Message Gone Skyward

       I have a debatable self prescribed condition I have labeled as my own form of compulsive addictive personality. I find few things I am passionate about and that is where my focus remains fixated. I wish I could persuade this personality trait of mine to be passionate about house cleaning chores, but try as I have to convince my mind that would be a good thing, it's never gonna happen.

        Some of my compulsive addictions pass away with time, things like eating only cold cereal for 2 months straight or painting for days on end. But some of my addictions have grown deep roots, one being why I am here. Writing. 

       So if your someone like me, you write when you wake up. You write all day long. You wake up at 3:00 a.m. and reach for the emergency notebook on the nightstand. When your not writing, you're thinking about what you will write when you get a chance. You drive with pad of paper next to you and learn to write without taking your eye's off the road. (Unless you live in Idaho, don't worry your safe) An addict like moi never, ever leaves the home without her writing survival kit....pen...paper. Ever.

        So one of the things I've had to figure out with my compulsive writing, is where's a good place to bury it all. Sometimes throwing finished notebooks and journals up in the attic is adequate. When I die off, someone will discover enough random writing to keep them reading for months. But sometimes just letting my words sit in a musty attic is not enough.

       I am extremely lucky and have pen pals <although I'm still searching for a more meaningful label then pen pal> which welcome my snail mail words in great numbers. Frankly, I buy a lot of stamps and stationary. Truthfully, my handwritten mail is an addiction all on it's own, but I consider it a good one. I adore the fine art of writing a letter on wonderful stationary, slapping a decent stamp on it and sending my words off to be safely held elsewhere. But to explain the importance of this to me, would require an entry all on it's own.

       Next, I have this forum to catch random writing that doesn't want to be handwritten. I've been leaning on this arena for almost 2 years now and although I'm not entirely addicted <notice the lack of entries this year> I still find it's walls and community comforting and extremely interesting.

       Some things I write, I burn up. A ritual I personally adore, but it could constitute me as a crazy pyro, so forget I mentioned it. Some things I write, I place in an envelope and address it to one of my daughters who will hopefully read and understand them someday. I've written letters to my daughters since they were tiny little things. There's hundreds and hundreds of letters just waiting in trunks I call the memory keepers. The notion that someday I will gift them with hundreds of memories we had all forgotten about, advice I want to give, insight into who I am and what I am about etc...... Details do tend to smear with time..............

       Which finally brings me to the last thing I choose to do with my words. It's a bit quirky, even a teensy bit cliche, but until today I had always enjoyed the ritual of it. The whole 'message in a bottle' concept. Because I was born with the pen and paper affliction I have always searched words out. As a little girl I would comb beaches, river banks, any body of water that might possess the elusive message in a bottle I had heard about. Much to my dismay, I have never found one.

       Being the optimist in every situation, I decided since I couldn't find one, I would start sending them out. Which I have done, a lot of them. Nameless, faceless messages I send merrily down any body of water I happen to be near. There's some lessons to be learned when attempting this type of activity. One, being that wine bottles, although pretty, are not the best vessel. Being a recreational water person, I know tossing anything glass into water is not smart. So, a while ago I found cheap plastic wine bottle impersonators to substitute as my bottle. I can seal them up with wax and feel confident they won't sink like the Titanic on their journey.

       This morning I had my fake bottle, sealed up, full of random writings I was willing to part with and took it to the river. I took the familiar steps down the riverbank. I sat by the water watching for a while as I always do, did some more writing. Finally ready, I heaved it out into the middle of water to watch it's disappearance around the bend. All good right? Wrong.

       My message in a bottle was pirated. An unprovoked attack of the bird nature. My smile dissipated as a large seagull came swooping out of the sky, dived down on my innocent bottle, plucked it out of the water and flew away with it. Robbed. Stripped of my ritual by the claws of a scavenger.

       I couldn't believe my own eye's. Can a person not even do a simple thing like littering the river with my idealist notions anymore? I felt completely and totally robbed. Visions of that bird taking my words into the sky wasn't my idea of a meaningful morning. Doesn't that pirate know how long it takes to successfully wax up an opening let alone write a few pages of handwritten word?

