Today’s prompt: Where can you reduce clutter in your life?
I was thinking about the “clutter” prompt as I was cooking dinner (spaghetti and meatballs) this evening. I wanted to add a dash of pepper to my sauce so I reached for my pepper shaker. The moment I picked it up, the tiny plug fell out of the bottom and the pepper immediately poured out and made a mess. Not only that, it caused me to sneeze.
Don’t worry. They were cute, barely audible, miniature sneezes. More like sneezettes, really. The kind that makes you think, “Oh how whisper-like and adorable!”
While I was being dainty and feminine, it dawned on me that I really need to de-clutter my spice rack. Between sneezettes, I wondered “Why do I have three separate containers — and brands– of cumin?” and “I bought the garam marsala in the summer and have used it once. Will I ever use it again?” and “Didn’t I buy that cream of tartar at Byerly’s…when I lived in Minneapolis…more than twenty years ago…the first time I made snickerdoodles?”
Suffice to say, I’ve made plans to clean up my spice rack. Tomorrow morning, it’s going to sparkle! After that, I may move on to organize the coat closet or or clean out the fridge. It’s a brand new year, baby. Time to tidy!
Or not. Probably not.
It would appall you how much crap we have. Our mantle alone is filled with old mushrooms and that’s hardly the only place I feature “God’s art.” Every flat surface in this house features rocks, feathers, pine cones, leaves, twigs, horse chestnuts and old bird nests.
On top of that, we have art supplies, light bulbs, tools, old toys, puzzles, books, candles, flashlights, first aid kits, musical instruments, cables, batteries, extension cords, adapters and more situated throughout the house. We have a drawer filled with hot sauce packets…and nothing else. It’s fine. We’re weird, I don’t care and I don’t mind the clutter.
Thanks for reading! -Connie
P.S. Until tonight, I thought pepper-induced sneezing was something that only happened in cartoons. I’m going to tell you the truth: It’s much cuter when it’s Tom (the gray cat from Tom & Jerry) sneezing, versus, say, a 54-year-old Rockford woman.
P.P.S. If you’re wondering, the spaghetti dinner was ruined from the pepper and sneezing so I ended up serving egg rolls and leftover mashed potatoes.
My favorite animal is the “soft animal” that Mary Oliver wrote about in her poem, “Wild Geese.” Maybe you don’t know the poem, but you’ve probably heard the line, “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”
Isn’t that just perfect?
The first time I read the poem, I instantly felt my soft animal roll through my belly like a warm, slow, viscous wave.
It’s been decades since we first met, but the animal still rolls through me from time to time, reminding me that I am so, so alive.
Here’s Mary Oliver’s poem. -Connie
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things.
-Mary Oliver (1935-2019)
P.S. This post is part of the 2024 #bloganuary challenge. I can’t write every day this year, as I have the last two years, but I will participate when time allows.
Ironically, wild geese are *not* my favorite animal, but darnit, look at those goslings!
Pro Tip: Be sure to thank the “fucking dick and asshole” in your life.
I finished reading the book Slow AF Run Club by Martinus Evans this morning. I enjoyed it and recommend it to anyone who is interested in trying something new. Doesn’t have to be running ~ but I think it should be something intense. But this isn’t a book review. I’m writing because of Evans’ Acknowledgement section.
One of my favorite things to do when I complete any book is read the Acknowledgements. I look to see whose names I recognize. I pay attention to who gets their last name published versus those who are referred to by their first names or nicknames. I compare and contrast the acknowledgements of independent authors versus best selling authors versus famous authors.
It’s fascinating. Some are grateful to dozens of people and specific publishing teams and fill up three pages. Others write a single sentence of gratitude. Most say a cheeky version of “I can’t remember everyone but you know who you are!” Many thank a spouse, their kids or significant other. Ghostwriters and early manuscript readers are usually (intentionally) buried in the acknowledgements, a practice that always amuses me. God frequently gets a shout out, but not as much as editors and agents.
But in the hundreds (if not thousands) of acknowledgements I’ve read over the years, until this morning, I have never seen anyone thank a “fucking dick.”
