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Dreams

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(Dreams was originally posted on Red Room a few years ago and I am reposting it again.)

Dreams are an amazing phenomena.  I’m not referring to the personal goals and ambitions type of dream, but the full-blown, Fuji-coloured, action-packed kind of dreams with bizarre characters and you get to fly! And when I say fly, I really mean, flying where you are soaring high.

I use to get a lot of flying dreams when I was working the midnight to dawn shift in a hospital blood bank. This was a job where blood was cross-matched to transfused into accident victims, emergency hemorrhages, stabbings or anytime blood was needed as quickly as possible. During my shift, there was never a slow moment. By the time I got home to my bed, my dreams were jumbled and I was flying. Several people have told me this was a sign of stress and “flying” was the escape route. When I moved into a less stressful occupation, my dreams had morphed into an adventure series, but I was still flying high.  By then, I was taking creative writing courses in my leisure time. One instructor told me never  lose this edge because my assignments showed an active imagination and unusual creativity.  At that time, I think the unusual bit was the fact that I could just pick up the dream the next night to continue my adventurous and wild ride.

Eventually, as I mellowed and matured, the dreams became fewer and rarely had me flying at all. Instead of stress, I discovered that certain foods would activate the flying dreams. The other night I discovered  the sumptuous taste of slices of hot French baguettes stuffed with a simple cheese and crab filling. I’m not sure if it was the overindulgence of cheese and crab that made my subconscious go into overdrive when my head hit the pillows. As the dream progressed, I wanted to wake up and take copious notes, but I was too afraid of losing the thread of any coherent thoughts. Two things I do remember: I was flying again to escape something dark and evil and my Dad, who died 15 years ago, was telling me I shouldn’t have eaten so much of the cheese and crab appetizer, even though  it was good. My Dad loved stuff like that too.

I do believe dreams are a necessary part of a writer’s creative process. A writer can still be creative without the dreams, but dreaming makes the process so much richer. Having Fuji-coloured, action-packed dreams peopled with unusual characters enriches the imagination. Just take notes and remember where you can fly to retrieve those creative dreams.

The Mom in Me

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When you’re a little kid, it’s amazing–or maybe not–what memories are tucked away only to pop out some decades later.

My sibs and I could never slip out of the house without Mom’s eagle-eyes making sure we had our darn hats, “because it looks like rain or snow or. . “;   our awful rubber boots,”because it looks like rain or snow or. . .”; our winter coats even though the temperature was balmy and sunny without any storm clouds in sight; our warm, woolly gloves despite the fact that one or all of us often lost a glove somewhere along the walk home.

The other day I heard the familiar words, “Are you sure you have your hat? It looks like rain and there’s a cold wind blowing. What about your gloves? Do you have them in your pocket? Maybe we should wrap your warm scarf around your neck. . .”

My Mom merely rolled her eyes and laughed.  Oh my gosh, was that me sounding like my Mom? 

Some things just never change.  .  .  .

A Happy Writer

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I have always enjoyed writing. And like all writers trying to grab that elusive bit of fame and fortune, I strive even harder to gain my goal because I just know I am close but just not close enough. At last, I have met a writer who puts into words exactly how I feel.     Do tap into a fellow chocolate lover,  Devyani Borade’s recent piece in Writing World:

http://www.writing-world.com/life/happy.shtml

as she has kindly given me permission to repost on my site.  Devyani has the knack of telling it like it is for a number of us!

Also check out http://writing-world.com  for more great articles and tips for writers.

 

James, Never Jimmy

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(This was first published on Red Room and it’s a nice one to read again. . . .)

James was the neighbourhood character that every neighbourhood should have. When Hubby and I first met him, he was adamant on how he would be called.

“Puh-leez, don’t call me “Jim” or “Jimmy”–my name is James and that’s what I want to be called.” After a brief moment, he added with a theatrical shudder, “And never call me Jack!”

Once we got past the name thing, James was a fountain of information on where to get a specific bolt, screw or nut; the freshest eggs, “still warm from being pooped out by the chicken;” the lowest-price-but-best-service for car maintenance and repairs; the best craftsmen for painting, cabinetry, woodworking, plumbing, installing floors and so much more.