       Then my mind began to wander, has all my bottles been plucked out of the sweet cradle of water by scavengers? Has any bottle even made it a mile down the river in the past? I'm afraid witnessing this crime has tarnished my message in a bottle visions. Then again, this may explain why I have never found one~~

Beautiful Things

"Mom!" she shouted, "Come look at your table!"
       Table didn't seem to fit the alarm in her voice, but I sped up my walk to observe what she was looking at. Indeed, the umbrella on my large patio table had been pushed over by the wind, resulting in a million tiny pieces of broken glass top.
       I think she was waiting for my rant. Or even a bit of the same alarm she had used, but I was transfixed by the sun shining across the tiny little pieces. I was mesmerized by the patterns it had created. And what I said to my daughter was,
"Isn't that beautiful?"
She gave me one of those looks, the ones I've established that someday she will remove my words from her neat little mind file and present them as evidence gifts to her shrink, and said, "Mom, you think everything is beautiful."

She's right, I do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

       If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then all anyone need do, is open their eyes wide. It's easy to find beauty in general, the sunrise and sunset, the appealing allure of a beautiful woman, a flower, a popular piece of art, our children's smiles, a river placed against natures backdrop.......all things I can count on, there's comfort in the dependency of the ordinary.

       There are so many things I see beauty in. A fires flames, falls graceful outdoor coloring contest, the disorderly mess in one of my daughters room and the organized tidiness of the other. The artwork on my walls and the thousands of leaves now gracing my yard. The beauty of a black and white photo and a single written sentence of another persons words. Beauty is around me and in me, on my walls and in broken tables. I only need glance 5 feet in front of me to discover something that satisfies my mind and eyes.

       While I marvel at the things I can see within my vision that are beautiful, it is the things I cannot touch, nor hold, or explain, that delight me the most. I cannot see an idea, yet I find it full of extraordinary beauty. I cannot touch it, nor hold it or place it in a box or hang it on my wall, but I find the very notion of idea's glorious. I imagine my idea ofbeauty is wholly defined by my own motivations and experience. My individual idea's that are sculpted by what has inspired me are mine and mine alone. I see beauty in those possibilities.

       Feelings can be beautiful. A man holding my hand while we walk down the street is something I've come to love and regard as the beauty of connection. Having a man gather me up in their arms when we are falling asleep is one of the most beautiful feelings in the world, to me. A feeling of both comfort and love combined is more beautiful then any painting I could own.

       The beauty in people astounds me above all other things. When I read of a tragedy or witness bad things happen to those I know, I bite my lower lip and wait. For in negativeness, and ugliness, beauty has a way of revealing itself. People come together and show the beauty of compassion. People band together and show how generosity can transform need into beautiful. Beauty always trumps ugly. Beauty tempers chaos. The way I see it, people find the way to beauty in all things, whether they realize it or not. You only need to look at any ugly in this world to see people come together at their best. This trait in humanity is divine beauty.

       I wish for myself, that a time will never come that I take for granted the beauty in all things. My grandmothers voice, my daughters everything, a handwritten letter, the feeling of rain on my face or a tear down my cheek. The glorious beauty in a smile or asking the questions filled with 'why.'

       For I believe in each moment, in every day, I only have to observe, to notice the beautiful in everything. On the days when I have let ugly erode my thoughts, I take comfort that beauty will reveal itself once again. Beauty is but a word, a starting point of a definition I can design on my own. I like that about beauty, it's subjectiveness.

       Beautiful means much more to me then what just satisfies the eye. In my opinion, that is a beautiful thing all on it's own. So yes Shelby, I do find everything beautiful and I hope with time, you will understand what I mean..............

Does Not Accept

This is a banner week. I've been home for 5 days and this will be a 3rd entry in one month. I'm rolling the dice of normalcy. I've puttered around my home, attempted normal behavior for a woman my age, and even went to work. I'm sure once I fall back into the rhythm of routine I won't feel so out of place, but for now I'm a fidgeting soul.