Evans wrote, “I also want to shout out to the doctor who had the audacity to call me fat, laughed at me, and told me that I was going to die. I still think that you’re a fucking dick and asshole for saying what you said to me…”
Why haven’t I thought about acknowledging the fucking dicks in my life? I know several and I have been pissed at them for years. Decades even. Why haven’t I simply thanked them and used the energy from the doomed relationship to do something good for myself? For my family? For freakin’ society?
It’s not too late…
***
I just spent a few minutes writing my own “acknowledgements.” It didn’t take as long as I thought it would. It also didn’t rile me up. I expected the process to upset me, but I actually found the act of acknowledging simultaneously invigorating and peaceful. I “thanked” more than ten enemies. Similar to Martinus Evans, a few were doctors and nurses and I couldn’t remember their names either.
I’ve read numerous books and articles about forgiveness but the concept has been hard for me to grasp. Until now. Thank the fucker, forget their name, then go do something good. Bada bing, bada boom.
Thanks for reading. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go for a slow AF (and barefoot) run! -Connie
The view from our site. I can see my enemies coming!
Greetings from Rock Island State Park in northern Wisconsin. Jesse and I are camping at the place that alternates between being “our favorite place on Earth” and “Hell.” It all depends on whether or not we get stuck with loud neighbors. So far, so good in that department. Phew. All we can hear right now is the wind.
We got here a few hours ago, set up our site, ate some chips and hopped in the tent. It’s not even 8:30 p.m. and we’re tucked in for the night. No campfire this evening because it’s too windy.
We’re on a cliff that overlooks Lake Michigan. Stunning views. I recently read a book (Siri, Who Am I? by Sam Tschida)where one of the characters said he liked views that overlook large bodies of water because “you can see your enemies coming.”
I agree.
To be clear, the wind is not my enemy. The wind is my therapist, knocking all kinds of good sense into me.
Lake Michigan, thanks to the wind, has been tossing up huge waves with whitecaps for most of the day. The current is so strong that the weather authorities issued a “beach hazard.” That means no one was or is allowed in or on the waters. Well, maybe they’re “allowed” but it’s certainly not advised. The current could easily pull a swimmer under and the waves would cause certain shipwreck. We saw it happen here last summer. Somebody stayed out on the water past the warning and, in the morning, the boat was on its side, totally demolished on the rocks. It looked awful.
The wind is racing around us at 30 mph. Between the wind, tent and the lake, it’s noisy. There is a lot of…flapping.
I just checked. According to the “decibel meter” app on my iPhone, the loudness levels from the flapping are commensurate with a running vacuum cleaner or food blender. Hey, who doesn’t want to be surrounded by that when they’re camping on a remote island?
At least it’s still light outside. That means I’m not scared but I probably will be once darkness sets in. Camping makes me feel safe and alive…until it doesn’t. But dealing with my fears is part of what I like about camping.
We don’t camp very often. Once or twice a summer and it’s always hit or miss depending on our camping “neighbors.” Most of the time we have quiet neighbors but we’ve been stuck next to some obnoxious partiers a couple times. Now when we camp, when I see my enemies coming with their multiple tents, coolers filled with beer, lighter fluid and loud music, we immediately pack up and leave. I’m sure there are others who would put up a fight, but not us.
Sometimes I’m not sure why we risk our precious free time on camping.
The view from our tent.
Well, I know why I risk it. I love reading and writing while I camp. There’s something about it that makes me feel silly, serious and free all at once. And I love camping coffee. We got a new coffee pot for this trip and we can’t wait to break it in tomorrow morning. Oh, and I love the feeling of being outside for several days in a row. It unspools all my tension. Even though it’s loud, all this tent-flapping seems to be batting the stress out of me. Amazing. Next time you see me I’m gonna be hella peaceful.
