Monday Mimisms ~ Happy in My New Year

Mimi 2008 

Monday Mimisms ~ Happy in My New Year

Welcome to 2024 in the year of the blog. Thanks to the WayBack Machine (keep of old blogs!) blogs are infinite and eternal, omnipotent and omnipresent.  I wish people have one of those machines. We could crank up our young, newer, healthier bodies and go from there. 

Back in the day when I used to hide behind trees all day long and try to conjure a word or two, blogging was much more intimate. Our communities were a tight-knit group. We looked out for each other. When the occasional naysayer or troublemaker showed up, we (usually) shoooed them away and blogged on. With the exception of the peace globe bloggers (AMAZING you are!) most of my blogging friends are posting on Facebook or Instagram. I enjoy interacting with you on social media platforms, but sometimes it takes me years to put two and two together..."Oh! Cindy is really Blogging Catalina from Amsterdam! Who knew?" And then we have a small reunion.  There are those who do not want blog and real life Facebook to meet. Totally understandable. I try to honor those requests. I won't out you! 

But seriously, I'm amazed that the majority of my friends on Facebook are peace bloggers. We've gotten to know each other over the years in more personal ways (thanks, Facebook) but as many of us have discussed, it's just not the same as regular blogging. "Blogging is dead," we say....MAYBE....but that's not going to stop me from re-entering the arena.  Blogging makes me happy. Journaling makes me happy. Writing feeds my soul. And I PROMISE...this year I will publish a book off-blog...I PROMISE!! 

2023 was a loooooong year for me and so many of my friends. I've had perpetual health challenges and a car accident mid-year that I'm just now starting to recuperate from, realizing that blogging and living in my 60s is a different universe. Retirement is wonderful!! Aches and pains are not. It takes a little longer to recover from trauma than it used to. 

 Still, I'm determined to fully regain my health in 2024.

I had a fantastic healing beautiful Christmas visit with my kids and grandchildren in their home (as it should be). I have room for a little more hope these days. Let's stay on this path, shall we?

***wait a minute....I thought I wouldn't have anything to say this morning when I decided to crank up the blog; instead, I'm a regular bloggermouth (that's blog + blabbermouth for all your non-blog speakers)....**

I truly hope that if you are still blogging or have a new platform, that you will leave a link below so that we can stay connected and supportive. 

This morning, after meditation/prayer, washing dishes, making bed, starting laundry, feeding Snickers, organizing a drawer...I stopped mid-chore and asked myself, "What creative thing have your done in three hours? Exactly how are you spending your time, Mimi? Priorities seem to be askew!"

And while all those things must be done and I am content to do them, the only thing remotely creative was my silent time (essential to my day) but then I jumped right back on the To-Do Train. This must stop!!!! And it must stop now. 

THIS was dangerous and exciting...

While I don't think meme--stealing is exactly my vibe anymore, I sure am thankful for the fun times right here on Mimi Writes. But that book has been writing itself for awhile in my pencil head, many chapters here in the Blogosphere with you. So much more to tell. I think the crux of the matter is that with age comes wisdom. How much to blab? What to camouflage...But I think I have the perfect balance between privacy and authenticity in mind now. The latter always wins. Always.

 Not to fear, the "old" (vintage!) Mimi will show up soon enough with new pencil skirt tales of craziness. 

It's already happened.

I just posted on Facebook, "New year, new routine. Before I sat down to write the first blog post of the year (new routine) I reached for the bottle of Vitamin C serum (on the right below) and smeared it all over my face...except...ummm....what's that smell??!

It was CBD oil.

I'll be happy all the day long. 

This is going to be one doozy of a post. 

They look alike, right? In case you're wondering, No, I did not wash it off."

Ananda Full spectrum hemp extract 300.
Ten mg cannabinoids oil for nerve pain.
Works for me! Let's see what it does for my wrinkles.

Some things never change.

Welcome to my vintage blog and all the memories it holds. 

Let's make some new ones.

You can smell the cannabis from there right? 

Snickers won't come near me.

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Monday Mimisms ~ Powerful Whispers

Where have I been? It's been a minute. The entire month of June got away from me. Complications showed up. I took a fall on the porch and spent a few painful days sleeping away the bruises. Friends said, "Rest and heal!" That's sooo hard to do. I'm a terrible patient. I keep pushing through sans common sense. 
Lost my writing mojo for one red hot minute while the anti-inflammatory meds became the most important task of the day - but sorely needed (pun intended).

Finding courage in an antique store
2013 - Revisited this post and reclaimed my writing chops

Then I got off my prissy behind (literally) and started venturing out again.
More thrifting. Lunches with beautiful friends to catch up. Soaking in Epsom. Burning lavender candles in the middle of the day. 

