It’s a Wonderful Life – 2020 Style

Posted by Joanne Huspek

It truly is a wonderful life.

As we round the corner to the end of the year (thankfully, as 2020 has been fraught with all sorts of challenges I’d just as soon shed), I reflect as I usually do on the last twelve months. Only this year I thought back all the way to the beginning. Reflection is easy to do if you spend a lot of time walking or driving. In the last two months, I’ve spent most of my time driving between my home and Cripple Creek. The rest of the time, I’ve been walking. Or hiking. Or running.

On my off time, I spent this holiday season watching Turner Classic Movies. No, not the news, God forbid. TCM not only played the vintage Christmas classics, for a couple of weeks they aired any movie with Christmas featured anywhere during the story line. What a relief it was to see happy endings every couple of hours. Good versus bad, conflict, conflict, resolution. It’s just what the doctor ordered. Although I binge watched Christmas movies, I was unable to view It’s a Wonderful Life this year, but I’ve seen it many times before.

All this good cheer and peace on earth, good will toward men was not lost on me this year. Besides TCM, I overdosed on Sirius XM’s Hallmark Channel. Not before Christmas, but on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, like most sensible people are known to do. (Don’t do Christmas at Halloween or before; it’s just not right.)

Reflection is good. You look at the past and weigh your choices, good or bad. A local radio host implored people to call in and share their favorite Christmas memory, which caused me to think. While I’ve been blessed, but life hasn’t been easy for me. It isn’t easy for most people. Even if you’re born with money and means, there are always pitfalls. Tears. Sadness. Controversy. Lots of bad times.

I don’t remember much of Christmas growing up, except I didn’t like the time off from school. School saved me from my home life, and two weeks away from it was sheer torture. I liked my teachers, and I loved my books – borrowed, of course. We grew up struggling, probably poor by today’s standard. We received sensible gifts like coats and socks and underwear for presents. I never owned a Barbie, much less did I receive one as a gift. No toys at all after I turned five. We had turkey for dinner, but turkey is cheap and you can feed a lot of children on it. There weren’t any Christmas photos I can turn to or traditions I can pass along to my children or memories of my mother saving favorite ornaments. Too many kids.

Yet, I wouldn’t change one thing or one minute of it. No, no regrets. There’s a lot to be said about weathering hard times – you learn to navigate poverty and need. You find other interests to fill your day. You look for calm in the middle of discord.

Later on, I would have plenty of wonderful memories to turn to. Because of the poverty of my childhood holidays, as an adult I went out of my way to make spectacular memories for my own children. Christmas trees that probably should have fell over on the weight of the lights I strung on them (it would take me two days just to do the lights!). My husband lit up the neighborhood with his lights on the trees outside. Of course, it cost a bit in electric bills come January, but it was worth it. Every year, I’d expend rolls and rolls of film just to get the one perfect shot of my kids that I’d put on the Christmas card or newsletter. (Digital photography is so much cheaper!) Each child would receive one new ornament, which I’d save until they became adults with Christmas trees of their own. We had neighborhood Christmas parties with Santa making an appearance. Christmas Eve dinner would be one great production; Christmas Day dinner another. I would have a legacy to leave them, damn it.

I felt lucky to give them such memories. I felt luckier that I had such memories for myself. But I didn’t have to work so hard at it. I know that now.

My children are grown and starting their own lives. My happy memories are simpler now. Now I find myself happy to see a herd of bighorn sheep at the side of the road. Or I’ll drink in the sunshine on a winter’s day and revel in the blue of the sky above. I’ll have a nice dinner with my husband, which is always a treat even if it’s made at home.

And while I haven’t really led a charmed life, looking back, it’s been about as charmed as anyone could imagine. Every rainy day had the sun shining at the end of it. Things could be worse, way worse, but I would rather concentrate on the positive.

After all, it has been a wonderful life.

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2020 – The Frozen Year, and the Quick Thaw

Posted by Joanne Huspek

Sun through morning fog, Ocean Beach 2020.