The darkness has set in. It’s close to 10:00 p.m. I’m going to have to zip up the tent. The rain will be here soon and I’ll probably start “hearing footsteps” outside our tent. I always do. I always imagine there’s a creep with a hunchback running around our campsite, sniffing things he shouldn’t be sniffing. Generally speaking, I have a pretty good imagination, but it really comes alive at night when I’m camping.
Thanks for reading. Writing this has made me sleepy. Hopefully it has a relaxing effect on you, too. -Connie
P.S. If you’d like to subscribe to my (free) blog, please enter your email below. Also: This blog links to my Facebook page but I don’t have social media on my phone and cannot see or respond to any Facebook comments. You can “like” or comment below on WordPress and I will see that. But there is no pressure to do any of that. I am simply grateful for readers! ❤
We’ve had a little library in our front yard for more than ten years and I still love it. There are new books in there every week and I take great pride in neatening it nearly every day. Sometimes someone will leave art supplies or a nice note in there. I am pleasantly surprised several times a month.
But this evening, I was unpleasantly surprised. I was walking Barbara and wasn’t wearing my glasses.When we walked by our little library, I glanced in and thought I saw several flyers messily strewn about on the lower shelf.
Occasionally someone will stuff a flyer in there for a local restaurant or a lawn care service or tax service. When this happens, I remove the offending advertisement and toss it into recycling. Our library is for free books or art supplies and the occasional approved free event. As much as I believe in supporting small businesses and shopping locally, our library is not a place for advertising someone’s for-profit business.
Back to those “flyers.” I made a mistake. They weren’t flyers. Once I opened the door to the library, I realized someone had actually ripped up the bookCrushby Carrie Mac.
Crush had been in our little library for about a week. I’m not sure who put it in there, but I was happy to see the title! It’s short, 112 pages long, and it’s about a 17-year-old girl that is attracted to another teenage girl.
Here’s a picture of the back cover.
The torn off back cover of Crush.
My guess is some asshole* saw the book, got offended and ripped it up in a fit of homophobic rage.
Going forward, I am going to keep our little library well stocked with LGBTQIA literature. Please let me know your favorite LGBTQIA titles and I will do my best to add them to my library as soon as possible.
Thanks for reading. -Connie
*Rockford is home to numerous assholes. I’m sorry you had to find out here.
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A fairly recent picture of our house with matching little library. Can you tell what day this picture was taken? Hint: BUNNY.
Testing the trails with my kids at Deer Run Forest Preserve in northern Illinois.
Barefoot hiking with the kids
For the past few weeks, my family and I have been testing several trails in northern Illinois to ensure that they are “barefoot friendly.” To be deemed barefoot friendly, the path must be clear and clean for at least one mile so that the barefoot hiker experiences pleasure, not pain.
Well, maybe a little pain
If you walk too fast, you’re going to get a little hurt. We learned this early in our training. While each of us acclimated very quickly to going barefoot, we started off going too fast. In our first trial week we either got cut, stung, bruised, scraped and/or poked. We’re fine with a little pain, but we have slowed down our pace, especially when others are with us.
A minor scratch from going too fast. Lesson learned.
The perks of bare feet
You can google “barefoot hiking” and find numerous articles, blogs and websites that list the health benefits. But here, I’ll share with you you what I’ve experienced.
One, I feel better. I feel…more.
Two, I’m more aware of my surroundings. Not only do I notice what’s happening on the ground, I’ve become more in tune with what’s happening with the trees and plants. A month ago, when I started going barefoot on a regular basis, I noticed that the trees, hedges, bushes and plants are in a constant state of shedding their leaves, blossoms, blooms and needles. Most of the shedding is pure comfort to walk upon. While I don’t recommend walking on blue spruce needles, it’s very pleasant to walk on white pine needles and yew needles.
Where the sidewalk…begins
It used to cause me pain to take walk on pavement. Now I see where the trees and plants lay down places for me to walk barefoot. A weed growing through the cracks makes a soft landing pad as do the little divots of dried out dirt in fragmented sidewalks. The wind has blown the early spring blossoms of my trees and flowers into a fine floral carpet in my back yard. I no longer slip on my sandals when I take out the trash or walk my dog. I rake the yard less. I stopped sweeping the sidewalk. I’ve found that Mother Nature naturally softens the earth for bare feet. And that’s just in my neighborhood.
