Reality is only just a word

Air conditioning is back on in my neck of the universe.  Between the pollen and the temperatures, it's a Blessing to have.  Because it's expensive to run central air, we don't push temp below 77 and have many fans running to augment and facilitate air flow.  This constant background noise takes my brain time to not perceive as "something's happening here, what it is ain't exactly clear...."  It takes about ten days for my sleep patterns to settle back down so I don't jerk awake every couple hours thinking  a baby is crying, or giant dust bunnies are attacking our town, or the washer is exploding with all the lost socks spewing forth creating a hole in the roof and a twisted vortex of sock tornado right over our house ... or whatever goofy thing my subconscious was thinking about when I drifted back off to sleep. 

[In case you didn't catch the ancient reference of "something's happening here....]

I frequently roll my eyes at my subconscious dream script writer cause ... rly? srsly? Socks? Dust? Sponges organizing a revolution against the tyranny of cats that carry them off?  These are apocalyptic scenarios to fret about?  Hardly.  It's amusing, annoying, and screws up my energy levels but I always get through my seasonal transition to Fans On, All the Time.  My brain eventually remembers to ignore the whirling white noise and settles down to the usual hum drum dream life of benign dust bunnies just hanging out under the bed or on a shelf I missed, socks that have no tornadic trauma, and the cleaning supplies never even hit the radar.  OK, the cats continue to roam about as if they own everyone and everything, which they seem to believe no matter the season, just mentioning.

It makes for a long week, this transitional situational goofiness.  I pretend no one notices my lack of energy or abruptly slooooow thought processes.  There are advantages to being an Eccentric Old Biddy when you're kinda losing your mind - who will notice?! 

This morning I made it until only an hour before my usual Get Thy Lazy Butt Out of Bed time.  The Raggedy Wednesday Schedule usually does a nice reset even in the winter silence.  I get to bed early and sleep deeply and the rest of the week takes care of itself, balance of the universe restored.  It was fish rummaging in the pantry and flamingos dancing on the lawn, turning it in to a nice swamp that woke me this morning.  I was laughing so it must not have been too wacko.

One of the things I do when my brain goes Seasonally Goofy is play music that grounds me in Who I Am.  Music that formed my character and framed my life and motivated me to be better than statistics expected.  This used to disturb my children, the loud playlist that they perceived as The Problem rather than The Solution.  Now they mention I might need my Settle Down, Everything's Fine playlist.  It always starts with Reality is only just a word.

I really can't imagine what the nursing homes of the near future will sound like.  We are a generation that believed cranking the tunes solved everything and if it didn't, at least it drowned out the sound of frustrated weeping and wailing and shrieking.  WE wanted stories, truth and a solid beat to drive home the melody.  WE wanted justice for All, equality for All, and an environment that wasn't toxic for any life. 

I don't think that's so very different from what music is today, but we shared the sounds, didn't hoard them in our ears via headphones.  Our speakers were monstrously huge, rattled the plaster and window glass.  If you are of the vinyl generation - even when we wore headphones others could Still hear the music via the needle against the grooves [this annoyed my parents no end and their annoyance exasperated me something fierce].

How I miss that 8-track clicking through the channels, like a heartbeat that reassured us.  Of course, I adore the clarity of CDs and Digital Music and the fact my huge library of eclectic tunes can be stored on a stick.  Living in small spaces for most of my adult life, storage was always an issue for music and books.  Not anymore and though I am occasionally nostalgic, I like it better this way.  I do miss DJs though, won't deny Dr. Fever and Venus Flytrap were not caricatures to me.... O, and ... BOOGER.

I confess to some pride in the fact my adult children know all the words to many of those classic hits.  They could credibly win a free bit of junk answering quizzes about lyrics and artists if DJs were still a thaing.  Of course, the first words they learned were: "God, make it a dream!"  After hearing that song they were totally hooked on Oldies. [you think baby shark sticks in your head, ha! listen to this once and share it with your children or grand children ... it'll never leave you and always make you smile, guar-an-dam-teed]

My bizarre sleep schedule did yield some extra coloring and chat time.  I frequently lurk in chats during the work day.  As I've said before the sound of voices and laughter while I work with details is nice.  Sort of like DJs of Art pouring in to my life without annoying commercial announcements.  I've learned so much about how hard it is to have self-confidence in the finished page, or worse, in even beginning a page. 

The intimidation of the coloring book is difficult to understand but it is a very real thaing for many people.  They want to create and enjoy and relax; zenning out as they art along. BUT those intricate patterns, or fabulous images, only add to the stress of their life.  Some menacing voice has whispered in their heart that if it isn't perfect as so-and-sos tutorial or whosit's picture on Instagram or whatsit's post on facebook, it isn't worthy or even worth doing. 

They open the book, look at their gorgeous pencils or paints or pens or markers, and freeze.  I ache for the fear of being a beginner, that horrendous horror of imperfection, that terror of wasting the cost of book n supplies [because one bad page ruins the whole book for them] that steals the Joy of Art.  I just want to print out bent, folded and spotted pages and say, "See, it's OK, you cannot wreck this!"  But it would only hurt their feelings and I think, make the fear worse.