You’d have to be living under a rock or off the grid to not know about 2020. The year that will live in infamy. The suckiest year of my life. Of everyone’s life. The year everything and every person on the planet was frozen: frozen in fear, in worry, in anxiety, in depression, in a holding pattern of waiting for the other shoe to drop (a big shoe). Virus, politics, intrigue – these are the big picture challenges, the kind that the everyman has no say in. No matter how much we bitch and resist, we can’t change the outer world, we can only mold and whittle what’s within arm’s length.

I’ll admit I was frozen too, much as I tried to live a normal life. But life wasn’t normal this year, and the roadblocks were many and huge.

When I think about the last eleven and a half months, I feel as though I just lived through a decade of bad juju. Yet I struggle through, tread water when I’m too tired to fight, try to find solutions to the myriad of puzzles thrown at us. Thank God this year is nearly over, although I’m holding my breath as to the next year. It could be worse. It might be worse.

I haven’t done much writing this year. I hate to admit this, but I don’t write when I’m this out of kilter. Every once in a while, I do try. I pull out old material and look at it, especially on days after nights where I’ve dreamed of my characters and think of ways to make what I’ve already written more cohesive. I do a lot of thinking about writing. I’ve lived through these “dry” spells before, the last one lingering for nearly two years, and I know I’ll write again.

I should now start planning for the San Francisco Writers Conference, but 2021 has been canceled. Perhaps it’s a good thing, since I have nothing to pitch. This gives me another year to work, and maybe to finish something.

For those who don’t know what’s been going on with the rest of my life, here’s a sampling:

The HOTEL (and BAR)

2020 was not the best year to buy a struggling bed and breakfast, but yes, we sank a lot of our retirement money into this venture – and have been swimming against the current ever since. CoVid nearly killed us in April and May. Oh, we were open as hotels are considered essential infrastructure. FOUR guests in seven weeks. That didn’t pay the utilities. The bar closed down too. Summer was brisk but not full, the bar was partially open, but at least we weren’t struggling…much. After Halloween, more CoVid restrictions and the brakes slammed hard on any reservations.

Then there was the hotel roof, and subsequent flood, and resultant insurance claims, and total remodel of four rooms and partial repair of a couple of others. We’re still dealing with that.

Employee issues.

Local weirdness (I’ll have to write about this. Although too weird for words.)

The Gallery struggles. This year was tough on all creative types, especially artists who no longer had art fairs to depend on. It took three months longer than I’d expected to open (September 1). People all over were frozen, artists, customers. I hope spring will breathe some life into the art world.

HEALTH

Oh, I didn’t get the ‘Rona. Supposedly my husband did. He tested positive after testing negative, and he was sick, but after four days in bed, he recovered. I didn’t get a sniffle. My regimen? Tonic water (sometimes with vodka, but not always), one zinc tab daily, Vitamin D and B12, plenty of fruits and veggies, enough sleep, and daily exercise. Lots of sunlight, which is easy to get in Colorado where the sun shines nearly every day. Knock on wood veneer, I haven’t been sick all year.

MEDIA

Backing away, slowly. Deleted Twitter, too caustic and negative. Nearly out of the Book of Face, as I’m a first amendment loving gal and the shenanigans on that site make me angry. I’d rather not be angry. Gave up on ALL news except the local morning show. I must know the temperature and the forecast (as I’m driving back and forth into the mountains four or five times a week) and the weather guy is crazy nuts and I need laughter. Humor is the best medicine. If I turn on the TV to watch long term, it’s usually TCM. Old movies are the bomb. I’m living in a black and white world and I like it.

THE OTHER ARTS

If I can’t write, I find that doing other things with my hands (mindless pursuits, like wire weaving and basket making) most helpful. At least my anxiety is somewhat assuaged by the task, and I end up with artistic pieces I like (sometimes. for the most part.). Having a hobby like this is helpful when it’s December and the ground is frozen and digging in the dirt isn’t an option. (My garden was spectacular this year, even with a hailstorm!)