Seasonal
I am not a fan of the humidity that comes with a Midwestern summer but I love walking barefoot through a cool forest on a hot day. It’s rejuvenating. I also love walking through hot, dry grass alongside an Illinois prairie. There is a soft crunch that comes with each step and the blades of grass send chills up my body. The textures of the trails are exhilarating.
Where I should go barefoot hiking?
Start small. Go barefoot inside and outside your home. Drive somewhere in your bare feet. Let your feet get used to being bare. When you’re ready, hit the trails. Just remember to go slow.
My favorite barefoot friendly trails (BFTs) are located at Hononegah Forest Preserve and Funderburg Forest Preserve. You can get two safe, sentient miles in at these BFTs.
PRO TIP #1: At Hononegah, start at the trail opening just off the soccer field. Go left and head toward the river. You’ll have a lovely experience.
PRO TIP #2: At Funderburg, if you’re a beginner, I recommend starting with your shoes or sandals on. Head toward the trail that takes you through the woods and to the creek. Once you pass the gravel, you can remove your footwear. We usually just leave our shoes on the side of the trail, but you can carry them with you, if you like.
There are many more paths that are perfect for bare feet which leads me to…
PRO TIP #3: Come with me!
If you’re not ready to venture out on your own, I’m leading several “shoe optional” hikes for the Rockford Fringe this summer. These free guided hikes are one or two miles long and after our walks, we’re having a light picnic and an art pop-up. That means we spend a half hour or more writing, reading, sketching, composing or creating some new kind of art. We call them “twarts” because they’re outdoor adventures with a twist of art.
Did I lose you?
If so, which part?
Does saying or even just reading “twart” make you uncomfortable? It’s a silly made-up word that embodies the Rockford Fringe. It can’t hurt you!
Are you turned off to the idea of exposing your bare tootsies in public? The hikes are shoe optional, so wear your footwear if you like.
Are you turned off to the idea of creating art in the open air? If so, then just observe or leave early.
Are you turned off to the idea of a picnic? Then don’t eat.
Real talk
I love barefoot hiking. I love writing, music, theatre, art, poetry and spoken word. I love picnics. I love being outside. I love meeting people. And I love sharing safe, fun, free events with the public. Why? Because the Rockford Fringe shows me what’s real. It shows me who’s real. It shows me, time and time again, people who think for themselves.
I am excited to see who shows up and gives their feet a chance to connect with the earth. And I’m even more excited to see what is created! We’ve already witnessed one new original song, a new short story, the beginning of a new screenplay, a couple new poems and some sketching and drawing.
We’re looking for a few brave souls and soles to join us at our twarts. Are you one of them? Then click the Events tab and sign up.
Thanks for reading! Hope to see you at a twart! -Connie
My foot at Hononegah Forest Preserve.
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This morning, I was reading a chapter about the benefits of walking barefoot. I’ve been thinking about guiding a two or three-mile barefoot hike at a local forest preserve and was searching for insight and came across the following quote:
Our feet have almost twice as many nerve endings as a penis, making them one of the most intensely tactile and sensuous parts of the body.
After I read that, I put my book down, stared at bare feet and wondered, “Is that supposed to inspire me?”
Because it didn’t.
However, it did remind me of an article I read in the local paper several years ago. It was about a young man who was part of an organization that walks barefoot every day. Even though there was absolutely no mention of the nerve endings of a penis, I was still inspired.
It was winter but I was eager to give barefoot walking a try. I wasn’t particularly good at it, not at first. Walking on frozen sidewalks and earth feels like you’re getting burned and scraped at the same time, but I kept trying and now it’s something I do every day. I don’t do it for long periods of time. I’ll do little things. I’ll take the trash out or go to the basement or drive or walk Barbara. Right now I am writing barefoot.
Though I’ve been a practicing barefoot-walker for more than a decade, my mind still plays tricks on me. It tries to talk me out of it.