Looking for furniture as I redecorate my house. More gentle house decluttering. All gingerly. Slowly. Mindfully. Thankfully. I came so close to breaking my hip. Ummm....perhaps I should sloooooowwww down instead of thinking I'm a modern version of Laura Ingalls Wilder on the Bloggingham Prairie trying to do things I shouldn't be doing. Getting tangled up in a heavy water hose was NO fun. 

I couldn't sit for long periods of time, which turned out to be a good thing: it made me get outside and wander around. Sunshine and grass under my feet. Good for the soul....and the soles.
Naps happened.

 The Lion spoke ten years ago this spring. 
I remember the sound of the muse. Powerful whispers.
And his roar. I'd like to catch a glimpse of him again. It took falling down to get my attention.  I'm ready for a new set of words.
I'm ready for inspiration from the Lion. 
I wonder if he remembers....

Dusting off my pen and paper...

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Monday Mimisms ~ Toes Out the Window

I was seventeen. 

Performing in 1974

My hair weighed more than I did.

We'd just finished a Beatles medley for the student body of our high school

and all I wanted to do was step out of the Yellow Submarine we'd build out of  cardboard and slide into the passenger seat of my boyfriend's car

 Toes out the window. Coca-Cola in my hand.

Hair-in-a-ponytail-happy-I was.

Fast forward forty-seven years. 

and volcanoes are exploding in my pencil head

Pandemic Me

So much time on my hands

Thinking about the one I should have married

Thinking about the one I could have married

The one I shouldn't have married

The one I didn't marry

All of those shoulda-woulda missteps brought lifelong consequences unbeknownst to the long-haired girl.

The one who got away before I found myself at the ripe old age of thirty-something. 

What is it about sixty-something that causes one to psychoanalyze the whole of a life?  

Shouldn't I be knitting sweaters or something? 

Who does that?

Me. This week. That's who.

Then I hit a big bodacious bad brick wall. SCREEEEECCCCHHHH.

BAM. OUCH.

Last Thursday night I was sitting on the couch staring at the wall in silence, evicting a few rickety ghosts from my head, watching them fly away into mist. Scribbling on paper. I'd been there awhile...just kind of numb. Needing to not-think. You get that, right?  There had been unpleasantness, you see. 

I don't like unpleasantness. I like peace.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Meditate. Pray. Listen.

Before I knew it, all the ropes that held me down had been untied. I lit a match and symbolically burned a paper full of angry words in my left hand. 

Watched it burn. Watched it burn.

Ashes. Poof. Gone.

Then picked up what was left of those I-should-have-could-have-shouldn't-have people with my right hand and blew. them. away. 

I looked at the clock. It was 2 am. 

I straightened my dented crown and went to bed.

I've been on a slippery slope you see.

Trying to function and still save me.

There. I said it.

It doesn't matter how long ago your loved one last misused a substance or drank to excess or suffered a bout of depression, in a mother's head and heart they're always a fool's breath away from active destruction; except with addiction or alcoholism or even narcissism it's mutual destruction. A person with a substance use or personality disorder can look at you stone cold sober holding a Bible in one hand and Holy Water in the other and you still won't believe they're sober or truthful.

That's my problem, not theirs.

I don't want to cover it up anymore.

Not because of my beautiful loved one - he's been successfully working his sobriety for many years - 

but because of ME.

Standing in the wide weary gulf between helping and enabling 

when I found myself alone and climbing out of the recent brief foxhole we shared,

it resurrected all kinds of emotional baggage from years and years ago when he was actively struggling with substances. Oh, the memories. We found ourselves dancing to that worn-out record despite ourselves

my eyes were opened

to what I had become

what I needed to deal with

what I needed to admit

what I needed to understand

what I needed to

stop

doing

Don't you hate that word?

What word, Mimi?

Codependency

Yes, I hate it.

The day I started blogging, half my face fell off

Then all kinds of wonderful adventures began

Today, this many years young,

I found the other half again.

There is a thin line dangling between the edge of authenticity and the need for dignity and privacy. My writing has always walked that wire. But in every word and every story I try to err on the side of transparency, in the same way I would want less shame-based words applied to the people I love.

Addict is not a noun or an identity. Alcoholic is not a noun or an identity. Codependent is not a noun or an identity. They are disorders and struggles, not moral failures. The disease is not the person.

I've wanted to say it for years.

That I am proud of him

That I love him with all my heart

That I see him

Despite me and my uneven walk with worry and faith

But just for a little while, I think we need a mini-divorce.

Hush Homer. I'll be checking your medicine cabinet tomorrow..

 Just until I regain my sea legs and he sprouts more of those beautiful wings.

