Infected with the pursuit of 20,000 steps


getting going seems to be the secret.  once the spirit of the mood is active, then I’m more positively inclined to do, to move.

if I lay back down, then I am done.

I may not interact with society until late in the morning.

having no boundaries on my time does not imply happiness and freedom.  instead, the loose, haphazard manner in which I find myself is fully depressing.

so, my Garmin watch actually buzzes on my wrist, to “Move”.  it gives me daily step goals. I love it.  my husband and I, both Garmin users, are infected with the pursuit of 20,000 step days.  admittedly, we are both just as happy to achieve 10,000 steps in a day.

but lower than that, and I feel like I could be a sloth.  (which actually, would not be entirely a bad thing, if looked at in a certain way).  at any rate, my self-hatred and guilt rules me.

so, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to stepping I go!


*Picture taken by author (me) at the Hennepin Canal, in Illinois



I got 19,000 steps in today. About 8.8 miles. I revel in getting outside and exercising. I’m boxing, too, which blows off much pent up frustration. I’m lifting weights, just for the arms. Finally, I stretch at the end of the workout, which is sheer bliss.

I fell off whatever wagon I had been on, and just habituated in a sort of personal waste land.

Now I’m back, with a vengeance.

My next goal is to return to writing.

I really missed this community!




But not wanting to go

Too deep.


I want to stand on the fishes.



As per usual.

Am I just not as good?



Tears threaten my surface



Which is why standing on fishes is a very good way to go.


Surface composure is only that.

Angling for more will scare the fishes

Away from me.


And then I’ll be left.



Honestly I think drowning

Is more involved with

Being without self-confidence.


If I can believe in myself,

Maybe those fishes will stay with me.

Looking back brings distance from the pain


I spent sixteen years in abject silence over a secret which I kept. The sad fact is that it really wasn’t a secret. I just treated the fact with a silence; I would not share my secret willingly. I would not bring it up in conversation, though the opening was wide many times. I do not know if I would continue to keep this secret, under different circumstances. But my family fully impressed upon me how important it was to keep silent on the matter of my brain. They assured me that it would be used as ammunition for getting rid of me, since I had a malfunctioning brain: A DSM-IV diagnosis. Looking back, I think the weight of silence on this matter became heavier and heavier. I had already taken medical leave. Some fellow workers visited me in the mental ward of the hospital. But there was some magic about not SAYING what was wrong with me. I thought it would protect me from all manner of bad happenings in the workplace. Now I wonder if it would have been easier to be more open about my need, for instance, for lorezepam at noon daily. I know no one can understand another’s plight fully. But I kept mine fully hidden. I surprised my coworkers and my boss when I said I was resigning. Internally, I felt isolated, hated, misunderstood— partially because I never shared my feelings, or my needs. I really regret the way things went, lately I have been regretting how I’m doing things; looking back often and thinking a better course was available. I don’t think people really move on from big events that happen in their life. I know I will always remember with pain, the time of resignation from my job, of some thirteen years. All that really makes it better is time that has since passed, from my resignation. And that time has been rich with fervent effort to do right. To be productive in the best ways I know how. And to love my husband, and my family with every last ounce.

What makes a friend?


Though you could ask me what a good friend is, I couldn’t claim to be a good friend to many. So I have less authority than some. However, I give my best love to a very few people, and that is all I know about being a good friend. How do I give my best love? What do I do? What is the rationale? These are all good questions, which would undoubtedly spur from being a good friend. Some of the very few, in fact!

In giving my best love, that often means I am treating myself the best I can. This sounds like a contradiction, but to me, if I am making myself the best person I can, then I can serve my best loves the best. However, very key is to be aware of what your best loves need. If you think they need you to do some special task that you would not normally do, like go to a basket ball game, then do it! You want to be with your friend in ways that will make your friend happy! Basically I try to be very aware of what my best love is doing, how he is feeling, and adjust accordingly. There are times, of course, when I am very down, and cannot be extremely receptive to my best love. In those cases, I have found myself lucky enough to have a love that will accept me when I am not my best self.

In sum, being the best person you can be, and being receptive to your best friend, are two stunning ways to have a worthwhile, even successful, relationship.

Everything about it is inflection


The following palaver ( which I think of most of my prose), provided the seed for the poem I wrote after.

I wanted to share what I usually don’t: my prose, which in this case regards the weather.

As often happens to me, I realize what I was trying to say, and put it more succinctly, in a poem.

I feel like I can “stretch out” in a poem. I get bogged down in long sentences, and semicolons, in prose.


I am one who often gets so enmeshed in the moment, that I forget every other thing. Sometimes, when I leave a really good movie at the movie theater, I will think I’m still “on-set”. I’ll never forget seeing Dances with Wolves with a high school friend, and we came out of the theater making Indian war cries! I still felt that the moon that shone down on us was the moon that shone on Costner’s nights in front of his fire.

Because of this tendency, I am writing to answer a question my husband posed tonight. The question, “Spring—where is it?” challenges me to look beyond. I have to remember NEGATIVE THIRTY DEGREES is not the norm.

Can I believe that with April, will come weather that lightens the body and mind? Projecting out that far feels almost daring. But if one is to believe every past season; and each season passing into the next, then one must know that that “unbearable lightness of being” could, in fact, visit us again.

I am not counting the days; yet I do find that I feel currently stalled out at “COLD”. I can only hope for the happiness that more sunny, warmer days can afford.


I want to see clearly again.
The sun, which shines down on all,
does not affect me lately.
I feel, only, the heat
cranking out of our vents.
I feel, only, the weight of
all the clothes I wear; day,
and night.
I feel, only, a sense of
endlessness much like how
the terrain of the Arctic
stretches inhospitably, forever.

I question whether I ever had
the right to run, to wear shorts,
to freckle in the sunny sun?

I question whether God, or global
warming, will concede a change of
season: from Winter to … Spring?

I question whether I’ve fully lost my
former ability to think without complexities
weighing me down such that I
cannot make sense of my life.

I want to see clearly again.

The past: an interview


Adolescent Relative (A.R.): ….more complex than that?

Me: Yes, more complicated than the deepest calculus problem, the hardest physics conundrum, the most perplexing chemistry equation

A.R.: more complex than your past?

Me: Uhhh…. No.

A.R. Why can’t you puzzle out your past?

Me: It’s in a box I keep closed for the most part. I don’t try, therefore I will never understand in hindsight as most people do.

A.R.: how can you move forward without reference to who you were?

Me: I keep recreating who I am.