LadyCygnet.com

My old, abused, workhorse of a router is dying, making it difficult to use the wired connection, much less the wireless connection. Fortunately, a new one is on the way. If all goes well, the magic that followed this wonderful router will continue with the new router.

D-Links have always served me well. I hope that if you ever need a router, you give the DIR-628 or one like it a chance. It’s been a great router for me, and if it hadn’t been through so much punishment over the years, I wouldn’t have bought a new router.

I’m a procrastinator, especially when it comes to everything. If it’s something I want to do, my tendencies towards perfectionism force me to put it off until either the deadline has passed, or it is as close to perfect as humanly possible. If it’s something I don’t want to do, I also procrastinate because I dread doing it. It’s a no-win scenario, and it’s something that I struggle with each day. Do you find yourself procrastinating? If you do, you’re certainly not alone!

I feel obligated to finish this meme, even though I hate it; ergo, since I cannot sleep, I plan to finish it, one way or another, so that I can move on to something that I find enjoyable.

I have an English degree. I went thousands of dollars into debt for it. At one time, I was told that I was a brilliant writer by people who had never agreed on ANYTHING ever in their lives except for that one fact.

Here I am, ten years later.

What do I have to show for it?

No novel.

Poetry published here and there.

The odd article.

Still, overall, it feels as though I have nothing to show for all of that hard work I did when I was younger. I busted my rump all those years, and now I’ve got nothing to show for it except for these odd ramblings. I’ve had writer’s block for what seems like eternity. Every time I sit down to write, something comes along and eats my words, my thoughts, my imagination.

My biggest dream in life was to become a mother. I always figured I’d be happily married and writing like a mad dervish while raising my perfect children.

But life has a funny way of giving one what one wants, but twisting it, much like the Monkey’s Paw. Now I’m sitting here at 5am my time, my autistic daughter asleep by my side. I’m struggling to find work that would accommodate her schedule and the times that she is sick with whatever bug she brings home from school. So far, the best option seems to be working from home–writing, researching, reading, doing what I love. Just the same, I sit down to write, and nothing of quality comes out.

Nothing.

Good gracious, what killed the best parts of me? I used to be a good writer. I used to have windows full of beautiful houseplants. I used to have a steady job and a steady paycheck. I used to have a house that I rented on my own. I used to have a car. I used to have pride.

Perhaps now that I have my daughter, I can turn nothing into something. I have someone to fight for. I have a reason to get up each morning. I have a reason to relearn what gave me my green thumb. I have a reason to try and write something worth reading…maybe not for money, but for my own edification. I am healing, slowly. I am returning to who I was.

This nothing is going to turn into something amazing.

Memories sneak up on us at random times. I think about my best friend from elementary school quite often. We lost touch after I moved away (and to be honest, I don’t think her mother approved of us being friends, since my family was so poor). After two decades of wondering, I’ve found her on Facebook. There’s a strong urge to write her, but I don’t know if she even remembers me, or remembers me fondly if she does remember me. Still, I have an urge to write her, to let her know that I remember her, and I regret losing touch with her. It seems like she’s lost some of her dreams, too. I don’t know what good writing to her would do, but it would be something.

Two days ago, a college classmate of mine died of cancer. It’s been really hard to process it–I’m still young enough to see cancer as something that isn’t supposed to cut us down in our prime–heck, we haven’t even reached mid-life yet!

But there it is: memento mori.

Like my friend from elementary school, I lost touch with him after we graduated. It seems like that happens a lot with people I consider friends–we touch lives briefly, then forget to write.

Will anyone besides my daughter remember me when I die?

Will anyone notice?

Will anyone care?

My memory is written in sand. One day, the tide will wash it away. There will be no memory of it being there. Even if I carve my memory in stone, time and tide will eventually wear it away. Perhaps my descendants will talk of me in that same cobwebbed haze that permeated my mind when my late aunt and my dad talked about genealogies and family lore.

Who will remember now?

Libraries are awesome!

Sometimes it seems like there is very little kindness left in the world. With all of the wars and the current economic crisis, it would seem that people have forgotten how to be kind. Jobs are cut to preserve the bottom line. Wars are fought to get land, resources, revenge. One slight triggers another. It’s human nature.

Just the same, kindness, much like urban wildflowers, creeps up where you would least expect it. A disabled driver gives a ride to a mother and daughter walking in the cold. A cashier gives a child a sticker. A little girl laughs in innocent joy and gives an elderly man hope again. A man brings the extra produce from his garden to share with his coworkers. A terminal cancer patient visits the children in the cancer ward to read them stories.

Kindness is a gift that costs nothing but a little humility and an openness of the heart. It is a gift to others that gives new life and hope.

I am not as kind as I could be, but I work at it. Every day is a new opportunity to be kind to others. What will you choose?

We all pass judgment on a daily basis. We have to. We wouldn’t be able to function if we didn’t weigh our options on everything from what to make for dinner to the consequences of running a stop sign. Once we have made a decision, we have judged all of the options and ruled in favor of the best one.

Judgment gets a bad reputation. I’ve been told before that judgment isn’t up to me in various things; however, if we ceased judging the things in our lives, where would we be? Would we sit in our indecision, or would we come up with a clever synonym so that we can feel good about ourselves for determining rather than judging? What’s so bad about having good judgment or judging something not to be what we need in our lives?

I consider myself open-minded, but I also accept that I make judgments every day that affect my and my family’s future and well-being. If that makes me a Judgy McJudgerson, then so be it.