And now, for the QUICK THAW:

It’s hard to take your own advice and easy to give it. I plan on making the Quick Thaw part of my New Year Resolution regimen. Take a moment to do each of these things each day.

1. Movement. You don’t need a gym membership. Walk. Doesn’t have to be far or long. I had a neighbor who after a heart attack walked to the end of the driveway and back for a month before he went further. If it’s cold out, jump up and down for two minutes.

2. Read. Again, you’re not running a marathon. Just a page or two will do to start. Use reading to wean yourself from screens.

3. Find beauty and rejoice in it. Yes, things are challenging, things are ugly. But there is beauty in everything. Look for it and enjoy.

4. Create, if just for a moment. Your creation doesn’t have to be a magnificent work of art, just effort. Whether it’s writing or art or a batch of chocolate chip cookies. (In the case of the cookies, make it a small batch.)

5. Give thanks and let people know you care. As I mentioned before, things could be worse. They might get much worse. Don’t waste precious time wallowing in negativity. Love with intensity and make sure your loved ones know.

Each tiny action precipitates the thaw. Don’t let the frosty frozen conditions of 2020 creep in to the new year.

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A Long Awaited Howdy

Posted by Joanne Huspek

No, I have not fallen off the edge of the earth. No, I haven’t become sick and/or died. No, I haven’t given up creative pursuits.

Yes, I have been busy with Real Life and what I call my own private Money Pit. OH. MY. GOD. I could honestly write a book. Too many odd things have happened, from ghosts to major disasters. Running a bed and breakfast isn’t for the faint of heart. Running a bed and breakfast with your first eight months during a worldwide pandemic is no picnic in the park. The upside is that I now have a million and one ideas floating around. One of these days I will expound, both here and on a much larger scale.

Social media has become so anti-social, I don’t spend a lot of time there. It’s the current political climate, it’s the current unrest, and a deadly virus in the mix is making everyone loopy. That’s why I prefer to shut off the devices at this time.

Just because I haven’t written anything on this blog lately doesn’t mean I haven’t written anything. For one thing, I’m always thinking of writing. I’m anxiously awaiting my edits back from my Editor for Life. He says it’s coming soon. I’m writing in a notebook. This current effort is called Letters Unsent. I write short letters to people in my life and on the world stage, letters I’ll never send because someone will likely lock me up for my thoughts. Or they’ll hate me, unfriend me, or look at me with new eyes. Maybe one day I’ll publish it, probably on my deathbed.

I’m also toying with doing yet another NaNoWriMo, although I could use that time to finish up one of five previous manuscripts that really need to get to the it’s-a-complete-first-draft stage.

Mostly when I’m not working (isn’t it odd that we pick another seasonal business to run, one that settles down into nothing during the winter), I’m walking. My husband has taken to hiking too, quite an achievement since about eight months ago he couldn’t walk in the hills without needing oxygen. So far he’s walked up Pikes Peak twice and another 14’er once. (I mostly hike the lower 12,000 ft. and below elevations. With my chihuahua. Yes, both I and my adventure dog did 8 miles once.)

I use the walking time to embrace the mountains. They are, after all, beautiful. Harsh to a degree. The hills around Cripple Creek are riddled with many small, sharp rocks. You can’t dig an inch without hitting something. They’re quite a tripping hazard too. You really have to watch where you’re going. I don’t know how they dug holes to bury the dead. I know this terrain is the reason they couldn’t grow anything up there. It’s windier than hell, and when the wind blows, it goes right through you, even in the summer. In winter, the wind chill cuts like a knife.

The landscape sweeps before you, wild and mostly untouched. You can see the Continental Divide from the top of Grouse Hill. I spend a lot of time thinking about my main character, Addie. (Yes, she’s an imaginary person, what’s your point? 🙂 ) About how she must have felt seeing the West for the first time after spending all of her life in Ohio. Her tale is not just an adventure of coming of age; she’s a pioneer on the cusp of the start of her life and she doesn’t even know it. If she’s like me, her heart is full of wonderment of what lies before her, both in the land and in her future. The world constantly turns, and with every rotation, there is a new vista, a new opportunity presenting itself.