He can be free to make his own adventures 

 I won't be holding him hostage with my smothering

I can be free to make my own adventures 

 not holding myself back with fear 

What codependency does to your peace of mind is insidious and suffocating 

You don't even know it's happening! 

It's a learned belief and habit that I must unlearn

Have you ever seen your son or daughter nearly dead from a disease?

You'll do anything to keep that from happening again. Even when you no longer need to. Even years later. And therein lies the devil of enabling.

The job of addiction is to kill and destroy. When you enable (helping someone do something they can do for themselves) at first you believe you're actually helping. You feel good about it. You get a rush of feel good dopamine. Sound familiar? 

Here's the problem. The real sneaky job of enabling is also to kill and destroy. 

 My hardwired need to protect, spills over into the decisions I make about everything and everyone else in my life. Now that was an eye-opener.

Codependency grows from a normal natural parental instinct which screams protect.my.child. Mothers have it the moment their babies are born.

There's no shame in it. It's motivated by love. 

But with substance disorder, because of the unpredictable trauma that goes on in families as a result, it can grow wild and out of control and you start looking for a recurrence of symptoms in your loved one. It drives them away. It feels like moral judgment even when your intention is to only throw love. 

Sometimes I move about the world in shoe-drop mode, post trauma reactions that aren't even real in the moment. It's not irrational or hypothetical. The triggers of past events can still be seen in my mind and felt in my heart.

So I make up my own scary stories in the now and convince myself that I need to DO something to prevent them from happening again. It's that dead-child-coffin-dream fear, to put it bluntly. It's very common for parents of children who've suffered from substance abuse. It's like you're watching a horror show on the big screen of your life. The substance has the starring role, the protagonist. Everyone is in desperately twisted love with the alcohol, the pill, the high, the drama. Your loved one is drowning. You are the unintentional antagonist. Everyone dies.

You run yourself ragged trying to help. It doesn't help. It makes things worse because they lose the dignity of making their own choices. And you lose your mind watching them suffer.

I think I dented my crown when I hit that wall, my friends.

But I'll be OK.

No matter how many times I stick my toes out the window and put my hair in a ponytail, some days are like a roller coaster ride.  You either hold on or fall off.

But mostly, I discovered the amusement ride in my head wasn't fun.

I joined a support group. I took an assessment. I signed up for a codependency class online. I wrote emails and ask questions. I watched podcasts on parents who also struggle with enabling NODDING and NODDING and NODDING my head.

Who knew I belonged to a club that no one wants to belong to all these years? 

 I didn't join to fix him. I joined to fix me.

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One of You Should Have Told Me

 Pic: Last week at the doctor's office when I realized that my mask was on upside down AFTER the appointment. I thought I saw her smirk and giggle. Why didn't you tell me? 

Hello Friends! I hope you all are doing well today. It's been awhile since I've blogged. No excuses, just a very busy life that is ever-changing. Oops...maybe that was an excuse. I find a goal post. The post is moved. I start again. Has your life ever felt like that? 

I've been in a bit of an emotional and personal transition in the past few months, needing time to process and think, and desiring solitude and time to myself. My writing/music studio is being revamped with new colors and decor. I've added a thick white rug and cozy throws and pillows. Most of the pillows are on the floor for sitting meditation, strewn about in front of the piano. There's a new world globe that matches the earth colors I chose - blues, greens, browns, and just a small touch of earthy red. New curtains and a large shefflera plant placed beside my writing desk for clean air and inspiration. It's so big my granddaughter thinks it's a tree.  My "space" feels more like me and it's paying off.  I'm writing songs again. Writing a fair amount of poetry in the middle of the night (!) and song lyrics flowing together from some river in my soul I forgot I possessed. Wake up! Wake up and write this down!! 

Studying and reading that stack of books in the corner I've been meaning to get to forever and ordering new ones too.  And without the added purposeful act of meditating each morning, I don't know where I'd be. I've always carved out a "me space" for creativity and reflection time - even as a young bride many eons ago  I had a table, a cross, a candle, books, and writing tools - before Zen became a thing, I was Zen. 

 For over two years now I've added guided meditation to my morning mix. It's helped everything in my life, especially anxiety. I'm calmer. Focused. My blood pressure is lower. I'm clear and centered (most of the time) unless I'm at the doctor's office where my White-Coat-Syndrome rears its ugly head and my numbers go through the roof. **Breathe, Mimi. Breathe**   It's just a rooommmm.