James was a retired cabinet-maker and carpenter who produced triple A work. And he expected no less from anyone he hired or referred. His standards were high but you just knew that whoever he recommended would do the best work available.

When it came to animals, it seemed James had an affection for all of them—from the wild squirrels that scampered up his oak trees; the dogs that occasionally roamed in his yard; the deer that knew where James kept the deer-food for them; the family of raccoons who carefully crossed his yard without digging up his lawn; the wild rabbits who knew where James left the carrots and greens for them. Of course there were the numerous bird houses James had built and hung in the apple, pear and peach trees. The birds seemed to know not to peck all the fruit, just a few, so James’  trees yield an abundant harvest which he willingly shared with all his neighbours.

We didn’t see James before we moved to our new location, but I did tuck a short note in his mailbox to let him know where we were and to come for coffee. We didn’t hear from him at all–not even a phone call to say he was in the neighbourhood.

Last week, I saw James as we were both exiting the same building. Hearing his name and recognizing my voice, he gave his cheerful “James” smile and exclaimed, “I’m so glad to hear your voice. Thank you for your note with the new address but I think I misplaced it again!” Chatting with my old neighbour, I realized something was amiss. James was wearing dark glasses that wrapped around the sides of his face, yet the day was a somber gray with a fine drizzly rain.

“Are you okay, James?”

“Oh yes, never better but I’m afraid I’m gradually losing my vision to macular degeneration. Rather makes you do things a little differently.”

“I’m so sorry, James. Do you have access to help and support?”

“Honey, have you already forgotten all your neighbours?”

“Oh, I’m so glad the neighbours are looking after you.”

“Got that part right, Sweetheart!  Mal and Bryan drive me wherever I need to go. Betsy and Kathy leave me casseroles and stuff to reheat in my microwave; Mike makes sure my yard and garden is kept neat; Lyssa sends her kids over to sweep off my driveway. I feel very humble to have such caring neighbours nearby. All I can offer them are the fruit from my trees. I was worried about my animals but someone has been leaving carrots, greens and apples for them.”

“I’m so glad the neighbours have rallied ’round you, James.”

“You know, I loved doing what I did around the neighbourhood, but Life was never meant to run smoothly. You get tossed a lemon now and then and really, it’s what you choose to do to make your life better. Do you want lemonade or a rotten lemon? And you know me, I go for lemonade every time!”

“James, do you have time for coffee or are you heading somewhere?”

“I have an appointment with someone who wants to commission me for some cabinetry work. At the moment, I’m referring another cabinet maker to him. She does great work and I’ll introduce her to this client and see how it goes. It’s hard not to do the job myself, but I’ll figure a way to do something later.”

And with a jaunty wave of his hand, James casually unfolded a white cane and strolled down the street–confident, dignified and cheerful–as only James, never Jim or Jimmy could be.

Fitness Queen

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I’m a “gym junkie.”  Bet that caught your eye. In actual fact, I think I’m most motivated in the month of January. You know, all those fabulous eats from December so the “guilt” pops out now. Thanks to my amazing trainer, Tracey, I can step gracefully on and off the treadmill, Stairmaster, stationary bike and elliptical machines without looking like a total klutz. I know where to sit and place my feet on the vertical bench, pec dec, ab machine and seated leg press. Best of all, I don’t sit on anything backwards and I know exactly what to do. I have worked out in both public and private gyms.  From my gym experiences I would like to share my list of observations.

1) Why are there so many young, skinny, spandex-clad females tackling only the treadmills that conveniently face the huge front windows, while their tight, sexy butts face the rest of us poor “shlobs” in our loose tees and baggy pants who are seriously working on the incumbent bikes?

2) Why are the TV sets tuned to the Food channels at the Ladies Fitness Gym and to the Sports channels in the “Guys ‘ Gals” gym?

3) Why am I the lucky one to follow behind a 7-feet, muscle-bound hunk of testosterone who can lift 300 pounds AND leaves the machines set for his body, not mine!

4) The time limit on the popular equipment is 15-minutes and at least half my time is spent is spent adjusting the height of the seat, the length of the pulley and the drop in the weights. For a mechanically-challenged person, this is quite an accomplishment.  It wasn’t my fault that if one of the knobs on that springy thing fell off while I was adjusting the seat to my 5′ height. I still think I should have been compensated at least another 5-minutes.

