It’s May 26th, Memorial Day in the US, the official opening day at local swimming pools. And the high temperature is going to be 64 degrees F (18 degrees C). It’s 54 right now. I’m freezing.
Right now I’m in the living room sitting at the computer with a blanket on. I’m going to warm my hands on the coffee — thank goodness for the coffee; it might be the only thing keeping me from hyperthermia. The cats are huddled with me for warmth. Their fur is not enough to keep them warm. It’s not enough to keep me warm.
I feel like hibernating. At least until the temps get above 70.
There are probably more than three books that have had an impact on me, but the prompt tells me to pick only three, so I will. These books are very different from each other (and I’m cheating on one of them).
The first book, which I read in eighth grade, was The Dark is Rising, by Susan Cooper. This book, the second in a series of five, is a fantasy novel set in contemporary Britain in the 70s. It’s definitely juvenile fantasy, of which there was not much during that time period. The depth of the fantasy totally captured me, with its Arthurian and fae undertones set at Christmastime. I totally escaped through that book. I read the series again last Winter, and it read just as well to a 60-year-old adult.
The second book, which I read probably 20 years ago, was The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. Although I worry this book is considered New Age pap marketed to those of us who grooved on Carlos Castaneda, those four agreements pack a psychological punch. The agreements are: “Be impeccable with your word”, “Do not take anything personally”, “Do not make assumptions”, and “Always do your best” (Wikipedia, 2025). These could fit comfortably into cognitive journaling (and do make for good contradictions to cognitive distortions). I live by these now, and they offer me a different way of living.
The third book fits the prompt, even though it’s one that I wrote, because it impacted my life. That was the first book I wrote, The Kringle Conspiracy. That book was impactful because I didn’t think I could write a book until I wrote it, and I didn’t think I could publish a book until I published it. I came up with the story when I was in high school, and published it in my fifties.
There are my three books. I would highly recommend all of them.
I do not have some of the typical fears — flying, public speaking, spiders. I have a fear of heights, but I consider that perfectly reasonable, like fearing something that’s about to tear your head off. The big fear that I harbored for many years was a fear of driving a car.
Cars are big and you can kill people with them. That was what was on my mind when I was sixteen and in driver’s ed. When I had to get behind the wheel of the car, I was a disaster. I could barely accelerate, oversteered the car, and hit the brakes too hard. Worse, I couldn’t figure out in what order I was supposed to do things, so I failed driver’s ed by stopping the car in the middle of the railroad tracks to check for trains. So I didn’t only fear being behind the wheel, I had a reason to. After a second time going through driver’s ed, I took my driver’s license test and barely passed. And then I never drove.
When I was 29, I got hit by a car, which didn’t help the fear any. All it did was break my leg, but it pretty much pulverized an inch of bone near the ankle. I now have a metal bar in that leg from knee to ankle.
A few years later, I lived in an area with a vibrant arts scene, except that the scene was spread over several towns. So one had to be able to drive to Franklin and West Kortright and maybe even Albany. I had just broken up with my husband, and the social engagement sounded nice to me. So I decided I needed to learn how to drive.
I took driver’s ed again, this time with a driver’s ed teacher who figured out the problem and helped me get over it. He made me check with him out loud anything I was about to do while driving. I talked myself through it. Then when I didn’t need to say it aloud anymore, I took my driver’s test and passed.
I got myself a car, and I was not a good driver at first. I got into a couple fender-benders, one with a rental car I had gotten while my car was in the shop. Some of the fender-benders weren’t my fault. I was suspended for 60 days for one of the accidents that wasn’t my fault. But I kept on driving.
I am still scared of driving sometimes. I am scared of driving in cities, especially with complicated splits in them. I am scared on crowded interstates. I keep seeing accidents in my head and they keep me from driving solo a lot of times. I don’t like it, but at least I can drive locally without fear.
I have a lot of quiet joy in my life. Largely because of gratitude. I feel grateful that I am living a calm life without the ravages of unmedicated bipolar disorder. I feel grateful that I live comfortably. I feel grateful that I have survived all the stupid things I have done in my life. I feel grateful that I have the husband I have instead of ending up with all the unsuitable people I dated.
Every day, when I think about it, I send a ‘thank you’ to the universe for the things I’m grateful for. Research in positive psychology shows that practicing gratitude is one way in which someone can increase their happiness. I find it works, but not so much when I practice gratitude journals (the recommended way). Practicing gratitude works best for me when I can do it spontaneously, make it a regular practice in life.
I have two levels of “need to unplug”. The first is the normal level. I can tell I need to unplug because my brain shuts down. I literally become unable to think. It’s a feeling like my brain has become too full. In that case I rest my mind by lounging in my chair and reading something fluffy but informative like Quora or looking at memes of cats. Definitely cats. Sometimes I close my eyes and lay back, but this usually results in my sleeping.
