What makes me "ME"?

It would be impossible, I think, to reach this point in my life without at least once or twice questioning who I am and why. Oh, sure, there's the easy answers: I'm my parent's child, my children's mother. But I'm thinking of the other questions: am I an honest person? Am I compassionate, funny, a good friend, a deep thinker?

Before I answer, let me explain why it's on my mind today. Roughly three months ago, a friend was in an accident. Now, mind you, I've never met this person, only read his published works and exchanged emails and chat posts with him. I don't know if he considered me his friend, but I considered him mine. His name is Richard Bach.

In the accident, Richard suffered a head injury. There was doubt for a while that he would live, and once it seemed he was safely on this side of life, there were questions as to how much he would regain of himself. Eventually, he recovered physically enough to move to a rehab center, and recently was staging a hunger strike to be allowed to go home. I don't know if he's made it home yet.

One of his children posted a comment on Facebook, which I am paraphrasing, since I can't find the original. He said his father didn't know who he was, and had forgotten most of the philosophies about which he had written. This confused me at first, because I was pretty sure the same child had posted that Richard remembered who he was, and remembered his children. But in thinking about it, I suspect that what the son meant was that his father no longer knows what it means to be Richard Bach.

I know that personality changes are often a by-product of TBI's, or Traumatic Brain Injuries. Once gentle loving people can become hostile, rude, withdrawn. Personality changes are also sometimes a by-product of a near-death experience, although that usually is a change for the better.

It all makes me ponder the idea of who I am. If I look at myself, I find flaws, lots of them. I'm not 100% honest, although I try to be. I'm a sucker for a sob story, I have too much faith in the people I love and too little respect for the rest. I'm not careful enough with my money, my time, or my love. But I always thought these were traits that were born within me, set in my genes, just like my inability to lose weight and keep it off. But if a TBI can change a personality, cause someone to forget a life's work, then what really makes us us? 

For most of my adult life, I believed that my body is just a vehicle for my soul, that my soul is eternal, and that I chose this life for the lessons I needed to learn. I believed that who I am is who I will always be, and that although I can learn new things, (and unlearn some old things) I can't change my basic 'me-ness". Now I question that. Now I wonder if all along, I've been wrong.

The more I think about it, the more confused I get. If our basic personality really isn't set in stone, then what excuse do I have? I've told myself for so many years that I'm not an extrovert, that if I could be a hermit, I would be. I don't like crowds, loud noises or pushy people. And yet, having written a book and self-published same, I know I may have to develop a thicker skin, and reach outside my comfort zone if I want success. Is that part of the problem? Do I unconsciously not want success because it would force me to change? Can I be a hermit, and a best selling author at the same time?

What do you think? What governs our personalities, where does our self-ness really reside? Can we ever really lose it, and if so, is it possible to find it again?

A fun weekend project

     I thought I'd give you all a look at my latest "stash-buster" project. I have, as some of you know, a huge stash of fabric, in dozens of prints. Cottons, flannels, fleece, wool, felt, velvet, corduroy. You name it, I probably have it. Some of it I've had for years and years, moved in boxes from one home to another. Some I inherited from my mother. 

      Last weekend I rummaged through the stash and picked out three fabrics to make a baby quilt for the soon-to-be-born daughter of my nephew. I discovered an quick and easy, and yet adorable, quilt pattern on the internet, and I made the quilt and sent it off. 

      But once it was finished, I started looking at other things I could make using my stash and that quilt pattern. Several years ago, I purchased a cute border print fabric (see above) and used some of it to make aprons for my two granddaughters for Thanksgiving. (I think they worn them just long enough for pictures.) 

      I don't know what I was going to do with the rest of the material. I suppose I could have made yet another apron, or hemmed it and used it for a tablecloth. But yesterday I decided to use the motifs along the edge as squares for a table runner. I picked out two other fabrics, and started cutting. The brown is leftover from my grandson's dinosaur costume of two years ago, and the tiny acorn print is something I bought thinking it would make a cute blouse for fall. I've had it at least five years, so its chances of ever becoming a blouse were rapidly slipping away.

