florals? snow. frustration. and bacon.

Success: painted my headboard white. Got a pint of olympic no voc paint, started mid-day Sunday, got two coats on and it was dry enough to put everything back together enough by bedtime to sleep. Has an "it's always looked like that, right?" kind of quality to it. Versus, a "wow! that looks GREAT!" quality. Much like my haircuts. I say, let's cut it shorter. Stylist (she is a gem) says, how fun, let's! Then, no one notices. Thank goodness I am not that vain... just don't want to feel ugly and awkward and all that. But maybe I was hoping for more shazzam from painting the headboard than I actually accomplished. Kind of like cutting an inch of length off my hair. But alas - it looks better. No more stained teeth, now it is freshly white strips looking white.

Did find a fabric I loved for my stuffed animal pillow. And fabric for shams. They were bold. He hates it. So, compromise but not collapse is my modus now. Try to find my way to feeling okay on both sides, but not give up my self-expression (yet again) in this particular situation. So, this weekend I may have to take a gentle stand and make the one pillow-like concoction out of the fabric I still love. It's my little pillow, after all.  Finding a path to expressing one's creativity when it has been utterly squashed for a decade is interesting work, to say the least. It feels a bit like flailing about, grabbing onto something dramatic, perhaps to make a point? Who knows. But, in this particular instance, it was less than successful. Sham fabric = hated completely. Equals hurt feelings, squashed self-expression, et al. SO - regroup! Make the one pillow out of the slightly less hated, and cannot really argue with how perfectly it matches everything fabric. Re-visit the idea of new fabric for the pillow shams. Neutral color. Plain. Dare I say, boring? Ugh. Oh well. Middle ground is the goal, but middle ground I am comfortable on. That is the key.

Key issues: fabric was dark (chocolate brown, gorgeous to my eye); and most critically, it was floral. Floral? Huge crime.

Enough about that, though. A day of greasy snow and slow roads, and day to leave work early while it is still light out and driving is a wee bit safer, and a day to stop at the store on the way home for bacon for supper. Bacon, humanely raised bacon (well, more accurately, from humanely raised hogs), roasted with maple syrup brushed on it (thanks barefoot contessa).

That'll do.

to sleep. perchance to, well, sleep.

What to I wish for when I imagine "time for bed?" I wish for: a sufficient quantity of quality, restful, restorative sleep in a snug, warm haven where I feel tucked in like a little mouse, all cozy and happy and peaceful. Not too much to ask for, right?

Not wanting to go to bed, not falling asleep, not sleeping soundly, not feeling rested, and feeling perpetually tired is just plain too much. Enough. Ugh, years of this nonsense. Exhasted. Exhaustion leads to all sorts of other unpleasantries, as well. Crabby pants. Sad pants. Tired pants. I'll just eat some more candy pants.

What is within my power, what can I re-think, what can I simply re-do?

First: I hate the way my bed looks. Hate it. So sick of those damned red striped pillow shams set just so on the thing every day. So sick of the color scheme. Of the not-big-enough comforter that leaves the metal bed frame exposed at the bottom. Sick of the dull, marked up, drab-assed beige painted headboard. Ugly. Not an inviting, welcoming, restful looking haven. Rather, an annoyingly unattractive and unappealing thing.

SO: Between now and Saturday morning, I will - measure and determine how much fabric I need to make two new shams for the big pillows; measure out for fabric and plan to make a little "pillow" safety chest of sorts, to tuck my Bashful in (a stuffed animal dog I have had for 32 years. Will not get rid of him. But, he looks like a 32 year old stuffed animal on my bed. Had the brainstorm to create a gorgeus, lovely small pillow of sorts that I can tuck him in and add some soft stuffing around so I know he is there but he's not so evidently there, you know?). Then, when fabric store opens at 12, I will go and procure said amounts of two fabrics, one that I love for the shams and a coordinating one I love for the bash pillow. Next, I will go to target and if need be, darn it, I will go to wall-hell and get two flat sheets in a coordinating neutral tone to make a new comforter cover out of. Next, I will go to Lowes and procure one quart of a semi gloss no voc paint in an ever so slightly bold tone that matches and goes well, to repaint the fugly headboard. None of this will involve teamwork. Rather, it involves me saying ENOUGH, I know what colors he finds appealing and have a sense of what he'll like well enough to make him feel at home too, and he sleeps well anyway, so there. Right?

So, I cannot afford a new mattress which I do need, but I can decide to make this investment in myself so that when I look at my bed I think, ah - cozy sleepy place. Instead of, ugh, I hate this bed and I hate my room and I don't want to go there. Enough of that. Sleep is a necessity, not a luxury, not a treat, not a self-indugence. It is necessary and I deserve to sleep well.

The revolution begins with pillow shams. Look out.

write. just write.

Today, it is brutally cold outside. Not in a North Dakota cattle ranch danger of imminent death while throwing hay to steers freezing to death on their feet kind of way, but cold enough. Dammit.

I want to run. I only got to run twice last week. I am missing the activity, the routine, and how much better I feel. Instead, I feel the wiggles and the clogs in my head and how stagnant my whole self is. Snap, cold snap.

I saw Terry Tempest Williams. It was amazing. She is beautiful and inspiring and you feel, you just FEEL, that this is a very, very special human being you are in the presence of. Awestruck. Her voice is gentle and yet powerful - you must listen to her. Her emotions are present, right there to see and feel. And you wish, so very much, that you could join her for an hours-long gentle hike, to talk and to silently enjoy the landscape.

I would like to do that some day. Go for a gentle hike with Terry Tempest Williams. Maybe it could be.

Her push of the notion of place and community as a driving force within - this shoots right into my heart and mind. I don't have my place, my community, my driving force, because I am somewhat blobbing along as this nebulous thing in my current space and time. Oh, how I want that root, that rooting, that place and community that sets fire to my heart and soul and lets me do no other than be authentic and present and passionately alive. Moab, slickrock, red sands and stones, ahoy. Yes? Yes. Somehow, oddly, strangely, yes. No longer gold and red and russet leaves against green grass and wooden fences. Instead, this smooth rock that hugs my boot soles and carries me safely up slopes that look impossible. This red dirt that gets into your socks and pores.

So now, back to nestling into positive routines and rituals. Run. Write. These are good things. Chocolate? Not so much.

Reconnect, recharge, respect yourself.