Then there is a level beyond that, when my body and mind are weary and I can’t cope anymore. I get weepy when that happens. At that point, l lounge in that chair and do absolutely nothing. I’m more likely to fall asleep because by then, I need sleep.
My body lets me know when it’s time to relax. I listen to it.
I’m a pretty self-contained person. I really don’t feel the need to talk to anyone, except my friend and mentor Les, who died some years ago at age 95.
I talked to him the other day in a dream. I ran into him on a stair landing and gave him a hug. He told me he was in a hurry because he needed to meet his other family, and we parted ways. That was the most real dream I’ve ever had; maybe I really did talk to him.
If I were to talk to him again, I would tell him how my life has changed since my bipolar diagnosis, how I didn’t feel like crying for hours anymore, how my crushes didn’t control me. I would tell him I had more trouble feeling in touch with the spiritual world and how that worried me. I would tell him how my ordinary day reflected quiet joy, and how a lot of that had to do with my husband. He would know I was in a good place.
I would thank him again for all the times he listened to me, above and beyond the line of duty. How I don’t think I would have gotten through life without that. And I would apologize for all those times, because if I had been in my right mind I wouldn’t have needed so much support.
We talked about all this before, a few years before he died, so it’s not unfinished business between us. But I would talk to him again about it, because I am so bewildered about what it means to be become sane after fifty years of crying jags. Who was I and who am I now? He might have known better than I did.
I wouldn’t call what I practice religion. For example, I’m a Friend (Quaker) who hasn’t gone to Meeting in years, because there’s not one close enough. I believe in Quaker doctrine such as the peace testimony and the Light within. I don’t know if I believe Jesus is divine because I don’t connect to him. I don’t believe in being saved. I don’t believe in the God of the Bible (have you read the Old Testament?), but I believe in the Inner Light of the Quakers. I pray in a running dialogue to Him. Or her. I know She answers prayers by making me more able to face situations, not by fixing things for me.
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I don’t pretend this makes any sense. It’s like I believe in something, but not the God I was brought up with. I want God to be something I experience, not just pay lip service to. I want a relationship, not abject worship. I want a God of love, not the insecurity of the Christian God, who throws people into Hell for not identifying with Him (always Him).
God was so much easier to access before I was treated for bipolar. This concerns me, because it makes me think God was a figment of my over-amped imagination. I miss the God who talked to me. Perhaps that’s why I struggle with religion.
I’m 62, so I’ve lived life before the Internet. It was a time before information flowed readily and before we had the world at our fingertips (literally).
I remember researching before the Internet, which required reading through periodical indices and card catalogs. A lot of reading, and a lot of taking notes, and for someone like me who was not organized as I should be, a lot of frustration.
I could not write novels before the Internet. I wanted accurate detail in my books. For example, I had my idea for what became Whose Hearts are Mountains in graduate school, but I couldn’t pack up and live in the desert for a year to find out about desert life. It would have been hard for me to pick a spot in the desert and determine the flora and fauna, the temperature, and the layout. What I knew back then was that deserts were hot and deserted.
Now, facts flow almost as fast as I can type. I have written several novels, because I can do research while writing. I can access publication databases online from my home. I can answer random questions or look up childhood experiences to reminisce. I don’t know how I would do without the Internet, and I hope I never have to find out.
I achieved two items in my bucket list yesterday, both dealing with dinner. The first is that I got to eat a (reasonably priced and portioned) Black and Blue (Pittsburgh) steak, and the second is that I got to sit at a Chef’s table (in view of the kitchen).
My bucket list is ever-evolving. If I see something I want to do that’s not an everyday thing, I put it on the bucket list. Sometimes I put it on the list immediately before doing it. I think ‘helicopter ride’ was put on that list just as I climbed into the helicopter.
Sometimes things fall off the bucket list. Skydiving is definitely off the list, as I have become somewhat acrophobic in my old age. Walking the Illinois-Michigan Canal trail is prohibited because of my knees and my endurance these days.
I’ve got a new one I hope my husband will indulge me on one of these days. I want to go on that big Ferris wheel in Kansas City. Despite my acrophobia.
This will be a quick post, because I’m at Broadway Cafe in KC doing a mini writing retreat. Also because my keyboard is having trouble with the Space key, which I have to mash to get working. It’s going to be a rough day writing, I can tell.
This trip is going to include some rare steak eating — both in terms of “I seldom eat steak at a fancy steakhouse” and “I’m ordering this black and blue”. I apologize to all the vegetarians out there.
Words Like Me 