Wednesday, Sept. 12, 2012

A short while back, I blogged about how some beach municipalities cut costs while dredging by dumping all the dug up sand onto the beaches instead of transporting it a minimum of ten miles off shore as they used to do.  Due to how this makes the beaches unsightly, many are opposed to dredging.  As if the unsightly extra tons of sand burying the beaches aren’t enough to upset the locals, then having to witness the masses of dead animals caused by the dredging is.

Dredging consists of scraping huge amounts of sand from the ocean floor and relocating it.  This process kills millions of sea life.  For example, following dredging, sand crabs litter the shore like ribbons of pea gravel.  Sea birds, unable to find enough sand crabs to eat, die by the hundreds.  Seals, who usually happily inhabit deeper waters of the ocean, are also affected by dredging, their corpses littering the shore as grim reminders of what man’s solution to problems causes.

I realize that dredging serves a purpose.  As such, I’m not criticizing those who try to solve those problems.  But one would think there would be a more humane way—at least for sea life—to solve the problems dredging addresses.     

Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2012

During the Cold War, my father was part of an elite team of highly trained pilots who flew planes in Germany.  Though he spoke seldom of his time served in Germany, what he did share was of fond memories.  One of which was an acquisition he got while there—a then antique clock—the one pictured here. 

When my father was done serving in Germany, he meticulously packaged the clock and had it shipped here to the states.  I have the fondest memories of that clock!  A hyperactive child, little could cause me to slow down.  But that clock….  There was something magical in the way its tick, tick, ticking would instantly sooth me—much as the ocean always has. 

A number of years before my father passed, he relocated to be near the beach.  It was at that time, that he gifted the clock, one of his prized possessions, to me.  I thought of all the nights my child self had fallen into a blissful sleep just beneath that clock, its ticking lulling me into a coma-like sleep. 

When it came time for me to move a week ago, there was no question that the clock would go with me.  But I didn’t trust the professional movers to relocate it.  My car was full of two large dogs and an Amazon parrot, so bringing it on move day was out of the question.   Though it pained me, I had to leave the clock behind.  Not forever, but having to part with it seemed so…so…wrong…like a piece of me was missing. 

Today, I got to resolve that and reclaim my father’s clock.  Meant I had to drive 120 miles to do so, but I would have gladly driven any distance to once again listen to its hypnotic tick, tick, ticking. 

Just as my father had decades past, I meticulously packed the clock for the move, it surviving the long journey to my new house without a single scratch.  The clock is very temperamental.  When I moved it from my father’s to my last house, its mechanisms didn’t take kindly to the trip and stopped functioning.  But a house call from a clock specialist brought it back to life.  So, it was great hesitation that I removed my father’s clock from the wall of my old house today, fully expecting it to again not appreciate being moved. 

Hanging it on the wall in the spotlighted locale I’d selected, I lovingly wound it and held my breath as I began the slow swing of its pendulum.   I watched with bated breath as it swung from the left…to the right…and back again, thinking it would stop at that.  But it didn’t.  I’m happy to report that my father’s prized German antique clock is keeping perfect time.  Guess it loves its new home as much as I do, which I’m sure would have pleased my father.  

Monday, Sept. 10, 2012

Life has a funny way of reminding me that I’m not super woman, the bionic woman and that, yes, my body is riddled with an intricate webbing of old injuries that if I don’t tend to them and take care of my body, will flare up and give me grief.  Having to move at the accelerated rate I did due to finding and buying a house with such a quick escrow, I was forced to push my body—and all of its old injuries—to its max.  A gamble that I was hoping I wouldn’t regret. 

I don’t regret finding this house, having a whirlwind escrow (the likes of which were an absolute breeze due to a magnificent host of outstanding folks), or packing and unpacking so quick.  But…now I’m paying for it. 

My body held out all the way up until the day before I had to move.  Up until then, I had been pulling 17 to 20-hour days that involved tons of physical exertion.  Some might think that due to my routine physical fitness regiment that would prove no problem.  But lifting heavy boxes and bending over again and again to pack and then unpack items isn’t something my body is used to—no matter how much exercise it gets.

So, the day before I had to move, my left knee—the better of the two—gave out.  Well, it tried to, but with the movers arriving early the next morning and my being needed to direct where things went, not to mention finish packing and begin unpacking, I refused to listen to how my knee was failing and forced my way through the pain.

I managed to make it through the move—all thirteen hours with the movers.  And then I still had stuff to attend to before being able to get off my feet and turn in.  Course, I was smart enough to pack my icepacks where I’d be able to readily find them once moved.  And it felt—and has continued to feel—divine, each and every time I the ice freezes away my pain and help to diminish the swelling of my knee.

Though I’m nowhere near able to run right now and getting up and down prove a real chore, I know my body well enough to be sure that if I could just get out and walk that would help heal my knee.  I finally got the chance to do that today, spreading my walk over two separate times, one earlier in the day, the other in the evening.  In between, I iced my knee.  All told, I managed six and two thirds miles!  By the time I was done with each walk, my knee was visibly less swollen and easier to manipulate.

Yay!

So, would I have done things differently to avoid messing up my knee?  If I’d had the chance, I would have enjoyed taking things slower.  As it was, I tried to mix up a solid day of physical exertion followed by a day of on-the-phone-moving stuff that needed to be addressed.  My hope was to give my body a day off every other to let it heal in between my having to push it so hard.  That helped—a lot. 

For now, I’m taking it easier than normal.  It’ll likely be several weeks (if not longer) before I’m able to run again.  That’s okay.  I’m in no hurry.  In the meantime, I’ll enjoy taking long walks on the beach in the soft sand that forces my body to compensate by twisting and turning in ways that only running mountain trails could provide.  So, though I’m moving a bit slower and rather limited with how I can get up and sit down, I’m making the best of it—a smile planted firmly on my face.   

Sunday, Sept. 9, 2012

One thing writers need to be successful at their trade is input.  What kind of input?  Any and all.  We need to be stimulated—our minds, emotions, bodies and even our souls.  Without such stimulants, we lose our creative edge. 

Think of it this way.  When a person cooks, they can add all the ingredients they want, but unless they include seasonings, the dish will fall flat.  Not that the finished product wouldn’t be edible.  It most likely would be.  But spices enhance dishes just as stimuli enhances a writer’s ability to take life’s seemingly ordinary occurrences and translate them into entertainment that will capture a reader’s attention…make them laugh…cry...worry…look under the bed, etc.

So where do writer’s get their inspirational input?  Simple.  From everyday life—lots and lots of everyday life!  I believe that we writers take a closer look at things that others might pass over, thinking them insignificant.  And to most, they would be trivial.  But to a writer, those obscure trivialities are a treasure cove of hidden seasonings that, with a little writing skill, can manifest what might have been perceived as a boring occurrence into something that, though it may still be boring, the way it’s presented to the reader is anything but.

So we writers get out and do…things.  We live life fully.  We take as many opportunities as possible to eek every last nuance out of life, allowing those subtleties to infuse themselves into our minds, emotions, bodies and even our souls, for we know that to absorb the most out of life will allow us to become better writers, more capable of capturing a reader’s full attention rather than just their occasional glance our way.