a good guy. Taylor is a bad guy. Smith is a beast. Smith is a saint. I’m sick of all of these.”

He shoved the colorful assortment of glossy artificially created candid moments at me.

He was right. Sheet after sheet. Brochures, flyers, all touting the goodness of one and the evilness of the other. One or two about other candidates, but mostly these two guys battling it out on our dining table.

I thought of the money spent on all the printing, photography, and mailings and thought about how much that would feel the hungry, help put a student through school, or repair a road or two. I thought about how it also made money for graphic artists, photographers, printers, postal workers…but mostly I thought about how much the campaign junk mail infuriated my calm husband.

Is this the way to vote? Not on the merits of someone’s abilities, expertise, and experience but on the quantity of junk mail they generated? Did the candidates approve every one of these, or were these all handled by their campaign managers. Are we actually voting on the quality of campaign managers ability to reach us, or on the validity of the candidate.

When I pause to consider what irritates me most about the never-ending political campaign in the United States, the event that begins the day after the election and continues until the day of, four years later, in spite of the candidates twisting their own words and promises, and the media distorting the truths and the fictions even more, the one thing that irriates me the most about elections is the phone calls.

The calls happen when I’m least ready to race to the phone, dripping wet from the shower, in the middle of cooking, eating, watching a movie, on my other phone with a client, sleeping in after a very late night working…yet, I race to the phone with thoughts of emergencies, family problems, and panic in my heart.

When I hear the recordings or the human beings trying to express enthusiasm for one more call to preach on behave of their wunderkind or issue, I want to scream at them, “I will now NOT votes for your candidate because you called me! I’m on the do not call list!”

I know that the Do Not Call List doesn’t apply to electoral campaigns, and it certainly doesn’t apply to robot-callers and scammers, but I can dream, just as I can dream of a day when my vote might really count.

Today, how do you really make a decision about who to vote for when you really don’t know them? How do you get to know and trust them. Without the media, how would we know. We have to trust the media. As one of the media, I don’t think that’s such a good idea as sometimes I barely trust myself.

Without more information, my husband chose to not vote for either of them. A part of me appreciates that, so I join him, living out the true definition of democracy.