Fossilmania

If I hadn't gone into psychology, I would have gone into geology.  The only thing that decided me against it was the fact that a lot of geologists end up working for oil companies, which I didn't want to do, or out in the field (literally), which I cannot do and take care of my kids at the same time.

So it's just a hobby.  It's a lifelong hobby, actually.  When I was a kid, my parents would take me and my brother to Colorado for camping vacations.  Every tourist trap always had rock samples for sale.  I think what cemented it for me was the time we rented a cabin in Estes Park.  The Fall River ran behind those cabins, pretty rapidly and ice cold (yeah, a totally safe spot for kids to play! :P) and there were huge boulders sticking up out of the water.  One morning my brother and I went out there, and someone had very carefully set a piece of iron pyrite (fool's gold) and some other interesting specimens on the top of this boulder.

Yes, I took them all.

No, I am not ashamed.  No one was there, and it was impossible to tell who they belonged to.   Etc, etc. justification, blah blah blah.

After that I was often looking at the ground.  I had a box under my bed that was full of rocks.

Fast forward years and the two geology classes I took at Hill College just fanned the flames.  Now I have a huge appreciation for this hobby.   To me, geology is history.  It's a record.  And (all scientists everywhere are going to roll their eyes at this one, but I care not) it's God's diary.  (Hey, He created all of it.  It's not specific about how).  I'm going to finish my MS in clinical therapy...and then perhaps go back to school and indulge myself in this.

Tomorrow at the Glen Rose Conference Center, my oldest son and youngest daughter and I will be attending "Fossilmania".  I've never been but I'm told it's so cool.  It's free to get in, and there are free things for the kids and lots of things to look at.  I can't wait...that, coupled with the Dallas Gem and Mineral Show in November, is going to send me into Sparkly Overload.  (A sparkly is my non-scientific term for any rock or mineral that...well..sparkles...)  

Anyhow, it's late, and I've been watching The Flash. I wish I could run that fast....

"One Day" is the treasure that I've buried in my heart.  

Pumpkins and Spice and Everything Nice

I took my 3 year old for a walk today.  And ohmygosh. The weather.  So perfect.  

This is my absolute favorite time of year!  I love things that smell good, and to me, fall smells good.  And it sounds good.  The wind blowing against windows.  Rain on the roof.  Leaves crunching under my feet.  There isn't anything not to like.

Fall is the perfect weather for hunting through old cemeteries for that perfect photograph (sounds morbid, I know, but to me, ancient tombstones are historical relics, and should be respected and memorialized).  It's the time of year when I can feel my spirit lifting, in spite of gray skies and chilly evenings...both of which I love.  It's the perfect time of year to throw a soup in the slow cooker, or some chili (with chickpeas...for texture...) and for revisiting Marystown, once again.

What is Marystown, do you ask?  Well...it's this little Texas town, and strange things happen there.  It's become a tradition to write about it once a year...and this year, I think darkness is hovering in a grocery store parking lot...

More to come, dear readers.  Stay tuned.

Pain is a beautiful thing.  It skins you alive and turns you into a creature you might not have been had you lived another life.

As a human being, when life's challenges hit home I experience them pretty much like anyone else.  I get angry, sad, depressed, stressed, whatever.  But there's also something in me, as a writer, that stands back and watches and learns. I remember reading an article in Writer's magazine years ago.  I don't remember who said it or the exact wording, but it was a female writer, and she said something like, My dog could die, my house could burn, my husband could leave, and there would still be a part of me standing to the side and saying, Isn't this interesting?

Which sounds like something a psychopath would utter.  It seems so devoid of appropriate feeling.  But the way I look at it is this:  Life is a beautiful mess.  It's the chaos of the hurricane caused by the mosquito that your grandmother swatted on a front porch one summer evening.  You never know what can fall in your lap...the good or the bad.  It's scary and exciting and terrible and wonderful, and if you really want to enjoy it, you have to accept all of it.

This past week my son was admitted to a psychiatric ward at a children's hospital.  We took him there because his behavior had finally gotten the best of us.  It was more than we could handle.  We realized, while he was gone, that we had just been managing our lives this entire time.  We were putting out fires and forgetting to live. I confided this incident to a few friends and inevitably, they were horrified.  They felt sorry for us and sorry for him and wanted to fix it.  A couple of friends listened and then changed the subject and redirected the conversation back to themselves.  A couple of friends brought food.  One friend told me I didn't have to have all the answers right now, and she was the one I listened to the most.

The point is that we got some help for our kid.  It was a long time coming.  I am by no means convinced that all problems are now solved and we can move forward with the warm assurance that this new medication he's on is the magic bullet that will put down the moody beast that rears its ugly head in him on his worst days.  Instead I've learned, this week, that each day is like a pearl on a string.  Some of those pearls are flawless.  Some of them are misshapen, like freshwater baubles.  And some of them are discolored.  But they are all pearls, and they all have their own beauty.  I've also learned that there are too many things I have let fall by the wayside, and too many things I have put up with for far too long.  Life is precious.  Life is sweet.  Life is not meant to be wasted feeling sad.

My son is not his disorder.  He, himself, is also precious, and sweet.  Dealing with is disorder is a one day at a time scenario.  I consider him, and the extraordinary amount of patience, and love, that he requires, and wonder how many people would actually be able to do it?

Swim upstream

Kick the hornet’s nest

Poke the tiger

Rattle some cages

Make them uncomfortable

GO AGAINST THE GRAIN

Open your mouth

Make the leap

Live out loud

Change the world

It's heartbreaking to watch a personal fiction unravel.