I'm more of a throw down the color, no one's gonna know, or care, if it sux.  My coloring just isn't that big a deal in the larger scope of the universe and all eternity. Heck, not even my children who just paused to confirm the schedule today and the availability of the vehicle really care, beyond admiring what I might beg them to look at with a quick glance as they rush to do their thaing.

I consciously decided to take this chance to sail on the wind When so many in the water chose to row when I bought the first pencils and book.  I know my life span is limited, a bit moreso than expected, and I didn't want to waste what I do have. So, it was hard for me to understand the fears.  I won't deny I struggled with comprehension and judgment - I'm human - but I didn't give up.

I spent some time last month trying to understand the opposite viewpoint and came to the conclusion too many of us have been programmed to expect Instant Perfection with the right tools, because "even children color, so it should just come naturally, right?"  It's the same experience of many a new mother.  It's just supposed to come naturally, whatya mean it's going to take endless and thankless work, learning to live on little to no sleep, and my life won't be my own for at least another 20 years?  Whose crack brained idea was this anyway?

Worse, some have incorporated that early childhood programming that there is No Way to See Flowers Any Other Way than the way some authority does.  It must be shaded this way, highlighted that way, use this limited palette, follow this pattern, etc. was drummed in to their brain so that now it is a spike drilling in to their ability to even Begin.  What is so downright sad is these tutorials are created to assist technique, skills, and free us to develop our appreciation of what we want to translate from our hearts to a page, in living color. 

I seriously doubt anyone making the tutorials or books or leading the trends actually wants everyone to color exactly the same way.  If you asked them, outright, almost all of them say these exact words:  "You'll Want to Make it Your Own."  How hard that is for some to actually believe just breaks my Old Biddy heart. Stealing joy before it can be born is definitely a sin.  When you do it to yourself, it's like ... like hacking at your own soul.  That it is over a coloring book seems trivial but to these folks, it isn't.  They are literally agonizing over a hobby designed to bring relaxation and peace to their lives.

When hearing or reading about this phenomenon of colorist-to-be I always hear Mr. Tanner in my heart.  He did not know how well he sang; It just made him whole.  If you take away sang and replaced it with coloring / art ... ignored the critics, internal and external ... it might just feed the courage and quiet the doubts.  I don't think meaningful music changes every one's life, but I do think it can't hurt, and often helps.  Plus Big John Wallace colors with his voice the way I hope to someday wield my pencils!  He didn't wake up able to sing like that - he took years of practice to achieve his resonance and depth, and yeah, he still isn't famous and no one probably has any idea who I'm talking about.  But he touched millions, unknown as he was / is, go figure! 

WE just wanna relax and enjoy color.  No millions will be touched, we have to know that.  Our little corner of the universe will be more colorful, and hopefully, we'll make a few friends along the way.  It's not our eternal life we're jeopardizing if we mess up the light source or a few leaves turn out stupid looking.  We waste more money on junk food or foo foo coffee than we do on coloring books.  And though the fancy supplies DO cost more than you might expect, that's no different than the better racket for tennis, the premier golf balls, or gear for hiking that others spend on their hobbies.  Guilt for indulging less than perfectly, be Gone! 

[P.S. I know it's not that easy. But until you can laugh about your flaws and foibles, you can't really conquer them can you?]

Steve Goodman, as unappreciated as any colorist on the tubes or social media, wrote the perfect words to so many songs.  I'd give all my toes to be able to express, in words, the goofy things I think half as well as he did.  But, like coloring, I don't wait for that Divinely Inspired Perfection in a sentence that will transform me from grammatically adequate to superstar.  I just do my best, today, where I'm at, with what I have and hope someone reads it and finds a smile in their day.  I wish I could bottle that determination for others.  It really does work, letting go of expectations of perfection and embracing your Majestic Awkwardness.

My very first postcard.  I "wrecked" the words with metallic gel pens and ended up tossing it rather than sending it.  No one died, no one even knew, or cared, until now.  The words are etched on my soul all the same. O and the next postcard turned out great and went on its merry way to make my friend laugh.

Yesterday, during a live chat at Becci'z Color Escape a train went by, the whistle howling and drowning her out for a few minutes.  It made me feel so good to hear that sound.

It reminded me of my best friend growing up.  She lived right next to the tracks, raised up on an embankment so the tracks were actually higher than the roof of her house.  We used to run out in her backyard and wave as the trains rolled by, sometimes they'd toss candy down at us.  I tell you what, we knew exactly where to stand to be just out of range of those hard candies but we could move like a super hero once it was safe to scramble for the goodies!  I'd like to have that energy and ability to be patient just long enough once again.  I'd truly appreciate it, now, though I took it for granted then; but that's not how life works, is it? 

Reality, which is only just a word, creeps along, wearing us down and gobbling up our joy even when we resist and thumb our nose in its face.  I think a trick I've learned after all these years is to at least run out there and wave.  The effort will only do me good and the smile that might be returned never hurts.  Doing so with a friend, in person or in retelling, is still the best feeling in this life!  Even when your dream life is plagued with goofier than she-it stuff and your dragging through the day like a snail on hot pavement feeling fried, you are worth the effort!

Please God, don’t let me live my life in vain ... Help me throw some sunshine On a world filled with rain....