Waking up is hard to do

My first husband and I listened to (and sang) a variety of music – predominantly of the pop, MOR, easy listening genre.  We were attracted to music with melodic and harmonic qualities.  When our son arrived 13 months into that marriage, I swung into compose as you go, lullaby on demand mode.  Maybe the grown son is passionate about rock as a rebellion – or maybe just as an extension of being rocked to sleep. I made a favorite rock-you-to-sleep lyric of the song that never ends variety. It was challenging to sing only because it ascended in pitch at each turn around.

There are times in an infant’s life they nod off to sleep peacefully and other times they fight taking a nap;

Times they wake placid and times they wake hungry, soggy, uncomfortable or discontent.

Believing music a great antidote for whatever ails you, I began to employ a wake-up repertoire as well as a go-to-sleep song list.  It took the leap of a nanosecond to adapt Neil Sedaka’s “Breaking Up is Hard to Do,” to “Waking Up is Hard to Do.”

They say that waking up is, hard to do;

And I know, I know that it’s true;

After all you’ve slept through;

Waking up is hard to do.

I am a morning person.  I love waking up with the sun and having two or three hours to myself to walk, create or organize before the duties of the day kick in.  Maybe it is the season, or maybe old age, the cares of life – or perhaps the decreasing hours of daylight.  Whatever the reason, waking up these days is occasionally depressing, overwhelming or lonely.

No problem.  I still have music to console me – with little, very little adaptation.

They say that waking up is, hard to do;

And I know, I know that it’s true;

After all, I’ve been through;

Waking up is hard to do.

2014 Manifesto

It may have taken me 10 months to formulate, but yesterday while hiking the Perimeter of Ouray Colorado, I was able to articulate a goal, a resolution for this year.

I want to live for beauty not money;

Be driven by love rather than affirmation;

Walk for inspiration rather than exercise.

My clothes, my belongings;

Are for beauty, love, adventure; not for status or vanity.

Of course, all the nots sometimes come along with the beauty, love, and inspiration.

In September, I got much needed new hiking treads.
In September, I got much needed new hiking treads.

In October, I stepped unsuspecting into mud nearly to my knees.  New and shiny to unrecognizable in less than 30 days.


Mud Writing

This is it.  This is the place. I never pass this way but what I say to myself, “There, that is the corner where you wrote Terry’s name in the mud, hoping it would last forever, but knowing the river would wash your secret away.”

Then again, this may not be the correct location.  Highway 65 does look like the place, but perhaps it triggers a memory of Glenwood Canyon.  Mom, Dad, Me, my Brother -we were on the way somewhere.  To Grand Mesa?  To Denver?  Who knows?  I was so burdened with my desire for that tanned, blond, talented boy, that I took a stick in hand and told my love to the river putty. I wonder, is it rare to feel as strong a connection as I felt at 10?

Puppy Love, they call it.  Infatuation.  Crush. But tell me, do you have a similar story? Has there ever, since that time, been a relationship, a desire so strong, pure that it had to be spoken, admitted, whether anything came of it or not? Is requited, completed love ever as strong as the secret and unrequited?

Perhaps that is what I love most about a sandy beach. You can walk and scribe and tell the world of your love or your pain and then let the tide and the ocean carry it all away and provide a blank canvas.