Best friends

Best friends. It's a concept that becomes prevalent at an early age and one we cling to well into adulthood. Anne Shirley called it "kindred spirit," a person you connect to not only through physical interactions like hangout out but through intellectual and emotional bond.

As kids and teens we try to symbolize these relationships to the world through friendship jewelry and internet proclamations. Why do we do this? Why is it so important to label people in this fashion?

In my case, I think it comes down to not having many friends when I was younger. It made the friends I did have all that more precious to me, and I felt and deep desire to make sure they felt the same about me. So I purchased the interlocking, matching jewelry — frequently in fact, lots of times for the same people.

But once you "grow-up", once you move away, get a job and start your "life," things that were once so important, change. I came to realize that when it came to friendships, true friendships, there was an easy way to tell if the other person really cared about you — time and effort. When I looked at a number of my relationships, I realized for some I was putting in all the time and all the effort. These were people who never invited me to do anything, or who never could be bothered to come and visit me — I always had to go to them. I was the one calling and e-mailing. I was the one putting in all of the effort. Those relationships are emotionally and even physically draining. The same went for dating — until my now husband, I was the one who put in all the effort, which is why I went for so many years as being "single."

So I re-evaluated. I stepped back and let go. I decided that if a person truly cares about me and wants to spend time with me, they will put in at least some effort to make it happen. 

If someone asks or tells you to do something that your gut tells you is wrong, than it probably is and you shouldn't do it. You should also reconsider who you're taking your cues from, because those people are not "best friend" material.

The term "best friend" is an interesting concept. Early in our relationship, my husband was hurt when I referred to one of my girlfriends as "my best friend." He said he though he was my best friend, as I was his. 

I've since had to redefine the term, both for others and for myself. A person can have more than one "best friend." I realize the grammar is at issue with that statement, however as "best friend" or "BFF" is such a deeply ingrained concept, it's difficult to explain the position otherwise, so I decided to keep the term regardless. There are a hand full of people I consider my best friends — my husband included. These are people who have been there for me in hard times and never asked more of me than I was willing or able to give. 

One of my "best friends" has people in her life that tell her to do horrible things, who lecture and berate her in the name of "friendship." And she listens, mistaking these as people who care for her and have her best interest at heart. I wish I could convince her to ignore these influences, but that's not a choice I can make. All I can do is try to explain what a real friend is and hope she comes to the same conclusion I did years ago.

Happiness can be achieved by removing negative energy from your life. Not in a cement shoes and a deep pond kind of way, just in stepping back and letting go. Make time and effort for those who make time and effort for you. Spend more time with people who make you feel good about yourself, who take your best interest to heart, and less with those who are draining and negative. 

I will be a writer

I know I've been absent for awhile. I doubt anyone missed me, but I wanted to share this:

“As things stand now, I am going to be a writer. I’m not sure that I’m going to be a good one or even a self-supporting one, but until the dark thumb of fate presses me to the dust and says, ‘You are nothing,’ I will be a writer.” 

- Hunter S. Thompson 

♥

The Green Man

(a piece of creative writing)

Green is the land I come from. Rocky hills and ancient forests, all green as far your mind can dare to dream.

Legends say that the ancient forests are alive. Not merely alive with creatures clawing, or plants climbing, but alive in its own right — thinking, feeling, moving.

On quiet days, the trees seem to whisper on the edge of the turf, welcoming you, tempting you with cool shade and babbling brooks.

And deep in the trees lies the Green Man

Wild and covered with leaves.

The forest's defense and prisoner,

Lord over all that he sees.

Great is the risk to the traveler

Who knows not the threat of the wood

Else a patch of turf or tree appears

Where once a strong man stood

For great is the task of the Green Man

And old is the power he welds

Doom to the corrupt and careless

Only virtuous may gain his shield.

Once while riding through the wood, I came across an elderly man, bent with age, cloaked and leaning on rough-hewn yew cane. I paused to offer him a lift on my steed, but he gently refused. I asked if there was anything else I could do for him, if he had kin that might be missing him I could call upon. He shook his head, and thanked me for my kindness. Unable to aid him, I continued on.

Further down the path, the thicket ahead shook and I slowed my mount.

Silence. Cautiously I pushed forward.   Rustle.   Crack.

Then a tumultuous noise surrounded me. With a shrill cry, my horse bucked, tossing me from my seat. Brigands. Thieves. Dirty, hairy men with knives drawn closed in toward me while others grab my mount.

Six against one, and I unarmed. I eyed the blade and bow strapped firmly to my saddle. I closed my eyes and steadied my breath, readying myself to claw, kick, bite, even though I knew it to be in vain.

A scream. I opened my eyes to witness the thug before me drop heavily to the ground, a single bolt protruding from his back. The men paused. Their countenance paled.

One by one they turned to run. Four more fell to my mysterious savior. The last mounted my horse and pounded away down the road.

I looked up to see a form jump down from the trees. Tall and cloaked in green, spattered with mud, the figure moved toward me.

"You are safe."

There was no sound, yet I heard the words form in my mind. "You are safe, I do not seek to harm you."

He stretched a callused hand out to me. Still in shock, I took it and he lifted me to my feet.

Reaching up he lowered his hood. His countenance was tan and scarred beneath a beard as brown as the dirt on his cloak. In contrast, his eyes were soft and kind, mirroring the brilliant green of the trees. Despite his rough appearance, he was not much older than myself. His knotted hair was tied back, and in it I noticed a hint of green.

I managed a "thank you" and shook the dust from my skirts. He smiled and spoke, "you showed me kindness, I merely returned it."

I looked up sharply. "When did I..." Then I saw it. The cloak was the same that had clothed the old man. As I watched he took the bow from his back and turned it, revealing the cane of yew.