After cutting out the pieces, I put together all the smaller individual pieces, then pieced each block. I joined the blocks, then instead of using quilt batting, which would have made the runner too thick, I used a piece of leftover flannel. I backed the runner with the pumpkin print from the middle of the border fabric.

I think it turned out really cute! It's on my table right now. I have enough left over to make another one, but I'm currently working on a couple of Christmas presents. Maybe when I'm done with those, I'll make another. Might make a cute present, huh?

Oh, and I also made this: banana bread. I added a bit of orange peel and nutmeg, and since I didn't have walnuts, I used some sliced almonds from the freezer. Don't usually make banana bread (I don't really like it.) but I had the bananas, and I'm a firm believer in 'waste not, want not'. It will be good for slicing and toasting in the morning, especially with a little bit of butter or peanut butter.

So, that's what I did this weekend. How about you?

No Illusions

I know I haven't been here for a while, but I hope you'll understand when I tell you why. A dear friend of mine was in a plane crash ten days ago, and I've been thinking of little else since.

This friend isn't a friend I've ever met physically. Not even a friend on Facebook. But I've gotten to know him through his writings, both professionally published, and informally posted on his website. We've exchanged emails and commented on each other's ideas. We don't always agree, and not too long ago, I was royally annoyed with him.

But when push comes to shove, you realize what's really important.

Right now, the prognosis isn't great. He has a brain injury, and isn't "all here", as they say. But he and I, and his many, many family, know that looks can be deceiving, we have no limitations, it's all an illusion.

Illusion. According to Merriam-Webster: a mistaken idea, a misleading visual image.The image of my friend in a hospital bed, instead of flying over lakes and forests, is definitely an illusion. Doctors may think he's there, but we know better. We know he's just exploring other dimensions, soaking up atmosphere, maybe even visiting with his beloved Lucky.

In an old Star Trek episode titled "Spectre of the Gun", Mr. Spock is called upon to save his fellow crew members by reminding them that everything they see is an illusion. They are in the middle of a gun battle with aliens, and at one point, he reminds them: "If we do not allow ourselves to believe that the bullets are real,they cannot kill us! 

Spock's logic worked for the crew of the Enterprise. And it sounds great... convince yourself the bullets aren't real, and they can't hurt you. But even better, convince yourself that even if they ARE real, they can't kill you. Nothing can kill you, without your consent. (I can hear you arguing from here. hush.) The truth is,(a truth my dear friend was trying so hard to explain to me just days before his crash) the truth is, WE NEVER DIE. Our physical bodies might cease to exist, but that which is me, that which is you, will never perish. We're not bound by time, we're not bound by space. We're boundless beings.

And that's no illusion. 

Contest

Okay, so if you would like a chance to win a pretty, hand-embroidered bookmark, just email me (najama@earthlink.net)  with the answer to this question about "Sky Blue Orange.>> Name of the person who owns the property on which the labyrinth is located<<. That's it, it's that easy.  You have until September 30th to enter.  I will pick a winner from all the correct answers. No need to give me your address until you win. :-)

Sometimes....

if you give yourself enough time to cool down, you realize that some things just aren't worth stressing about. So, I just deleted a post that was way too angry for even me. I'm not letting someone live rent-free in my head....

Sweet Violet

Here's an excerpt from my new WIP, "Sweet Violet"...
      "The suitcase was large; the type of suitcase Jimmy Stewart was looking for in “It’s A Wonderful Life.” A great big one, big enough for labels from all over the world.  The blue leather was cracked and faded from years of exposure to the desert heat.  It was locked, and of course I had no key. It was heavy, but I had no idea if it had anything inside. I was about to find out.  I grasped the blue Bakelite handle and heaved the heavy thing up onto the bed.  The bed creaked and swayed, and I worried for a moment it was going to collapse. It was only a roll-away, one of two that we keep on hand for our guests. I had borrowed it for Emily, but if it collapsed, I’d have to rethink that. Luckily, after an initial protest, the legs and springs held, so I went to work on the suitcase.