       If I place tiny words to the feelings I have, I come up with one notion. I feel like I've been on an amusement ride for 8 months and it's just pulled up to a yanking stop. The toothless carnival men are shoving me down the steps and I'm still glancing longingly at my old seat. I'd like to purchase another ticket, but know I need to wait awhile before I embark on my next ride. As always, I just need my beautiful watchtowers of time to align once again with my desired destinations.

       I loved my travels and believe I've given my daughters many unforgettable memories. I took trips both alone and surrounded with others. It was the final 12 days that I spent the majority of my time in solitude. Although surrounded in the evening by a mob of male hunting buddies, I spent my entire days wandering through the Frank Church Wilderness, alone, testing both my mind and body.

       Putting yourself in such an environment is a bit of a catch-22. A person can deeply appreciate the beauty of ones surroundings and be wholeheartedly fearful the next moment. The area I traversed is so dense I could never see 40 yards behind or beyond the canvas of trees. A little matter of wolves making their presence known at all times added to an already eerie feeling. Wolves are loud, singers of impending kills and final dinner bells. Daily they splinter off from their main packs and communicate by howling in the winds. For a single person like me creeping through the Forrest, the symphony would grind on each and every nerve I possessed.

       By the time I would arrive soaked from the rain, snow, sleet and bankrupt of all nerves back at camp, I was ready to claim human inability to walk and sleep in the next day. Every night my resolve to go on another day would be depleted. Thoughts of giving up, idea's of feigning sick would march across my mind. Yet, eachmorning I would get up, stand beside the Wilderness posting sign, and dive off to the bottom all over again. I pushed myself and it felt good. I convinced myself I could continue and I did.

       I can't count the amount of times every part of my body would shut down, quit, and pretend dead halfway up a Mountain. Every part but one, my mind. I realized that no matter what the situation, our divine minds will do what it takes to get us past the things we think we cannot do.

       I suppose my mind had an easy time convincing my muscles that it's either make it to camp, or be wolf kibbles. But the sentiment is the same. It's comforting to know this powerful source of inspiration I carry around. I know in the future, maybe tomorrow, maybe in a year, maybe many years from now, I will be faced with things that will kindle idea's of giving up. I know if all things about me shut down, lose hope, there is one part of me that will never throw in the white towel. A piece of me that does not accept exhaustion, or play parlor games with defeat. There's comfort in that knowledge. 

I just need to remember..... always trust in it~~~


       
Note: That picture is the actual jumping off point for me. Wilderness, for those in more civilized area's, means- no roads for hundreds of miles-no motorized vehicles, EVER <unless you want a huge federal fine> only accessed by foot or horse. I hiked to the third ridge back and covered the majority of the country in that picture. A beautiful place for a creative mind like mine. I gave all the ridges and Mountains pet names. Designations like Purgatory Lane, Dante's Peak, Hell, The Abyss, Mother F### Butte, Wolf Kitchen, and so on........
             

Each Our Own

"It is those negatives that always stand out. Always. Why?
Many reasons, for each are our own."
Jodi~~Looking Beyond the Cracked Window(deux)

True to my personal nature, my previous entry has been another burr in my brain since I posted it. Since then, I've been demanding my thoughts to come up with something, anything that I could segway to and push it down from the front and center position on my journal. Jodi provided just the ticket for me, thank you girl!

It's the inner critic in me thats an uncontrollable beast I've yet to learn to shove into a closet and lock the door. In me, it seems to be the loudest, most obnoxious aspect to my inner workings. It morphs into all forms ugly, it materializes at the most inconvenient times and typically manages to bully all good thoughts into the corner to hide.

