Finding Home

from Woody Lane via Photobucket

Does anyone really do what they say?
 

I mean…does anyone set out on some existential journey trying to find themselves (as if they were ever lost).

A ridiculous premise.

Reach down, grab a handful of arm, leg, love handle…you’re right there.

Okay, I realize we're stating the non-obvious, the intangible. People want to believe they are out there somewhere amongst the human detritus, floating. In a cloud of possibility.

But, most of us can’t afford to live in the what-could-be, we’re grounded right here in the now.

Earn enough money to eat, pay bills, have a little fun. Knuckle under, pay the piper. Those all to real clichés. No time to live anywhere but here.

A dream is just something to lift you out of your mundane existence for a stitch, but life is a cloth woven from reality not dreams.

So no one really goes searching for who they are (do they?)

Then...for some reason…it just happens.

You wake up one day, glance back down the road and the surprise of it lifts you off your feet. You’re not eighteen anymore (though you may not feel any different) and while you were drudging through life you were actually completing the search. You did find yourself. But the journey was much more normal, tangible, earthbound than you thought it would be.

After years of searching the world over…you found it.

The person you truly are.

You just didn’t know you were looking at the time.

And now that person is home, comfortable and (hopefully) satisfied with where they came from, traveled to and arrived at.

Home is where the heart is (and the liver and the kidneys). It's right here...where you're standing.

You've arrived--found yourself.

(Now?)

Welcome home.


If you liked this post, leave a comment. I would love to hear from you.

Snow...What It Means

Shawna_xxx_ via Photobucket

 

 

I want to put something down on this blog everyday; something that will strike a spark in other people, not just filler. That said…

 

…what I am going to write about today. Snow. That’s what I am observing as I stare out the window right now.

 

First of all it’s white. Sure there are some marks on the perfection like those tire tracks and some dog prints (are they dog or some other beasty), but for the most part it is pristine. Since I live in a very small town, I expect it will stay that way for the most part. I can just go to the surrounding mountains if I want to see anything even more pristine; the problem would be getting there at this point.

 

Most people probably think of purity when they see snow because of the silence and the white. I think of cold, but also of times when I enjoyed the snow with my brothers as a boy.

 

We lived on this little farm (32 acres) in Northwest Missouri where snow and cold are known to accumulate. We had a large front yard with a sizeable hill that sloped down to a gravel road. Since not many people ventured down the lane, especially at the height of winter, we were free to sled down our hill, across the road and into the catch fence across the way (This fence was actually a welded wire pig fence with a few strands of barbwire on top. I don't remember any of us getting hurt while running into it, but what do boys care about that anyway).

 

Our typical sled was whatever we could grab that would slide. Sometimes we had old pieces of barn tin that my dad would confiscate and throw away (something about tetanus) if he saw us using them. But the best sled ever was this flat piece of stainless steel about 1/4" x 3' x 6'. Two of us could ride at a time and this thing flew. The only problem was that it was flat. We tried to guide it as best we could, but aside from the hand or foot drag, there was no reliable means of making it go a certain way. And as I said before it flew. So, by the time we wanted to guide it a certain way, around an obstacle for example, we were already there and it was too late. I got many a Charley Horse from that sled, but boy was it fun. The rides were intense. Both scary and exciting.

 

Besides the sledding we also liked to tromp around the place (remember there were 32 acres to explore) and make snow caves, have snowball fights and just generally see how the world was different after a new blown snow. Most of the time we would try to find places where the wind had piled the snow to some large degree so that we could burrow into it and have a reasonable cave to hide in. Within these little caves we would stay relatively warm and plant them as the basis for ambush operations. We four boys were within a few years of each other (oldest only five years older than the youngest), so we were pretty evenly matched. The fights could be epic, but the snow lent a softening effect to our struggles so they rarely ended in any prolonged temper.

 

If it was cold enough we would go down to the creek and test the viability of the ice thereon. To do this we would find a big piece of cut wood or a branch and throw that onto the surface. If it went through, it was not stable enough for sliding, but if it didn't...well. We weren't engineers by any means (though our dad was) so the concept of distribution of mass meant nothing to any of us. We would throw the log down and let that be the determination of stability. We often got soaked for our trouble, but that didn't matter.

 

That was about three decades ago and we all get older and wiser (some of us anyway). I haven't been sledding in a few years and I doubt I would find the same comfort in a snow cave. But, when I look out at the snow I still see four laughing, yelling boys who were up to having fun. It is one of those cherishable memories and brought me and my brothers closer. A closeness that we have never sacrificed.

Introduction

This is not a sports, fashion, retail or gardening blog; it IS a writer's blog. But it could include a little of each of the elements listed.

Since I style myself a writer (and make my living as such), the question I get most of the time from people who ask me what I do is

    -  "What do you write?", or

    -  "Where can I find something you have written?"

It  is difficult to send them to a location or discuss what I have written, up to this point. Let's just say that I have been eclectic and have taken whatever will make scraps of money (though I have always drawn the line at erotica--or to put it crassly...porn).

Since December of 2008, I have made my living as a writer. Such as it has been. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. But, I have found that I enjoy the autonomy. I do not appreciate the attendant hucksterism required though (I may explain that at a later date).

For the most part, I write web content in the form of articles designed to draw people to a website. In deference to my employers, I will not divulge those websites here, but I can say that I have focused on sites that legitimately help people in some tangible way.

You may also be thinking, as I ramble along this particular rabbit trail, that this is sounding a bit like an "About Me" segment; something reserved for another area of this blog. I do not mean it to be so. I am working up to the point of this post.

I live and thrive in the Ozarks (Salem, AR to be exact). I love the hills and mountains; the sun topping the oak laden ridges in the morning and going to bed with the Whippoorwills' calls at night. It is a magical place to live. Full of wonder, exciting lore and a plethora of catfish restaurants. I love every bit of it and the unique people who inhabit these hills. I wouldn't live anywhere else.

The stories I write are set here also. From historic novels to slightly paranormal tales of "haints" and deranged moonshiners. I am planning on taking the readers of this blog on an unforgettable journey that includes opportunities to discover this place that I love through my books, the people I meet and the places I visit.

I am just opening this blog, so I have no readers yet (even family), but as they accumulate...oh the things we will do!