Modern life is fraught with many perils, most which fall away with a stumbling walk in nature with the wind blowing your hair to bits. Your life might not always be the same. It’ll never be hassle free, if running an inn has shown me. There’s no destination where you’ll find Nirvana. There’s only the journey, the courage to take the next step and keep going, that is all that matters.

Oh yes. I’ll be back.

Posted in books, editing, Joanne Huspek, Monday Blogs, NaNoWriMo, rewriting, womens literature, writing | Tagged , , , , , , 1 Comment

Please Don’t

Posted by Joanne Huspek

I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a long, long time.

(Yeah, you’re thinking, where has she been? Dropped off the face of the earth? Contracted the virus? Suffered a heart attack? No, I’ve been here. Mostly thinking. Part of the time running an inn – you know, that post retirement job I thought might be fun? It is, sometimes… It’s work most of the time. But I have a new idea for a novel which I’ll probably write in November. Emerging Inn Sync. Yeah, I like the sound of it too.)

I’ve been suffering from a case of fatigue. Mostly from looking at the internet and specifically from following people on social media, which is becoming less and less sociable and more and more like the wild, wild West. Yes, there’s a virus, yes, there’s injustice, yes, there’s unrest, yes, the world sucks. I follow people because I like them, because they’re authors or agents, because when they speak it’s interesting. Or it used to be interesting. I don’t follow them to get their world view – I’m sure they have passionate world views (as do I) but the constant harping, name calling (on all sides), and vitriol had me clearing out my list once and then again. Which is sad. If you post one hateful thing, you’re gone, and that’s not because I’m better than you. Hate consumes the vessel carrying it and I don’t want any part of that. I’ve seen good friends descend into a vortex of bile so strong it makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it. I’m almost ready to give up Twitter, it’s such a cesspool. And Facebook is right up there too as a major disappointment.

I don’t know how to put this other than just saying it: P L E A S E   D O N ‘ T.

Please don’t.

If you write, please write. If you paint, please do. If you play music, play the hell out of it. If you make pine needle baskets or jewelry like I do, put your passion into that. But please don’t contribute to the noise, unless you are actively doing something to make things better, and I don’t mean just donating money to a cause. At that point, I’d want to know. Before that, it’s just complaints with no action.

I’m not a Pollyanna or an ostrich with my head below the surface. I have eyes. I have a mind with which to think. I need more than an echo chamber to live a full life.

I try not to engage in fights, honestly. I follow a great variety of groups and people. Mostly writers, but there are others. In the last month I have been dragged into a bullying mob just for asking a simple question. In a group that was supposed to be a community helping one another. Then derided and called names. When I sought to clarify a point, no one read that part. Oh no. That would have made sense.

Manners are dead. Common courtesy is on life support.

I’m too old to stir pots anymore, but I do like to point out there are two sides to every story. (I did take classes in journalism, before the news biz became the editorial/propaganda biz.) That’s what makes writing an interesting proposition. It’s not just telling a story, it’s delving deep into background, of why people do the things they do. You don’t have to agree, or even like the person, but there are valid reasons people do and say the things they do.

If we were all the same, life would be pretty bland. I don’t want to be the same as everyone else. I’ve never wanted to be the same as everyone else. Individuality is the sparkle in the facet. Different is good.

In the meantime, I’m trying to stay away from the devices. Enjoy the warmth of the sun and the fresh air of the mountains. I’m coaxing tomatoes to fruition and feeding my angry swarm of hummingbirds. I’ll start working on my edits, because every time I go up to Cripple Creek, I see where I need to change something. And I did most of the research before writing!

I wish you peace and as much happiness you can grab in this crazy world. Grab it, because there’s not much left.

Posted in books, editing, Joanne Huspek, manners, Monday Blogs, people, Self publishing, womens literature, writing | Tagged , , , , , Comment

Requiem for a Virtual Mom

Posted by Joanne Huspek

Remember this fun novel? I wrote it over ten years ago. It’s the story of six women from all over the country, who met in a Beanie Baby AOL chat room way back in the mid 1990s. All mothers, they bonded over small plush toys and shared their trials and tribulations. They watched their children grow from toddlers to teenagers. Some have met in Real Life, while others have not. One of them invites a single parent who has lost their spouse in the Iraq war, one who appears to have secrets…and then the intrigue begins.