A big heavy screwdriver worked to pop the two side locks, and I used the power drill given to me by my son as a housewarming present to drill out the center lock. I worked slowly and carefully, not wanted to damage anything that might be inside. Finally, I felt the lock give way.I set the drill aside and slowly lifted the lid. The suitcase was almost full. As I pushed the lid back, a silky white blouse slid off the top of the pile and fell to the floor.  I picked it up and placed it on the bed next to the suitcase. There were several other items of women’s clothing, and I lifted them out one by one.
     Underneath the clothing was a bundle of letters tied with a faded pink ribbon. I set those aside to look at later. Most of the rest of the space in the suitcase was taken up by a newspaper wrapped bundle. I lifted the bundle out and set it on the bed as well. It didn’t weigh much, so I could probably rule out my first impression, which was a bottle of wine, wrapped for travel.  The bundle was tied like a Christmas package, more pale pink ribbon tied in a bow right in the middle.

Before I investigated the bundle, I checked the satin pockets on the sides of the suitcase. The elastic had lost most of its stretch, but there wasn’t much in them, anyway. In the side pocket, I found a pretty silver hairbrush, with the initials AE engraved on the back, and a packet of bobby pins, with the 10 cent price sticker from Sprouse Reitz still on it.

Finally, I was ready to examine the newspaper wrapped bundle. The newspapers themselves were brittle and yellow, with cracks in the paper where it had been folded. Carefully, gently, I pulled the loose end of the ribbon bow and slid the ribbon free from the bundle. Gingerly, I folded back the corners of the newspaper. Underneath the newspaper was a thin white terrycloth towel.  To my surprise, the edge of the towel was embroidered with the words “Blue Moon” in dark blue machine embroidery. 

As I folded back the towel, I uncovered a flannel blanket, the kind I can remember my grandmother using for my siblings, with teddy bears screen printed on faded yellow, satin binding wilted and worn from use. 

The sight of that blanket gave me pause. I almost didn’t want to keep going, but as usual my curiosity was greater than my common sense.

           I should have listened to my common sense."

Too much like work

My mother taught me to sew when I was thirteen. It was the only real handicraft she pursued, and I think she learned more out of necessity than any real desire to be creative. I loved sewing, and made doll dresses by the dozen.

In the fifty years since I first learned to wind a bobbin and sew a straight seam, I've tried a lot of different needle crafts. I'm a fairly accomplished knitter, I can crochet a mean afghan, I cross stitch, needlepoint, and yes, I still sew. When my children were little, it seems I always had a baby sweater on my needles, because they worked up fast, and even if I didn't have a use for it immediately, there was sure to be a new baby somewhere, soon, and I liked having a gift ready to go.

But as soon as someone suggested that I knit, or cross stitch, and sell the results, I balked. I like to work at my own pace, do a little or a lot, or none at all. I might put the work down for months, and then pick it up and work furiously for days.  I cross stitched seven birth samplers in a span of four years, for my six grandchildren, and for years, I never wanted to see a needle again! (yes, seven samplers for six babies. That's because baby number six, who was supposed to be a girl, turned out to be a boy. No way was I presenting him with flowers and butterflies!)

I suppose that's why I'm having such a hard time sitting down and working on my second novel. I learned a lot from the first one, about plotting and characterization and pacing. Oh, and especially about editing. You can never have too many fresh eyes reading your work, and you'd be amazed at what slips past on the first three or thirty reads. I spent hours upon frustrating hours learning how to format for uploading to Kindle, and working on a cover design, and fiddling with spacing and page breaks and font size. But seeing the finished product is so worth it, and I can't wait to do it again.

But making myself sit down and actually put words on paper, write that second book, is hard. I know, you're thinking, isn't that exactly what I'm doing NOW? Yes. But this is stream-of-consciousness writing. I have no plot to follow, no characters who must have their say. This is just me rambling, and it's not work.

And that's my problem. I don't like work. Never have, never will. If I'm going to get that second book finished, I know I need to treat writing like any other job: dedicate a set amount of time to the process, and work at it regularly. Which totally goes against the grain with me. My inner, stubborn child is rebelling against being forced to do her homework!  So, while I take a break to sit in the sun and do a little cross stitching, I'm recharging my writing batteries, reminding myself why I write in the first place.Because I love it.