The Hardest Thing I ever Did

 

 I recently bought this book, Burn after writing.  And while not all things will be shared, this prompt I thought I would share.  That and other lighter things.

This is something that I suspect will change as life goes on and offers new challenges.  For now the hardest thing I have ever done is start over.

Not quite literally but just a drastic change in the direction of my career.  Starting to travel for work was a big deal.  It took me out of my comfort zone and very nearly didn't happen.  I am and was, as nearly all of us are: a creature of habit.  I like the familiar and most of the time revel in the routine of my life. 

Constant change and I are not friends, I am extroverted enough that I need regular social interaction, and introverted enough that I prefer it from the same circle of friends.  Traveling for work brings with it joys and thrills but those same thrills can sometimes make me feel lonely and scared.  However, overall it has been totally and completely worth it.  Every bit of it. 

It has taught me that I do have what it takes to take care of myself, independent of my family.  That I can take care of myself and that while I would love living within easy distance of my friends and family, I also truly value living alone.

I am by no means a globe trotter but this allowed me to explore new places.  To see fall, to see snow for the first time in my life.  And given me a deeper understanding of my roots and love of my home, even despite the times it feels constraining.

I think it's why songs about wanderlust and traveling have always sung to a part of my soul.  The blessing or the curse of this, depending on your perspective is that I leave pieces of myself wherever I go, small seeds planted in each place I go, with the potential for each to be home to me.  And at the same time a deep tie to my roots, to my home town, that continues to pull me back.

Disney World, FL

Baltimore MD

Doodle Masterpieces

 The consequences of being bored and an artist.  Corporate orientation is not my jam, so I doodle to keep myself out of trouble and less antsy, and when you are also an amateur artist your result is "doodles" you don't want to part with.  So what do you do?  

You cut them out and glue them into your sketchbook of course!

Memories

Memories are a curious thing.  Some are fleeting and easily slip from the mind, others are lasting, some buried deep.  Memory triggers are also curious things.  The fact that memories are linked and triggered by external stimuli is fascinating.

Fascinating that a scent a song, or location can trigger even the most deeply buried memories.  Pinewood smell can bring you back to your grandmothers, a song throws you back to high school.  A visit to a childhood home triggers a stream of memories playing in front of you like a movie on replay.  I have even heard stories of memories being triggered from a once forgotten childhood trauma all from the lighting and situation being just right.

My earliest memory is like this, crystal clear, and often triggered by a certain clothing combination.  faded blue jeans and a crew cut undershirt.  That's all it takes and I am transported back in time.  Much of of it has a sense of surrealism,  for a time I wasn't even fully convinced it was even a real memory.  

I was around 5 years old, mom was pregnant and I was being a brat.  I mean all out dirty tantrum, and in the process I managed to kick her in the abdomen.  Dad saw red.  The image burned into my memory is dad standing down the hall in his shirt and jeans, his stance reminiscent of someone holding a gun.

Oddly enough there are no memories of fear accompanying this memory.  Maybe I was too young to truly understand the image I see with this memory, or even an innate understanding that dad despite his demons at that time, was not going to hurt me.

I cannot confirm the presence of a gun, but both mom and dad can confirm the tantrum the kick and dad's immediate reaction.  But it is my earliest memory, and the images play like a movie when they do.  Almost removing me from the situation, which some would probably argue as the defense mechanism of this "trauma."  For me it's simply one of the memories imprinted on my mind.