For Example: This last 12 days in the Wilderness- Internal Daily Rebecca Dialogue

Your going to have a heart attack and die walking up this cliff of a mountain
Yes, well, your sentences are too long and confuse people
Oh shut up, I have more important things to conquer right now
Your grammar sucks and you'll probably trip on a few extra adjectives going up this hill
Does life flight come save people who lay down on a mountain side and refuse to climb anymore?
Well maybe if you told them in short sentences and pronounce your nouns correctly they'll consider it
Shove off critic, we're going to be bear food if we don't make it off this Mountain
You should write an entry to everyone, just to explain your lack of perfection on your journal
Seriously, I told you to shut up 900 feet down the hill and I really don't feel like thinking about anything but a nice warm fire right now
Now you know how people feel when you write a sentence thats 900 feet long
I'm dying, I'm wilderness hike kill, first the wolves will naw on me and then the bears will feast on my scraps
Everyone will say, "There's the bones of that girl who didn't use spell check"
Yes well, I'll be able to bounce a quarter off my ass from the work out I'm getting this week (positive thinking)
Who cares about an ass if you write random crap that makes no sense
If I live to walk off Purgatory Mountain I swear I'm shoving you in a shallow grave
Just make sure you use good grammar, spelling and sentence structure on my gravestone
Shut up

I'm not joking. All because I read one sporadic comment on my journal at 5:00 am the morning I left. Twisted, I know, but there nonetheless.

Now, because I admit all this here, it would almost appear I'm a rather insecure person who needs approval from all directions or I crumble into a ball of wound licking emotions. When in reality, I have always felt I have strong character, self assured, confident and I do all things without the need of approval from others.

So why in the hell do I let little irritants like something I take as negative, harass my mind like I do? Is it a generic human nature issue? A self absorbed issue? Jodi say 'for each our own' reasons. And it is that question I propose to myself. Is it the perfectionist in myself, in others, that creates the unmanageable beast of critic thinking? I wonder, do men participate in mental harassment like us woman do? <alittle insight would be nice guys>

A person I know and trust told me once that I am beyond ruthlessly hard on myself. I nodded in agreement, I know I am. If I go the politically correct direction, I glance at my childhood and draw a nice big blank. Nope, the parents didn't beat perfection, expectations nor put me down while growing up. They were just the opposite, encouraging without obligation, cheerleaders without expectation. So there goes that reasoning.

I'm not a pleaser person who jumps to make others happy at my own expense. But I would do anything I could in my power to help another in need. So I know my issue isn't about what others think or believe about me. I would never crack on someone else, but I have no problem tying my own hands to a whipping post and going to town. This part of me is frustrating. Can someone inform me at what developmental stage does that shitty part of the human mind ease up at? 35? 40? 50? 80 or on my death bed? Did I miss the day they passed out critic mercy cards?

Jodi proposes we each have our own reasons for blowing up the negatives, giving them their own pedestal to radiate from and harboring them within. I suppose I'm still searching for my personal reason why I perform such circus mind acts. Perhaps I need that shrink afterall :o)

Straw, Icing, and the Final Button

I've had 12 days in the wilderness to contemplate what I would like to write when I got back into civilization. I've gone from highly agitated, irrationally irritated and good old fashion confusion.

I've looked at the top of my journal, I've glanced at the bottom, and studied the sides. I've checked the dusty corners and rattled the squeaky headlines/entries for clues that would explain the recent happenings in my journal. I can only go back to the first question I had in my mind. A simple question really.