It was a wacky story line, but I loved the characters and I especially loved the premise. This would be considered a tame story now, but back then no one had a cell phone. Facebook was just for college students, and Twitter was nothing. There was no zoom or Face Time, as the internet was just a baby. It was relatively easy to shield yourself from prying eyes online. I remember trying to pitch this novel at the San Francisco Writers Conference and getting the skeptical expressions of nearly every agent I spoke to. Something about “oh, too weird for us” or “it doesn’t have a genre” – I called it “mom-lit” or chick-lit for aging women. Eventually I self-published as an ebook. (There’s a sequel but it’s now so dated I’m not sure I’m ever going to publish it.)

I based my “virtual moms” on a real life internet group which I belonged to, the Beanie Moms. I’ve met all but two of the ladies in my group. Don’t ask who’s who in the book, I took a little personality from each of the women I know. (It’s 25 years later and we still refer to ourselves as Beanie Moms, even though our kids are in their 30s now, and me? I gave all my Beanie Babies away when I moved to Colorado two years ago.) We’re still close. Unbelievably.

Just as unbelievably, one of us (of the Real Beanie Moms) passed away recently.

It was rather jarring, as you can imagine. We had just had a group chat on Mothers Day. She was still young! Younger than I am. She died the Friday after Mothers Day. It was an accident, a freakish one where she fell, hit her head the right (or wrong) way, and that was it.

It took a while for me to recover. I was rendered speechless for quite a while. And then I thought, “wow,” and of course, I went through a period of thinking holy shit, life is short, what am I dinking around for.

I couldn’t write. I could barely function.

Even now, six weeks later, it’s still unbelievable.

I never met Cyn in Real Life, although we got close a few times. My son had an audition for school in Philadelphia at the Curtis Institute back in 2004. She lived not far away in New Jersey. But we had another audition to make, and my car was acting weird so we headed to Boston right away. Then last year, she was in Denver visiting another Beanie Mom. I was going to come up to meet her, but unfortunately I was running in the Race to the Shrine that morning and that afternoon she had plans. We were only separated by an hour and a half of geography.

What I remember most about her was that she was always positive and energetic. She would post these hand made memes on her Instagram (she had a board!) that were catchy and smart. She loved her husband, her daughter, and her dog. She had so many friends! Which was no wonder, since her personality was so uplifting.

But she had fears too. She was afraid of the CoVid19 virus and didn’t go to many places. She masked up when she did. She was super careful. She told me she had things she still wanted to do; she wanted to travel, she wanted to see her daughter married, she wanted to play with her grandkids. I’m afraid I’m a bit more rambunctious. (I’ve been a government disbeliever since Nixon, and hey, I live in Colorado where the fresh air and sunshine has definitely been a positive influence on my health.) So we had a bit of a disagreement over our opinions, but nothing that would break a bond.

I’m going to miss Cyn. You need a super positive influence in such a negative world. I’m sorry she won’t make it to her daughter’s wedding, but she’ll be looking on from heaven.

Rest in peace, Cyn, you deserve heaven.

 

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Writing (Creating) In a Time of Pandemic

Posted by Joanne Huspek

You’d have to be living under a rock not to know what has been going on in the last two and a half months. (Two and a half months?!? Seems like a couple of decades.) Here’s a little rundown on the state of my tiny world.

It was early March. I had returned from the San Francisco Writers Conference, completely fired up and full of ambitious goals and new ideas. I even opened up one of my old files containing a novel I really wanted to finish. I had high hopes and a ton of adrenaline to propel them with. In addition, I was looking forward to returning to my part-time job at the zoo. After a couple of months off from dealing with the public, it was time to go back and deal with the public.