5) Guys can be so macho when they do that male strut in the bar-bell corner, even though they pretend they don’t see you sneaking peeks–they do love an audience. . .

6) Why do I always feel so great after working my way through the entire circuit, then ruin it by treating myself to a warm, “jammy doughboy” even though I drank a healthy carrot/kale cocktail with it?

7) It’s a know fact that gals can do anything guys can do, especially if they have the advantage of spandex. All that bending and stretching is great eye-candy for the guys and most important of all, is a distraction to allow us serious gym junkies extra time on our favourite machines. Hey, if you’ve got it—by all means, flaunt it. This is hard work. . . .

See you at the gym?

New Year’s Resolutions

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I’ve just discovered something interesting. Just because we have started a New Year, it doesn’t mean a lot of us are stampeding to make positive changes or promises in our lives. I find this interesting because every year, I solemnly make myself a promise to lose weight, get more active, write that book, reconnect with old friends and a myriad of uplifting, optimistic stuff that always sounds great and makes an impressive list. After the month of January flies past and that first successful flush of actually doing some of the list passes, the resolutions goes the way of the dodo bird—extinct, or maybe that’s extinguished.

Thinking about this further, making New Year’s resolutions is a bunch of hoo-hah just so others can feel righteous that they have made a list and plan to carry it through the entire year. Hearing about their intentions is supposed to make you guilty enough to produce a list of your own.  Guess that also makes it dangerous to your health–think of all that stress in sticking with your resolutions.

This year, I’m not falling into the trap of making any New Year’s Resolutions. After all, what’s the point of making a promise to yourself if you don’t keep it? Mulling this over, I have decided not to make any more resolutions–ever.  From now on, if I feel like going to the gym, I will. If I want to indulge in eating chocolates all day, I will.  Realistically. I probably won’t–maybe nibble a few to satisfy that chocolate craving. . .and to ease that chocolate guilt, head for the gym, maybe.

It’s been said that a New Year signifies “New Beginnings.”  I like to think so–it’s a clean page to start anew; but, what about all the unfinished stuff from the Old Year? Because if you think about the projects left unfinished or incomplete, how important were they to begin with?

I find that projects with deadlines or projects that are important to me are definitely tackled first.  Anything else is either filed away for later or “garbage.”  It’s easy to file stuff away, but so difficult later to purge those hard-fought words, the witty repartee, the catchy beginnings and/or the clever endings, the numerous bits and pieces of writing meant for future books or short stories. Filed stuff were meant for something but like barely worn clothes in your closet, if it hasn’t been used in two years, toss it. Just close your eyes ands turf it out. I shred my stuff. After all, if I don’t read it, the recycling man can’t either!

January is just beginning. Did you make any resolutions? Once I purge my files to make room for 2015, I’ll be fine.

Hm-mm, some of these bits and pieces look like it may have possibilities—I’ll just start a new file. After all, some stuff you can’t simply close your eyes and toss. . . .

Rainbow Moments

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I love “rainbow moments.”  Rainbows are so beautiful but fade too quickly, so the moment has to be enjoyed immediately.

When I see a double rainbow, it makes that moment even more special. If you are lucky enough to have a rainbow moment, the image is forever etched in your heart and stored in your memory.

Rainbow moments can be anything that makes you feel good and you just have to smile. And, it’s never a tiny smile, but a big, wide ear-to-ear grin. You get that mushy feel-good feeling. I had it the day I got married and saw my partner-for-life, patiently waiting for me with the biggest smile on his face. I got it the day I held our grandbabies for the first time. Rainbow moments are when I see the first signs of Spring, enthusiastically popping forth–the exuberant purple crocuses, the white snowdrops and the sunny daffodils. Rainbow moments are when the babies finally let go of the coffee-table and take those first few steps towards you–with their look of triumph that they could stand upright and move, all at the same time!  Rainbow moments can be a smell that takes you back to a cozier time of pot roast gently simmering, the scent of fresh bread baking and the fragrance of apple crumble, wafting its aroma of cinnamon/brown sugar as it cooled on the counter. Rainbow moments can be as simple as meeting an old friend for coffee and thinking how Fortune smiles at such a lasting friendship. I have so many more rainbow moments tucked away in my treasure box of cherished memories. And so many more memories to be collected.