"You offered me a ride, let me do you the same curtesy." He whistled sharply. From the wood appeared a white hart, larger than any stag I had seen before.

Lifting me up, he placed me carefully on the animal's back. I wrapped my arms cautiously around its neck and heard

"Take her home."

In an instant the beast dove into the trees. I thought sure I would be torn from its back, but no branch came near, no bush seemed to hinder him. The forest seemed to move to oblige the stag.

Once home, I dismounted, patted the beast's side and made my way up the walk. When I turned back, the stag was gone.

My family thought me over tired and distressed, not believing the story I told. An illusion, a fantasy.

In the weeks that followed, I traversed the woods in search of my rescuer, to no avail. In the night I heard his voice in the trees, calling to me.

One evening as darkness settled around the edges of the turf, I heard a familiar sound. Near the wood stood my lost steed. He whinnied a greeting to me. I patted his neck and he lent on me, turning toward the trees. I paused, uncertain. A wisp of wind caught my ear.

"Ride."

I mounted and rode,

For I am in love with The Green Man.

Deep in the forest of trees.

He is my defender, my heart, my breath.

From him I will never leave.

Pain free

I am in pain every single day of my life. It's just a matter of to what degree.

I'm not sick — I have no disease or debilitating injury. This leads me to wonder if this is "normal" or not. Yes it's my normal — but does everyone feel this way? Is there really something I could do to "fix" it?

I've had chronic back/neck pain and head aches for about 10 years. Less than two years ago I added hand and wrist pain — which was helped by the carpal tunnel surgeries, but it is not gone.

Some days I can take a dose of Ibuprofen and be fine. A lot of days I take a "max" dose (four pills) every four-six hours and it merely dulls the pain, doesn't get rid of it. Hell, sometimes I take the max dose of Ibuprofen and one or two Naproxen, and it still only dulls the pain so I can function. (note — none of my pain medications are prescription strength)

Yes, I've spoken to doctors before about my issues, and I know it's probably about time I bring it up again — but that's not the point of this entry.

The point is, I'm hardly ever actually "pain free." Which is what makes me wonder if anyone is...

Gypsy's tale

Young girl drawn by colors bright,
Transfixed by magic in fire light.
Harken! Drums call feet to stir.
In the dark, the dancers blur.

Gypsy, dance for me.

Older now, her heart is torn,
Drum beats move the men to war.
Thunderous cries drive love to ride,
Across the land, to live or die.

Banners snap along the field,
Brave young souls with sword and shield.
Glint of metal as coins once bright,
By the fires, on hips wrapped tight.

Gypsy, dance for me.

She hears the cries, feels the pain
Of foes and kinsmen newly slain.
Heart pounds out a panicked pace,
Whirling, spinning colors race.

Fires burn, but not for them,
Glowing on ships for fallen men.
Drums in the dark to lead them home,
Pulsing beat through blood and bone.

Gypsy, dance for me.

From inner pain comes new life,
Hailed by dancing fire bright.
What was lost, she now reclaims,
In a daughter of the flames.

Gathered round, the women keep,
by the fire, while men folk sleep.
Feet to earth and hands to sky,
Magic in a young one's eyes.

Gypsy, dance for me.

Barefoot in the kitchen

"Don't run around in your stocking feet!"

That was a constant criticism from my mother growing up. I hated wearing shoes. Particularly inside. 

Granted part of the reason for the command was due to my less than stellar cleanliness habits in regards to my room. Watching me cross the room barefoot would cause my father to cringe. When asked why he'd respond he wouldn't walk into my room without steel toed boots, let alone no shoes at all.

I don't know what all the fuss was about — a few sharp edged toys, a carpet coated in staples, and plethora of tacks, needles and sundry other pointy bits of mass destruction. What's the big deal?

Now that I've reached adulthood and home ownership, I am no longer bound by my footwear. I can wander wherever I like in just my socks or entirely barefoot. 

A couple weeks ago, I was baking up a storm when a package arrived from a dear friend. Opening it I found kitchen based treasures in honor of our new home. My husband started grinning — mischievously. 

When asked what he was thinking, he replied "looks like someone thinks you should be barefoot in the kitchen."

My instant reaction was mock indignation and to smack him for his wiseassery. He dodged and laughed saying "Hun, no, wait, look at your feet."

I paused and looked down. Barefoot. I looked over at the oven timer and my husband nodded at me. "We're still working on the pregnant part," he added, eyes twinkling.

Now my husband is about as far from a male chauvinist as a guy can get — he's a sweet hopeless romantic, who now and again likes to get a rise out of me just because he can. And I had unwittingly played into an archaic archetype.

Sometimes I think my husband wishes I'd wear shoes to protect myself from the collateral damage that is my catastrophic klutziness. But all I'm doing is playing with boiling water, knives, heavy objects and a gas stove — what's the worst that could happen? 

The journey

Today's theme is happiness.  About five years ago, I went through a deep depression. 
I tried a lot of things to get out of it, chocolate therapy, St. John's Wart, seeking support from friends and family — nothing seemed to work.
I lived alone, and I felt alone. 
This feeling lasted for a solid year before I stubbled upon a solution — if I want to be happy, I first have to decide, in no uncertain terms, that I am going to be happy. 

It was my New Year's resolution — I was sick of being depressed, so I was going to stop being depressed. 
I joined a belly dance class, signed up for eharmony, and started actively seeking social interaction.
Soon — through some miracle it seemed — I was happy. And six months later, I happened upon an old friend who later became my husband.


At the start of my happiness revolution, I came across this quote, which is still on my fridge to this day. I give a lot of credit for my turnaround to this excerpt:

"For a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin — real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life. This perspective has helped me to see there is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way. So treasure every moment you have and remember that time waits for no one.

Happiness is a journey, not a destination." -Father Alfred D Souza.