I am mortally wounded (sarcasm alert) because I have just read that bloggers are self absorbed, vain, self promoters, and all sort of other words that might suggest narcissism. (I can never spell that word on my own but I can always spell narcissus. Why is that?)
I haven't gazed at my own navel in at least a few hours so I don't know what they are talking about. I started blogging to meet and connect with people and I think that in all situations the only way to meet and connect is to put yourself out there and say hello, share a little, visit, comment, support and how do you meet people you have things in common with if you don't make it known who you are? Am I justifying? Do I sound defensive? Maybe.
0=fecks I give. Now, on with the Shawna Show
Queen of Awkward poses, she loves wearing dresses with pants, she loves purple, she hacks off her own hair in the middle of the night....she can do whatever the feck she wants to because she is her own boss. You know you envy her....I present, in all her
*Posing hurts. I don't have enough hip to convincingly thrust it sideways.
*Necklaces: you can never wear too many of them!
*Shoes? You don't need 'em.
*Scary ugly floors? Yes. Not much I can say about that.
*Kitchen: the someone lives here look is going on in there.
I am participating in Natalia's Rise and Write challenge. The goal is to write for five or ten minutes on a provided topic. It's first draft writing so thoughts, experimenting and just doing it are the main focus. I haven't really figured out where I will put my little writing blurps in order to link and share so for now I am putting the first two here. If you don't enjoy such things STOP READING NOW.
The first thing I see when I open my eyes in the morning is not the same every time. Some mornings my face is smooshed into my pillow and sheets are over my head. This morning I opened my eyes to my cat, Matty, lying on my chest purring and gazing at me. As soon as we made eye contact she tapped her paw gently on my lips. I was very tired and feeling ill; not sure if I was going to be getting up for the day, not sure if the nausea would be improved by breakfast, and there was something about that gentle little pat, as though she were saying, I'm here; it will be okay. You have been here for me and now I am here for you." I like to think that, but it is more likely she was saying, "Hurry up and get out of bed." Matty is more inclined to snuggle up to my legs so finding her on my chest, looking at me, meeting those big, round, gold eyes when I first opened mine, just feels like a special moment of connection. An understanding that we are two middle aged females, looking after each other.
The first bouquet of flowers I remember is not much of a bouquet by normal standards. Like many little girls, I happily picked wild flowers and clutched them in my grubby little fists, hurrying home to give them to my mother. I believe that it is this typical behaviour, this demonstration of love from early days, that leads grown woman to hope for and to appreciate flowers given to them by their romantic partners. Flowers in a bouquet mean love.
I grew up in a small town where there were still wild areas around, empty lots with no houses, wooded areas, fields of grass and flowers, and dandelions, buttercups and daisies were a regular part of my daily play, but in the wooded areas the small purple flours of the wild geranium could be found and they were my favourite. The woods was magical, a place where the fairies lived so of course the flowers that grew there were more enticing to me than the dandelions of the fields. I picked little nosegays of the little, delicate flowers and presented them to my mother, who must have somehow found some sort of tiny vessel to put them in.
Fast forward many years-decades-and it is now my mother who brings me bouquets of love. She has a talent for flower arranging and an large overflowing garden. I too was a passionate gardener, but having a garden no longer, due to those circumstances and life changes that it is best to take in stride, I miss the presence of flowers in my life greatly. Regularly, my mother drops by with colourful, artful, sweet smelling bouquets she has picked for me. Or, as I see it, regularly my mother comes to visit me and brings me love.