I would like to wish all the Chocofigbee Readers as well as all the bloggers that I follow and enjoy, a truly Happy, Healthy New Year. And may you encounter many Rainbow Moments throughout 2015– Happy New Year!

A Christmas Line-up

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I wrote this in 2012 and the long Christmas postal line-ups remain the same, 2 years later!

Have you ever noticed that when you’re with a crowd of people, there is always one person who is a take-charge-let’s-get-it-done kind of person? I don’t mean this in a negative way because it’s nice there’s always someone willing to take the helm when the Captain is away; who has the initiative and guts to create a bond of camaraderie among bored, impatient strangers in long line-ups, especially the long post-office lineups.

I like to chat with the person in front of me and the person behind me when the lineup is long and the people seem friendly.  I was the 18th person in the post office line. Margaret, a robust motherly type, was the lady in front of me and as I–along with everyone else–quickly realized, Margaret was not a patient, silent, anonymous liner-upper.  Margaret was a creative take-charge-stay-happy-won’t-take-long kind of person. Joyfully and loudly, Margaret began to sing to the tune of “Jingle Bells” her own lyrics: Crawling along this line; Carrying gifts and cards today. When will we ever see the end, I really cannot say,  then bursting into the “Jingle Bells” chorus. There were 17 people ahead of me and 10 more behind, but Margaret quickly whipped us into a noisy impromptu choir. Well, by the time I got to the head of the line, everyone was smiling, humming and singing along.

Thank you, Margaret. You made this lineup the best one I’ve ever stood in.  I envy the people in the next lineup you stand in because they are in for an unforgettable treat!

At the moment, I can’t seem to get “Jingle Bells” out of my mind. . . .

Nuts and People

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I finally opened our house-guest’s gift tin of roasted nuts—the “gourmet” tin with no peanuts, but plenty of almonds, cashews, pecans, Brazils and pistachios. Lightly salted, nicely roasted and totally yummy. Settling into my comfy chair, I breathed in the aroma of  roasted nuts. Selecting one, I nibbled and thought about how nuts are like some  people. Now, I didn’t say “people are nuts” which has a totally different connotation, although I do know a few who are off the charts in humour and temperament. But I digress.

As I munched my way through the tin, I contemplate the almond—-sleek, elegant, refined. With its distinguished bronzy-tan skin, it stands out in the crowd.  Cashews have a looser personality. It’s the “fun” nut, if there’s such a thing.  |Cashews are more liberated and not as restricted as the almond.  Pecans have a duel personality. You can eat them whole or break them in half. As smaller pieces, you get more pecans for that fabulous crumb topping.  Brazils are the “hunky” nuts.  They’re the gym-buddy that enjoys his work-outs and eggs you on; the big guys who break a path through the crowd for you, the body-guard.  Then there’s the pistachio, petite and green. In its own dainty, green way, it makes a statement in the nut tin.   It yells, “Eat me first!”

Whoa–I think I better get back to the serious business of writing.  Blame this on the crazy holiday season of December.   Nibbling these nuts makes you kind of well, nutty. . . .

The Itch

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Have you ever had the itch where you saw something that made you curious enough to want to see more?  Or heard someone singing a haunting melody that you wanted to follow the notes and just listen? You know, that wild impulse that comes out of nowhere, grabs you by the heart-strings and have you throw caution to the winds? That crazy, zingy feeling that has absolutely nothing to do with brain cells, logic or sex?

Good–you have.  Wasn’t it a grand feeling to do something utterly wild and free, for once, forgetting the sensible shoes and common sense? To follow your impulses?  That, my Friend, is the itch.

You don’t have a lot of people following their itches. Most are little kids who love the freedom to explore their world and of course, lack the sensible routine of their parents. Or, they’re usually retirees, who have the leisure time to scratch their itches whenever they have one.

But to so many others, the simple truth is when there are limited hours of the day, we don’t. Even when there is the time, we still don’t. So it’s with a sense of joyful glee when we actually succumb to the itch on stolen time–our stolen time.  And because it’s so impulsive and yet feels so right, we enjoy it all the more. I think we should indulge in our “itches” more often as long as it’s fun and legal.  I have to say that in case any crooks are reading this and nodding their heads thinking they have an itch to rob a bank or something. . . . .