passion →

i love it, don't you?

simply intoxicating -- there's nothing better.

just so exciting. all-consuming. it makes you feel alive. 

feeding that passion is the best reason in the world to crawl out of bed in the morning.

& you never have to wonder what you're going to do with yourself all day again.

         but, to not have passion? a burning passion? i tried that already, so no thanks.

"what do you want to be when you grow up?” 

ask a child & they'll tell you right away, no problem -- because the sky's the limit.

me, i wanted to be a movie star. not an actress, a movie star- there's a big difference.

i remember what my family said. all sarcastic. "martha thinks she's such a glamour puss." like it was stupid -- & i thought i was so cool & awesome.

i remember thinking, "well, what's wrong with that?"

&, it kind of hurt, really. yes, it did.

what happened?

what happens to a lot of us, i guess. feeling like we can't do it. that it's unattainable, whatever it is.

buying into beliefs we let people put on us.

i knew there was something about me. i was the funny kid. maybe it came from being the youngest of 4 children, desperate for attention, but it doesn't matter. i made people laugh, & i knew not everybody could do that.

often jokes at someone else's expense, i'm sorry to say, but it's true. what accounts for humor, sometimes... i mean, look at joan rivers' routine. she was pretty damn hilarious.

anyway, we get out in the world & lose our self confidence, our ability to trust ourselves, & even the feeling that we're worthy of having it at all. besides, following a passion is indulgent -- a useless idea we picked up somewhere along the line.

not only that -- following a passion can take really hard work, you know. & it could be we're just a little lazy.

just thought i'd throw that in...

still, i had a way with words & i knew i could communicate. down deep inside, i knew it.

so, think about it -- what about you?

maybe you know what happens when you shove things down. end up with someone else's dream. spending your time living someone else's life when that's really their job -- not yours.   

passion defines us. it's who we are.

do you still remember what you said you wanted to be when you grew up?

maybe you can't put your finger on what's wrong, exactly --  just that there's an empty, disjointed sensation you just can't shake. like you're not fully experiencing life. & it's beginning to feel uncomfortable...

it's like when your stomach is hanging over your jeans. they just don't fit anymore. maybe they never did in the 1st place. they've finally gotten so tight that they suddenly split up the back when you bend over.

that’s probably an awful analogy, but i think you know where i'm going with this.

so, what happens?

there's a person i know who i've been thinking a lot about lately.  one of my favorite people in the world & they're going through a hard time.  i've known this person forever. my whole life, really, & in many of my earliest memories, this person is there.

looks, talent & a killer personality. not only that, he's smart –like brilliant-smart, in every subject. smarter than i am by a mile, & i kind of hate those people, know what i mean?

still, with so many things going for him, my friend's jeans split up the back. maybe it was cut-offs & not jeans he was wearing, but that’s not important. what popped out was an inner-feeling, i guess. just a distorted, scary picture of himself. not real.

what popped out was a damn lie.

so, what went wrong?

i’d tell you if i knew the true reason --  I'm not a mind reader, but like i said- i’ve known this person a very long time, & i think he bought into some people's ideas that were neither fair nor true, & rather than proving them all wrong & following his passion anyway, when the opportunity came to take the easy way out, he took it.

then, easy became a habit & what came next was not a pretty picture. sapped self-worth, a loss of confidence & some really lousy choices. in his words, "it's a pretty shitty deal."   

but, then, maybe i'm completely wrong about my friend.

i mean, what do i know? i wasn't exactly leading the passion parade myself. 

i had this desperate, gnawing fear that wouldn't leave me alone. i’d see myself as an old woman sitting in my rocker on my front porch looking out at the stars. just kicking myself. so disappointed in myself, because my potential was nowhere.

when i'd had every opportunity to change my life every step of the way.

i was about 40 when my wheels came flying off. to tell you the truth, i basically lost my shit. time was running out & i had no idea how to stop it.

& it only gets worse when you have kids of your own, you know?

i had a notion earlier today. something every kid should learn in school. i mean required, serious, no-kidding classes, early-on where they’re taught to follow their passion & hold on tight.

i finally got help. 

yep, from one of those paid professionals who you can tell your deepest secrets to.

mine was a man. a kind man. not a lot older than i was really, but he seemed much older -- an old soul, that's what he was.. 

twice a week for an hour & a half, i’d be crying on his same blue-striped, velour sofa. i felt like i was crazy, & there's probably something to that..

there was a breakthrough one day.

with one question, just a string of words, the man saved my life.

it wasn’t groundbreaking or earth-shattering. nothing anybody on the street couldn't have asked just as easily, but it must've been the right time. his question was simple:

“what's the thing you want to do in your life more than anything?”