“You’ll get stung!” “You’ll cut yourself!” “You’ll get pulled over!” “You’ll step on broken glass!” “You’ll fall!” “You’ll step on a slug!” “You’ll step in…something wet.”
My mind tries to scare me away from connecting with the earth (or my home or my car). My mind tells me to stop being direct.
I hate when my mind tells me to stop being direct and I hate when my body sends me signals that interfere with my intuition. But I love finding ways to rebel against fear.
I hope you’ll consider joining me on a barefoot hike. I’m still working out the details of when and where, but wanted to write about it today in hopes that it would sort of whet your appetite to go on a barefoot hike with me.
Judith Slaying Holofernes by Artemesia Gentileschi.
In 2013, the painting Judith Slays Holofernes by 17th century Italian artist Artemesia Gentileschi made its way to the Art Institute of Chicago. It’s a painting of woman cutting off her rapist’s head. It’s bloody, grim and grotesque. As such, it’s unsettling and awesome to behold.
Because the woman is still in the process of slicing off the man’s head, the painting feels very alive, very active. Merely thinking about it some ten years later after seeing it in person, I think of the decapitation as somehow still happening — eternal even! Hell for the rapist because ouch. Heaven for the woman because justice. And heaven for her helper because yay team. This is the part where I mention I’m not an art critic.
Anyway, the painting was only “visiting” Chicago. (It’s currently residing at Museo e Real Bosco di Capodimonte in Naples, Italy.) Realizing that we may never get the chance to see it again, Jesse and I took our kids (then ages 3, 4, 6 and 8) to see it and met a family friend at the museum, too. Good family fun.
Just three pals having a good laugh after visiting “Judith.” That’s me, Ishanee “Good for her” DeVas in the middle and Jesse. (Photo by Jocelyn, age 8.)
When we were looking at the painting, I asked my friend something along the lines of, “What do you think?” and she said, “Good for her.”
My God, I love hearing women say that about other women. It just…ahhhhhh. I don’t condone violence, but there’s something about hearing someone say, “Good for her” that makes me happy.
I’ve had several “good for her” moments in my life but today I had a “good for him” moment.
A choreographer apparently smeared dog feces on a critic after receiving a negative review. I instantly thought, “Good for _____” as I clicked on the bait link to find out if the choreographer was male, female or non-binary. I saw that the choreographer was male and finished my thought. “–him.”
Yes. Good for him.
Hey, we all thin-slice. We have instincts and make split-second decisions. But by and large, my response time to violence of any kind starts with a sigh followed by, “Hold on; we don’t know the whole story.”
But the second I heard that someone smeared shit in a critic’s face, my heart filled with cheer, pride and respect.
“Good for him!” I repeated, this time with an exclamation point.
You know what? I haven’t read the full story. I haven’t even tried to get the other side. I haven’t even looked to see if the choreographer himself might possibly need some kind of counseling or anger management. Nope. The reason?
I can’t stand critics.
The reason for the reason? Oh, many, but the nutshell version is I think professional critics are part of the problem, not the solution.
Have you seen the movie An Officer and a Gentleman? In the climax, Richard Gere goes after Debra Winger in what is arguably the most romantic movie ending of all time. As he scoops Winger up and kisses her, Winger’s unlikeable friend claps for her and says, “Way to go, Paula. Way to go!”
While the the bleach-blonde “Lynette” character is far from wholesome, her cheering is sincere. As such, I recognize it is not wholesome of me to cheer for a shit smearer, but it’s sincere and coming from a place of respect.
P.S. Fern (now 14) and Angelo (13) are sitting at the same table as me, only they are playing chess, not blogging. I just showed them a picture of the painting and asked them if they remembered seeing it. Fern immediately recognized it and Angelo said he didn’t recognize it but had seen many paintings like that. He then called the painting “disturbing.”
I would not have noticed this if I didn’t have to walk Barbara.
Today’s prompt is Where is the best place to watch the sunset near you?