I’d started implementing the changes that I thought were necessary for the inn we had purchased. You know, getting bids, trying new technologies, tearing my web site apart (mentally) to put back together. I was armpit deep thinking of the events I would host. The room I was going to fix up as my gallery/gift shop. The kitchen I was going to clean and reorganize.

Then BOOM! In comes a virus and the cozy world I had devised had come to a crashing halt. Not an end, just a halt. Stopped on a dime. I, like many others, got whiplash.

The first couple of weeks (March 16 to the end of the month), I was glued to the TV, absorbing all the bad news I could soak up. Having done this right after 9-11, I knew this was bad, not only for my psyche, but for my health. I had to back away from that, and then from social media. I’m informed, but I don’t need to marinate in all manner of (dis)information. And of course, I was worried about my health. After all, I’d spent a week and a half in California, where I had shaken hands and exchanged breaths with a lot of people in a very large city. (I amazingly did NOT contract the conference crud – first time since 2009.) My husband became sick with a lingering (five week) cold. I worried that I had infected him with THE deadly virus by passing on my West Coast  germs. (He survived. It was just a bad cold.) I help care for my elderly father and the last thing I wanted to do was share my cooties to him (he’s fine too).

Of course, then you imagine YOU’RE going to die. (Well, the media tells you you’re going to die, by doing this or neglecting to do that. Listen to that enough and you’ll believe it.) Those first couple of weeks I had been seized with a panic with every cough, sneeze, and shortness of breath I experienced (most of that is due to living at a high altitude and owning an inn at a higher altitude).

The zoo was closed, so there went my part-time job. Ditto the husband’s part-time job at the casino, which he relied on mostly for the health insurance. The bed and breakfast was open (essential infrastructure), but people were laid off or if still working, not going anywhere, and so we had many thousands of dollars worth of cancellations and an 11,000 square foot monstrosity of a building to maintain and heat in the winter. Cable. Phone bill. Garbage. Taxes. The new web page and the advertising I’d spent just a week before the you-know-what hit the fan. Linen service. Monthly charges for the credit card processing, the utilities. More taxes. The larger capital improvements we had to put a hold on. Soon the fear wasn’t only of a virus, but of impending bankruptcy and the death of a business we took over before it could even take a first breath.

It’s a lot.

And the writing: The first thing I realized was I couldn’t sit down and write. Or edit. This is the kind of writer I am. If I’m paralyzed by a psychic fear, I can’t write. Likewise, if I’m happier than a pig in a poke, I also can’t write. Writing for me ebbs and flows in the in-between.

How do I know this? Dry spells have happened before, usually when I’m totally stressed and depressed. (The last one stretched for a year and a half.) I attempted to journal my way into writing this time. These are momentous if not historic times. I would leave something for future generations to ponder, right? Wrong. The first day I wrote about five pages. The second day, a half page. The third I fell off the wagon.

This is what happens when you’re frozen.

What I felt helped me the most during those initial trying times was to use my hands. One week, I made 11 pine needle baskets. I worked on them while watching mindless drivel like The Peoples Court and Judge Mathis. I wove baskets to old films on Turner Classic Movies.

The next week, I finished some wire weaving projects. Wire weaving is much like making pine needle baskets – you don’t have to think too hard about it. Your hands have to be strong and your stitches nice and even and tight. It’s also a portable hobby and perfect for those afternoon court shows.

I then went back to pine needle baskets.

I cleaned out every room in my house. Then we cleaned every room at the inn. I next started on the closets in both buildings.

The next thing that was oh-so-helpful was to use my feet. Thank goodness this winter/spring wasn’t as severe as last year’s, what with bomb cyclones and hail and late snow. I was able to walk, and walk some more. I took my chihuahua, Chuy, who has turned out to be quite the adventurer. My husband actually started walking too. Then we took to hiking in the mountains. Now he wants to climb Pike’s Peak. (I’ll pass.) Meanwhile I’ll just walk and think.

I also forced myself to take small writing workshops. I’m supposed to start one this week. It’s not my best work, but it’s cattle prod in the right direction.