And what of the world? We're living on a crazy planet right now. Fresh out of a pandemic (almost) and tiptoeing into global uncertainty. Watching the news is terrifying. Seeing the citizens of Ukraine face down tanks in the street is ...well....also terrifying AND inspiring. We need the bombing in Ukraine to stop. I can't fathom that 1.5 million people (half of them children) have fled  the country. My heart is breaking.  Refugees. No water or food. No electricity. Running for their lives. It's 2022 and this is the world we are dealing with?  People are having to defend their homes and homeland in the streets? Remember the disbelief we all felt when the pandemic started in 2020? People all over the world were engaged in trying to find a solution, trying to protect themselves and their families, dying, fighting political nonsense and railing against losing "freedoms?" But this.... It feels like 911 magnified x100. The word nuclear has found its way back into our dialogue?  **Breathe, Mimi. Breathe.**

It's hard to talk about the ups and downs of my tiny little daily dramas when others are in such dire circumstances. Write a funny post? Mmmmmaybe not today. 

I'm going to continue to uplift the people of Ukraine and the rest of the world. I'm going to say prayers of protection for the people and leaders of Ukraine and the leaders of the world, for wisdom and clarity, knowing that collective peaceful energy is powerful. I'm going to plant sunflowers on the mountain. I'm going to post peace globes because people are asking to see them. It makes me happy to know that more people want peace than war. I'm going to write and sing and dance around the house whenever I feel moved to do so - even if I don't feel like dancing, I will dance and turn the music up very loud. I'm going to seek out the "helpers" in this war (that's what Mr. Rogers always said to do when you're afraid) and I'll see how I can help in some tangible way. I'm planting peace in my own little world. 

I think that keeping myself grounded is helping. 

What are you doing to stay grounded in this day we live in?

Peace and love

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It's Been a Minute

Hello again from the blog that took a pause. 

Writing has been personal for me since the pandemic began last year. It's been a bit like the ancient days of unlocking the mystical teenage diary and scribbling in screams instead of peace, love, and blue jeans. 

Words come in spurts and fits. No cohesion or unity. 

And then I lock it back down again with my little gold key.

But perhaps that is perfection in a pandemic world.

The ride has been jolting, hasn't it? Instead of a roller-coaster it's been more like sudden stops and emergency braking for deaths and miracles all in the span of a day - except the day never ends.

 Emotional whiplash. Physical inertia.

 Soul-searching salvation.

Yes, that too.

I won't say that I now see that light at the end of the tunnel - it's such a tired phrase. 

The Light has always been there. We tend to forget that the light made its way through the darkness to the end before we even entered the tunnel. We're not supposed to reach for and steal its strength: we're supposed to find our own along the way. I see remaining slivers of illumination cascading from crevices in the tunnel wall. That is what I reach for. They stop me in my tracks - reminding me that the end game is never the peace we seek at the conclusion of our journey. It's all the places and spaces we've seen on the road that matter as much. 

It's how much light of our own we left in the tunnel. 

How much peace we leave for others determines how much peace we find.

That's why the Light at the end is so brilliant.

I hope you and your loved ones are doing well. 

Let me hear from you. I want to know how you're doing. 

Much love from Bloggingham

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Monday Mimisms ~ Bring Back The Glory Days of Blogging

Once upon a time in a blog land faraway there lived a host of vivacious characters known as bloggers. We had parties right here in Bloggingham castle. Writers were born. Authors were published. Artists carved out names for themselves in the vast wall of space known as the Blogogsphere, displaying their talents for all to see and enjoy. We memed a lot. And cheered each other on. Linking was prolific and effective for blog building and expanding networks - until Blogger slapped our typing hands and said "slow down, little Bloggers, you're getting too smart."  

I loved that my reading list for the day was written by friends. You can't say that when you choose a dusty book from the shelf of normal life.  People shared their deepest darkest and brightest brave. We were a community of caring people behind thriving webpages full of ire and fire. There were learning curves, too. And mischief-makers sometimes...but even in the rarity of the occasional meanness, it was nothing compared to the vileness of what we see on social media pages today. If someone started something testy, another blogger would raise the bar higher, jostling with well chosen words and a sense of kindness that I miss in the world. 

There's much talk on Facebook about how we miss the old days, the old community. It was a safer place to be. One of the "oldies" (you know who you are) said to me earlier today that he missed the glory days of blogging. I've heard that sentiment many times of late. We are weary of wailing politics and memes that don't mean anything. 

Just so you know, Bloggingham is still my home. The yard is a little overgrown and the moat needs cleaning, but Homer and I still wander aimlessly through its ever-changing landscape and hold court in the dungeon when things go awry. 

I have a feeling that ten years from now, maybe sooner, Facebook and Twitter and Instagram will be the "old" communities, and will have morphed into something unusable and complicated. But we won't long for them the way we seem to be rambling on about the good old days in the Blogosphere. 

I don't know if you still have a blog, but if you do, I hope you'll drop in from time to time. 
I really need to clean out that dungeon. There may still be a few old bloggers in there.

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