I love this question because I love winter light. It’s one of the “things” that gets me through January. Though I have seen spectacular sunsets splashed across Chicago’s skyline, the best place to watch one is right here at home in the dead of winter when I’m doing regular old mom things like walking my dog or folding laundry in my bedroom.
I love how the sun sets on the little garages in my neighborhood. I would not have noticed if I didn’t have to fold laundry.
This is the last day of Bloganuary which is another thing that gets me through January. This is my second year and I’m so grateful for this challenge! I noticed I started to “crave” Bloganuary in the summer and by the time November rolled around, I was eager for it to begin. I’ve enjoyed reading the work of the other bloggers on the community page, especially the writing of my husband Jesse who participated for the first time.
Last year I set a goal of writing a blog for 100 days. I met and exceeded that goal. This year, I’m stopping today. I’m not going to stop writing; I’m going to stop writing with a prompt or a technical goal. In other words, I’ll still blog, but not necessarily every day and I won’t share it on Facebook unless it’s urgent. My goal is to see how I write when I don’t have to write.
If you want to still read my blog, you can subscribe to it and the new entries will simply show up in your email inbox.
On that, I leave you with a haiku the day before National Haiku Month begins.
january's sun has set
time to write
in new light
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading!
Today’s prompt is What would you title the chapters of your autobiography?
Short answer: I wouldn’t write an autobiography.
Long answer:
In high school, there was a copy of Living it Up Or, They Still Love Me in Altoonaby George Burns in our house. The book was published in 1976 when George Burns was 80.
One day I saw the hardcover book on the marble table in the living room. Another day I saw it on the dining room table. Another day I saw it on the radiator in the kitchen. Another day I saw it on the radiator by the front door. I’m not sure who was moving the book, but one day I grabbed it, read it and loved it. In fact, I loved it so much I brought it to college with me. (That’s my way of saying I stole the book.) After graduation, I brought “my” beloved book with me to Minneapolis where I carted it around for another 16 years to six different apartments.
A little about George Burns, in case you are young.
Besides being an author, George Burns was a famous comedian and actor with a Vaudeville background. He was one of those guys who seemed old even when he was young but he was so funny and charismatic that he appealed to all ages. Burns smoked cigars, had an invitingly scratchy voice and seemed to be perpetually squinting his eyes. At 5-foot-7, he was shorter than most men but had a personality that was so charismatic and commanding that he was cast as actual God in the 1977 film Oh, God!
Another important tidbit about Burns is that he worked well and equitably with his wife, Gracie Allen from the 1920s-1960s in radio, film and television.
A little about the 1920s-60s, in case you are young: Most women didn’t work back then, especially on the radio or on camera or with their spouse.
Moving on, Burns’ book is filled with stories and anecdotes about his professional and personal experiences including a whole chapter about his friend the comedy legend Jack Benny. Though it’s been decades since I read the book, Burns wrote that Benny was perpetually looking for a good cup of coffee. After Benny died, Burns said something about how he hoped his friend finally found a good cup of coffee in heaven. I’m paraphrasing. I can’t remember it verbatim but I will tell you the chapter left such an indelible impression on me that I think of Jack Benny and George Burns every single time I drink coffee. Every time! That’s good writing!
Only $36 USD! What a bargain!
Since reading Living it Up, or They Still Love Me in Altoona, I have read dozens of celebrity and political autobiographies and memoirs by people I respect (Barack Obama) and people I loathe (Ivanka Trump), and I’ve never been fulfilled by any of them! I first fell in political love with Barack Obama because he’s such a good writer but I still prefer the writing of George Burns over my favorite president. And if you must know, I’m straight up pissed at myself for reading Ivanka’s obnoxious Women Who Work – Rewriting the Rules of Success. But I cannot resist reading “guilty pleasures.” In other words, you can count on me to readSpareby Prince Harry.
But Burns’ book wasn’t (or isn’t) a guilty pleasure. It has old school class, wit and wisdom. It’s warm and unique. I’ll continue to read autobiographies and memoirs but I’ll never write one.
Constance Kuntz 