I’m also now returning to this blog. Hopefully later to writing and editing. I feel like a seed that’s been trapped in my cocoon, sheltering in my place, warding off the virus by inactivity, but now it’s time for the seed to germinate and shed the shell.

Summer’s coming, the ideas are there, waiting to blossom.

And if you’ve never been to Cripple Creek and want to visit, I’ll be here.

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Writing (and Creativity) with a Virus Over Your Shoulder

Posted by Joanne Huspek

There’s nothing like a medical national emergency to put a damper on your life.

Damper? I mean totally rearrange the moon and stars.

I personally think some aspects of this “epidemic” (actually it’s an ENdemic where I live) is blown out of proportion. For one thing, I like to maintain a level of calm in a sea of uncertainty. Even in the midst of 9-11, I didn’t get rattled, although by the end of September I was seriously depressed. I’m always looking for the positive. I’m well; my family is well. What’s going to happen is going to happen, including dying. There’s no escaping death, whether it be by virus, cancer, a bus running you over, or that Bambi that leapt from the side of the road right into your windshield. I’m not offended by the term “boomer remover” – I am a boomer, after all, and at my age I’m closer to the end than to the beginning. Besides, just try to remove me, I double dare you. I question motives of media, both news and social, and try to look at the hysteria in an objective manner. Whipping the masses into a frenzied panic is a dangerous sport, and I’m wondering who will be benefiting from the wild toilet paper and cleaning product runs.

If I try to maintain a level of positivity, I’m accused of not having feelings for those with compromised immune systems. If I sneeze because of seasonal allergies, I’m looked at like I’m Typhoid Mary. You can’t win.

Most of us are never going to get this virus, and if we do, most of us will survive. This is according to the CDC. Sheesh. We’re a resilient bunch, aren’t we? I believe, anyway.

I think I watch too much TV news. My husband is a news junkie. He’s watching TV news while he scrolls for news on his phone. I just can’t take it. I’m at this moment typing this while “How The West Was Won” is playing on TCM. (Thank the Lord for TCM. It’s keeping me sane. I need a dose of 1930s Bette Davis RIGHT NOW.)

I know I’m on Facebook way, way too much. The political misinformation was bad enough, but now with the medical madness mixed in with conspiracy theories of the tin foil hat variety, I find myself getting the same sickness (not CoVid19) in the pit of my stomach that I got after 9-11. A chipping away at what I like to think of is a sunny exterior. An erosion of my heart and soul. A darkness like Voldemort settling in from the clouds. FEAR. It’s a real thing that can cause more pain than the actual illness.

The grocery stores are depressing, as is Sam’s Club, where I usually go to buy supplies for the bed and breakfast. You have to get there by SEVEN AM to get toilet paper, and even then it’s a crap shoot if you’ll walk out with your two packages (current limit). People, I run a bed and breakfast. I need toilet paper.

Taking the chihuahua on a walk is good, which I did the other day before it snowed. I walked around the Colorado College campus, where students where playing field hockey. (I think it was field hockey; I’m not much for sports.) It was nice to see kids cheering from the sidelines and the announcer over the loudspeaker in broadcasting mode, especially since now there’s no sports to watch (I’m still not much for sports, but it seems to calm some).

To change the downward direction of my psyche, I thought I might do something creative. Every time I walk into my office/craft room, there’s this painting I started about 15 years ago staring me in the face. A painting of orchids. Nope. Can’t finish that, not feeling it. I’ve been collecting pine needles in my yard (from my neighbor’s trees, it’s been windy here). I look at them and tell myself I should wash them and make a basket, even a small one, but no, not feeling that either. I need to go through my beads and wire and finish a couple of projects but just can’t compel myself to move toward it.

That’s it. Tonight, I’m going to write. Or re-write. Or read what I wrote. I have to do that or succumb to negativity and I’m not going there. Maybe I’ll drink and write. It worked for the masters.

It’s difficult, yes, even for me, to shrug off perceived impending doom, but it must be done. And whether it’s writing or some other creative pursuit, go there. Grow your brain, don’t rot it.

 

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