Shocking

I once watched a video of a man shocking himself with a dog collar... he would turn up the voltage each time boasting that a human's mind could overcome the pain of a dog collar. The video proved otherwise. He writhed, screamed and grimaced in pain just as much if not more than his pet would have. Why do we torture ourselves? Why do we purposely let people put a dog collar on us and shock us with their words and their actions? They walk around free and easy, and we continue to let them use us, shock us, or hurt us in numerous ways. They didn't put the collar on us.. we put it on ourselves and we allow life to turn up the voltage. I for one am ready to take the collar off.. I will not allow anyone to control me anymore. I will be my own person and live in the boldness I was meant to live in. I will not be anyone's doormat or for that matter anyone's dog.. Shocking, isn't it?

10 Things I Knew by the Age of 8

1. I knew that if I got the "look" during church I was going to get a spanking in the car or when we got home or both.

2. I knew how to hit a softball and hit it hard! Thanks DAD!

3. I knew how to march in a Christmas parade with the rest of the Peppermint Drill Team.

4. I knew all my multiplication facts and could rattle them off randomly and obnoxiously!

5. I knew how to swim with like a fish.

6. I knew my sister was not like other sisters and needed special attention.

7. I knew my Dad would let me ride with him on the riding lawn mower if I stood out in the yard and looked sad enough.

8. I knew that if I saw my mom coming with a brush and pink sponge rollers it was torture time for my hair.

9. I knew I loved to read and I did!

10. I knew that I was loved.

Orange

No other word in the English language rhymes with orange. My six year old son reminds me of this on a daily basis. He is fascinated by this and continues to to try to come up with a word that will rhyme with orange. So most of the time on long car trips he will rattle off fictitious words twisting them and contorting them until they sound like orange. "Morange." "Forange." "Lorange." After each attempt I will tell him the same thing, "not a real word-it must be a real word." He goes back to thinking; his mind clicking and whirring trying to comprehend why there would be such an anomaly in the world.
How do I tell him the world is full of unsettling things? Things that won't make sense, won't compute, won't hold up to his standards, morals, or principles? How do I explain that to myself? Orange- the word conjures up frustration, a mystery, a puzzle, and a long list of future difficult discussions I will have with my son.

Writing for fun, or for therapy.. same thing

This week the floodgates of my brain have been opened and the world of Sparks is gushing out. Since having children I have had very little time to write or even pick up a pen other than to sign a forms or write out grocery lists. Although I encourage my students to write, I personally write very little. This week I am attending a workshop where all we do is write or think about writing. I have been blessed in just the two days I have been here so far because this place has given me a gift. A gift I once possessed but traded in for t-ball games, diaper changes, and vacation bible schools. I once let my thoughts pour out like "sands through the hour glass" but lately my hour glass has frozen in time. I once wrote poetry on napkins at restauraunts and pieced essays together in my head as I danced in the shower. Lately, all my napkins are to wipe dirty mouths and my showers are limited to how much soap I can get off before the baby cries. Motherhood gives us an endless ocean of material and no time to write about it before the next wave crashes against the busy shore. Yesterday my son said the funniest thing about his experience at drama camp. I told him to bring me my notebook and a pen.... then I made him write it down and date it himself. I thought that would be funny in years to come... a six year old documenting his own humor for his busy and exhausted mom. One day I will slow down and that notebook will be precious and I will read and write again... for now I am relegated to a week in the summer of 2009, any stolen moment, or clean napkin.

Writing for fun, or for therapy.. same thing