“write a book.”

the words tumbled from my lips, free-falling from the cobwebs of my troubled mind.

his follow-up question -- what he said next truly startled me. probably shouldn’t have, but i’m telling you, it truly did.

he tilted his head & looked at me intently. again, a question just so simple:

“why don’t you?”

seriously, i mean, really - think about it. unless they're shoveling dirt on your casket, it's never too late.

it’s not.

so, about that word passion.....

what do you think it means?

i just happen to have my dictionary right here on my desk. can't live without it. random house dictionary of the english language

the unabridged edition

pas-sion (pash’en), n. 1. any emotion or feeling, as love, desire, anger, hate, feat, grief, joy, hope, etc., esp when of a powerful or compelling nature.

here’s another definition – i personally think it fits:

6. a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for anything, i.e: a passion for music.

a few entries down the page, my finger stops on another word. a sad word.

pass-ion-less (pash’en lis) adj.  not feeling or moved by passion; cold or unemotional; calm or detached.

i’m telling you, with his two simple questions, that man saved my life.

what's your passion?

i hope you're one of those fortunate, fulfilled people with their fires still red-hot & blazing.

& what about those kids of yours? they don’t have to be your blood-kids – maybe someone else you can motivate. look around you -- people are everywhere.

in case you’re concerned about the old friend of mine, don’t be. i was there in the very beginning, & I know what he's made of. & that he can move heaven & earth.

to ignite smoldering coals of passion, all it takes is a little fanning & they're a flame.

TTFN

the makeup artist

a good friend of mine is one - a makeup artist. she's got a resume long as your arm - movies, mini-series, politicians on tv, all of that cool stuff, & she knows dishy gossip galore ...

celebs tell you a lot while you're an inch from their face, knowing that you're in charge of whether they look hellish or heavenly in front of the camera & they better not piss you off.

anyway, maybe i'm weird, but it's just that another meaning for the term "makeup artist" popped into my head when my friend & i were @ dinner last week.

wait a minute -- you're wanting to know if she's done johnny depp, right? dunno. i'll ask her & get back with you.

his makeup. get your mind out of the gutter.

so, anyway -- i was thinking that, couldn't a makeup artist be someone who's realllly good at making up after a fight?

like, within my dysfunctional family of origin, here's how it works. the only way you know someone's mad at you is when you get the silent treatment. the quiet game. whatever you want to call it, the phone doesn't ring.

until, one day...

hello? that's me.

how are you? pretend that's my sister. chipper tone. it’s been 3 months since we’ve spoken -- highly unusual because we talk all the time.

i'm good me again. neutral tone. notice how I didn’t say something snarky like, "oh, so we're talking now?" that would be poor form.

well, that's good. my sister again. see how she doesn't say, “i've been being a shit-turd,” or, heaven forbid, "i was wrong?"

guess what? still her.

you're absolutely NOT gonna believe it. it's her breathless, secret-confidential-gossipy, voice. the one i just love.

tell me. hear the smile in my voice? -- it's as if we simply set the phone down for a minute & we're picking up the same conversation we've had a million times before. & my sister & i are buds again.

she's the makeup artist.

& it's kind of messed-up, don't you think? but, that's how it's always been done. especially the part where there's no, "i'm sorry." but, maybe that's okay. i mean, we were taught to never tell a lie. if george washington would've chopped down the cherry tree in our front yard, you wouldn't want to be on the premises, trust me.

but, how about addressing the problem, talking things out -- you know, like a constructive, grown-up conversation? oh, hell no! nowadays, parents say, "use your words," which i find totally annoying & i want to pinch their ninny little heads off... but, you see, no one in my family is confrontational. what we had was more like a hit & run protocol. probably sounds strange, but then, maybe it doesn't -- you decide.

&, something else -- in all these years, it's always my sister who initiates these makeup calls. she's kind of a hot-head, & i'm what you'd call the roll-over type, but you probably figured that out already, but here's the thing -- when we're finally talking again, neither of us wants to spoil it. bringing up the reason we haven't been talking opens the possibility of another 3-month silent period, so where's the sense in that? besides, saying ugly words to each other is off limits -- it's our sister-code. ugly words, we reserve those for our mother. not the really bad ones we'd whisper to each other in our bathroom when we were growing up -- i mean, come on -- it's kind of lousy to say things like that about a white-haired, 5-foot-tall octogenarian.

anyway, i'd like to say my sister calls when it finally gets to the point where she misses me more than she's mad at me, which sounds all warm & fuzzy, but deep down, i know the true reason.

without me around, it'd be just her & our mom.

god, i love my sister.

you're wondering something, aren't you? who's older? it might surprise you.