A one word-er
~~~W H Y~~~~

WHY 
or what motivates people
both currently and in the past
to feel the need to comment, email and generally rain on my parade by pointing out things or mistakes they don't like about or in my writing?
WHY
being the mystified question
in my mind
~

Now, I believe, and I could be wrong, that I've taken the mature position by addressing all concerns, complaints, and unneeded suggestions personally via the email system. To which I believe the majority of it was smoothed out nicely and I hope this entry doesn't crumble the progress that was already achieved with those specific people.

Howevery, evidently that direction isn't working, because I keep getting the same invasive, unsolicited sideswipes about design, not content. <Did a group get together and decide it's pick on Rebecca's writing techniques for a while or is it all coincidence of interesting timing??>

SOoooooo............heres the deal. An explanation of my journal writing. In depth, down and dirty.

This space is unedited, typically UN-thought, sporadic and a simple corridor for the stream of conscious thoughts I have running untamed through my mind. I sit down and I write, I don't use backspace nor the delete button. I do NOT go back and reread what I've written. I always resist the urge to look back over my shoulder at my writing here because I KNOW myself and I would instantly start to edit/delete myself, my words, my writing and my thoughts.

I do not care about any of the following on the pages of this journal, and yes, I realize that because of this, I may not shine my writing in the best light, but here goes...... Spelling, grammar, sentence length, word definition, correct placement of ,.?! :;" ' , nouns, adjectives, dialogue, sentences that make sense or don't, and I certainly don't use any type of journal format.

I would like to think that in this space, if I would like my words to go on and on like a Virginia Woolf sentence, and use 20 commas, and write 10 metaphors and (and put in parenthesis anything I feel like)  before I take a breath and end it with a period, I can do that because why in the world would anyone care enough to point it out as an issue and actually suggest I change MY writing because it's difficult on them, instead of that person just accepting my writing is my space and keep their displeasure to themselves, it is that type of WHY that I cannot grasp..............breath now.................(I can even use 40 periods for emphasis if I should feel the need)

I'm not a confrontational person, so I already know I'm going to hate this entry the moment I post it. Then again, I'm also not a person that ever willingly, knowingly, and intentionally <how's that for some pretty adjectives?> sets out to hurts a person feelings or tosses jabs on a whim. So when people do it to me, or others, I'm always left mouth agape and scratching my mind for answers and reasons.

Even now I'm worried about the very people who have sideswiped me over the last year with negative emails, concerns, suggestions and comments about my writing. Thoughts like, "Will they be hurt that I did an entry like this?" or "Will I piss off someone by my blanket outcry for no more sideswipes."  Specifically, because it really isn't one person, or one comment thats finally done me in. It's an accumulation of unwarranted smacks that has me finally calling out that the straw finally broke my back, the icing is dripping from my cake and my last button was finally pushed.

My writing here is not perfect. I have never claimed it was.
My writing here is not scripted. I have never claimed it was.
My writing here shows warts and scars and dents and dings because it's my free zone.
My writing here is what it is, anything that happens to flow from my mind to my fingers.
My writing here has no agenda, no flow, no direction and should be devoid of expectation, obligation and guidelines.

On the flip side, the writing on my book is painfully slow and I take great care in the perfection of each and every single little word. Then I place it in the hands of trusted individuals with red pens and ruthless critique practices to butcher it all over again. In that arena, I am ready for critique, I am ready for the red pen, I am ready to be ripped to shreds so I can put it all back together again.

I am not prepared for, nor do I desire, critique on these pages. I am perfectly capable of doing that myself should I choose to do so. I don't think it is necessary. I do not believe it is needed. I have never asked for it and I shouldn't have to worry about it. What irritates me the most about this entry is the fact that I've received far more praise and encouragement from the people who have passed by then the negatives. I shouldn't even give these sideswipes a second thought, but like a burr stuck in my sock I need to eradicate it somehow.  

I have been gone from home, life, and online journals for a long time. I've traveled far and wide for the last 8 months and hibernation is calling my name. I've had many new visitors I need to welcome and in turn visit their journals and I look forward to that. I've neglected my correspondence and visiting the journals of old friends, and I assure you I'll be back to my comment spamming very soon.

All I ask is when a person visits my personal journal, they take it for what it is. Nothing but words from a little lady sitting in her office in Idaho. When the desire plops itself in my writing lap I would like the freedom and clear mind of not worrying about if my sentences are perfect, without flaw and ready for publication.

This entry is to the point and if I offend anyone I apologize. I wrote an entry along these same lines, only nicer and more passive over a year ago, perhaps a refresher is due.........Concrete

It should be quite clear now, my purpose, or nonpurpose of this journal.
I write the good, the bad and the ugly and I'm fine with it~~

It's all Good