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Well, while we’re on the subject of beginnings, I thought it would be appropriate to address my ongoing battle with mornings.  Greeting the day has become an emotionally masochistic experiement where I wait with great anticipation for my next ridiculous blunder to remind me of my very humanness.  Case in point: Today.  Fridays are usually interesting for me because, unlike Monday through Thursday,  I do not work in a traditional sense.  This allows me vastly more flexibility in determining a time to begin my conscious interaction with the world.  Yet today I decided it would behoove me to maintain as much schedule and structure as possible in order to tackle a to-do list that fills nearly three pages.  Sticking with my traditional routine, I figured there was less room for error.  I set out to prepare my usual cup of organic, free-trade coffee (with raw cane sugar) and a bowl of organic Quaker oatmeal.  Fortunately, my unofficial fiance had already brewed a fresh pot before his departure.  This was a special treat, as most days I am the one who assumes this responsibility.  With little hesitation, I selected a mug from our randomly mismatched collection, poured my coffee and seasoned to taste.  I then set the water to boil, retrieved a bowl from the cabinet, and promptly dumped my packet of dry oatmeal into my mug of coffee.  Yes, you read that correctly.  

After realizing what I had done and sharing a hearty chuckle with my two dogs, I decided my only option was to empty the inedible concoction into the sink and start again.    This is my life. 

Fortunately, not every morning mishap involves casualties of waste, but laughing at myself has become a humbling daily ritual.  It hasn’t always been this way.  In my youth and throughout my early college years, waking and tackling the day was as flawlessly regimented as every other aspect of my anal-retentive, over-achiever life.  For most of my adolescence,  I composed detailed lists the evening prior that would break-up my morning into 5 minute increments of action-packed perfectionism.  Seriously, folks, I actually reserved time for mundane tasks like my inevitable morning piss.  I was one of those people who would not only set out my attire the night before, but would accessorize the ensemble with jewelry, shoes and a matching handbag.  (well, actually I didn’t have THAT many handbags.)  But needlesstosay, planning and organization were a secret obsession of mine.  The words “clean your room” were never uttered from the lips of my dutiful parents, unless they were addressing my younger sibling.  In fact, it was not uncommon for me to clean up after my own mother, whose housecleaning standards were far more healthy than my own. 

 Ironically, somewhere around age 30, I became my mother.  But for all the love and admiration I possess for my mother and all the reasonableness of my newly acquired personal temperment, I am still plagued by the desire for perfection that I inherited from my father.  It is no wonder they call childbearing “reproduction”.

 Bring on the day! (:


Ah, beginnings.  There is something raw and inviting about a spotless white page, the flashing cursor teasing me with its predictable disappearance act.  Why must it blink so incessantly?  Like Japanese water torture, the vertical black line burns my retinas with rhythmic hypnosis.   Write, bitch. I thought you had something to say.  This isn’t going to be easy.

Despite my best intentions,  this blog will inevitably begin like most beginnings, a traumatic and very vulnerable passing from darkness into light.  For the transition of birth holds its place in the cycle of life as a joyous and creative celebration cleverly disguised as violent and painful chaos.  From the safety of our mother’s womb, we come into this physical reality jolted, disoriented and completely dependent on others for our survival.  Exposed and half blind, we are welcomed to planet Earth by strangers in plastic gloves.  Yet, somehow this arrival is also our sacred and glorious introduction to humanity. 

The creative process, whether biological or inspirational, is a simultaneously blissful and terrifying liberation.  Often the birthing of truth mirrors our physical delivery, our thoughts thrust into expression, kicking and screaming and gasping for air.  It is a tangled fit of words and worry, passion and punctuation. 

So, here I am, naked and testing my lungs.   

Welcome to my world.

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