TTFN

make your bed

scenario: unexpected guest rings your doorbell. for some unknown reason, said guest enters your bedroom & your bed's not made. & it’s afternoon.

how does that make you feel?

mortified? humiliated? dreadfully ashamed that the cat’s out of the bag on your dirty little secret?

now, maybe it's none of the above, & you'd think to yourself, well, who gives a crap? & besides, what’s this nosy creep doing in my bedroom anyway?

but, if it's one of the first things, or even all 3, why is that?

now, i'm just throwing this out there -- it shows that you’re a slob. yeah, that’s probably part of it. especially if this person came back the very next day & saw the same thing.

but, the real reason? maybe a subconscious reason… you know deep inside that you don’t take care of TCB.

for you non-aretha fans, that means, take care of taking care of business.

why don’t we make our beds?

for me, sometimes i’ll think to myself, well – what the hey? i’m just getting back in there later… so what’s the point? besides, bed making has an extra-negative association with me. oh, boo-hoo, i know, but when i was growing up, it seemed like a daily test of perfection. rather, my non-perfection.

my mom was, and still is a total freak about the correct way to do it, & it drives me crazy. like totally nails-digging-into-my-palms, ape-shit crazy.

the blanket must be pulled to the correct distance from the top of the mattress – precisely 3” from the headboard, no more, no less. now, this next part with the sheet takes a little advance preparation, because the amount it must be folded down over the blanket must be that same 3”, because that is the exact measurement between the top edge of the sheet & its hemmed cuff.

it is also imperative that the amount of sheet & blanket hanging down the edge the mattress is equal on both sides. i'm talking completely equal, & if you’re incapable of eye-balling it, there’s a yardstick under the bed.

right next to the slide rule.

now, once they're devoid of the mere hint of wrinkles, it's time to tuck the sheet & blanket under the foot of the mattress. neatly.

oh, hell – i forgot to say that before you can put the blanket on top, the corners of the sheet have to be squared first, at strict 90 degree angles. if you forget this crucial step-- well, don’t, because, aye yai yai!

my mom will make you start all over.

i was always like, what's the big damn deal? why make an all-day event out of it? & for a total non-rule follower, like me who’s a little more free-style in my approach to life, & just about everything in it, i was thrilled beyond thrilled when i moved out on my own & could make the bed like i damn-well pleased, or, not at all, thank you very much.

which brings me to the next part of this story.

an old buddy of mine was “invited” to attend AA several years back -- strictly a stipulation of her probation, she said, but who really knows...

anyway, a really pitiful young woman in the group was horribly addicted drugs, & not the kind found on the shelves @ your neighborhood pharmacy. maybe you didn’t know this, but not everyone in AA is sober, & for her, it was a daily battle that she didn’t always win.

in a desperate state one day, the young woman stood up & completely bore her soul. heartbreaking. many years had passed when my buddy told me this story, & she said she'll remember it until the day she dies.

when the young woman sat down, the room was pin-drop silent for several moments.

until an older lady stood from her chair. easily sixty-five years old. honey, she said.

make your bed.

the young woman looked @ her dumbstruck. everyone else in the room, too. like, what a stupid & insensitive thing for the lady to say. but, she explained.

if you can do that, just that one, simple little thing, it starts your day off right & you’ll be surprised at the difference it makes.

hmmm-m

in case you think i'm going to sit here & tell you it solved all the young woman’s problems, i'm not, because i honestly don’t know -- & besides, if making your bed was the world’s best therapy for addiction, my mother would be running a halfway house -- but i have spent a fair amount of time contemplating the lady’s advice.

think about it -- to make your bed, you have to get out of it first, & for some of us, some days, that may not be all that easy to do.

plus, after going to all that trouble, you’re going to think twice before crawling back in it, right? not only that, but by starting your day doing something you’re not all that fired-up about doing & find out it's not fatal, you know you can do it the next day, too.

i started this blog post this morning. in my head, that is, mulling over the lady's advice as i sipped my coffee while looking down @ the rumpled, twisted blankets on my bed. hell, no, i don’t make my bed every day – i think we’ve already covered that (nice pun). but, as i took extra care smoothing the wrinkles from the comforter & arranging my fancy pillows on top, i knew that not only would i be good & damn ready if some nosy creep happened to wander back into my sanctuary, i had a feeling that it was a good start to a pretty great day.

&, i was right.

TTFN

thanks, mom

today, i've just got to say it. my mom will send me canned emails sometimes -- the ones railing about  obama being a muslim, i delete faster than you can sarah palin. the cheesy, uplifting variety, i usually skim real quick so i won't feel guilty, & say, yeah, whatever ..... & delete those, too.

it's totally not my style to pass along this kind of thing, so don't get used to it -- my next post will be snarky, i promise.....................  so, THANKS, MOM!

to realize the value of a sister or brother, ask someone who doesn't have one.

to realize the value of ten years, ask a newly-divorced couple.

to realize the value of four years, ask a graduate.

to realize the value of one year, ask a student who's failed a final exam.

to realize the value of nine months, ask a mother who gave birth to a stillborn.

to realize the value of one month, ask a mother who's given birth to a premature baby.

to realize the value of one minute, ask a person who's missed the train, bus or plane.

to realize the value of one second, ask a person who's survived an accident.

to realize the value of a friend or family member:

LOSE ONE.

Time waits for no one. Treasure every moment you have.