When I thought that I was not enough I rendered myself vulnerable. Vulnerable to the lies that felt like admiration, being that vanity was my strong suite. Being considered special beyond merit occupied my sensibility of logic. He love me, he loves me not, they love me, they love me not projected possibilities of a connection within my worth. My worth, what does that intel. At one point in my life, it required me to be a good girl and to just go with the flow. To allow myself to be love bombed with words of affirmation and acts of service, because how could you not love me after all of that, right. Pint up moments of confusion and self-doubt. Am I being punked, where is Ashton, consumes my filtered emotions. Emotions of overwhelmed perception of a bond beyond expectation while trying to enforce self-love. I earned the self-esteem that I, at one point, lacked. I also learned the power of self-love and self-validation and that I can end up being my own kryptonite. Although I might not be everyone’s cup of tea, I now know that I am enough.

Dear Me from 4 years ago,

I know you weren’t thinking about winning the election. You weren’t a good enough candidate, and you had no experience. At least that’s how you saw the race. And your political party had not held a seat on the township board for years; correction, make that decades. In fact, they normally did not even run candidates for those township positions. Yes, I can see why you didn’t think enough of yourself to unseat an incumbent from the board.

Getting on the ballot was easier than you thought. You had the support from members of a local women’s group who helped get the 250 signatures you needed. But you knew getting your name on a ballot and winning a race against incumbents are two very different things. In your mind, you cast yourself as the underdog, and perhaps you were.

You ordered campaign literature and yard signs. Facebook posts and ads explained your views and positions. That was the simple part of the campaign. You wondered if you were good enough to hold your own at the candidate’s public forum. It was a good sign when opponents started agreeing with some of your talking points by the end of the forum.

Your confidence was growing until you tried to get an endorsement from a US House member. She told you in no uncertain terms that you were not running a serious enough campaign. Sorry, but she wouldn’t endorse you. I know that hurt, but it also steeled your resolve. You were no longer just running against some incumbent township board candidates, but you were running against the opinion of a sitting US Congresswoman who didn’t think your campaign effort was enough. You responded by working harder and smarter.

Sadly, it turned out that your campaign actually wasn’t good enough to get the most votes. You were not even close. You didn’t finish in second either. So close to third, but you fell short. Fortunately, four members serve on the board, and you finished comfortably fourth in the voting. Welcome to an elected office.

Here we are four years later, and you are now me, starting my second term in office on the township board after receiving the most votes of all candidates in the election two months ago. Discussions have begun about running for a county board position in 2028. Do I have enough in me to win? I think I just might this time.

Regards,
Me from today

Intensified whispers of life’s uncertainty. Desperate inner standing conveying braveness. Hard with no give, gives way to the tramples of urgency undiagnosed. Abstract visualization of informative display. Periodical division imitating strength when all I want is a shoulder to lean on. Shackled limbs mimicking protection while a handheld gesture offers direction. Direction to mercy’s grace and will. The will to fight beyond my optimism for within optimism I blame doubt. Pain numbed awareness, confusing the severity of an affect, that white lining of a barrier breach. Gradual adjustments of healing and hope. My tower moment, my introspection, my change.

My body weight presses down upon you,
Pushing you under the water,
But you do not protest.
You do not fight back,
Although movement consumes you,
As you rock to and fro.
Seconds pass,
Turning into minutes.
Still, you move,
As I sit atop you,
Readying myself for our aqueous pas de deux,
While nearby witnesses idle by,
Paying little heed to our commingling.
I have no regrets
Being seen with you,
Mostly by water fowl near shore.
Oh, my kayak,
How I love riding the water
On top of your rotomolded plastic form.
My love for you cannot be kept secret,
Thanks to your neon lime green color
That is visible from space.
It eliminates any chance of a clandestine paddle,
When we are as one on the water.
You take such care of me,
Bravely protecting my bottom,
As you scratch and ding yours
On submerged rocks and branches.
You warn me with a metal placard
Riveted to your green skin
Of a 225 lb. max weight capacity.
Is that because of concern
That the extra pounds I carry
May result in health-related issues for me,
Like diabetes and high cholesterol?
Or is that a federally mandated requirement
For water craft to display?
I hope the former
And blush at your thoughtfulness.
When I first saw you,
Your charms were impossible to resist,
Especially your ability
To fit into my SUV
With the seats folded flat,
Saving me the cost of a roof carrier.
Always thinking of me,
Aren’t you?
You remain constantly on my mind,
As you are visible from our family room window,
Sitting idly under our pergola
That was once used for entertaining,
But now is repurposed for kayak storage,
Much to my wife’s displeasure.
What she doesn’t realize is that seeing you
Inspires me to slide my ample posterior
Into your inviting lime hull
For a workout on the river
To shed pounds like you shed water.
Well, perhaps not pounds but ounces.
Okay, would you believe one ounce,
If I paddle really hard?
That maximum weight capacity may be reached
Someday in the future.
But thanks to you, my kayak,
Not today.
I dip my paddle
And steal away across the water
With my love.

Dear Fear,

I immediately regret using a cordial word like ‘dear’ in my greeting. I have zero friendly feelings toward you. You freeze us in our tracks. Fear, you are a giant speed bump on the roads we take to self-actualization. You keep us from getting close enough to the people who need us, as well as those who can help us overcome you.

Choosing one fear to write about in an uncertain world full of trepidation is difficult. I reject some of the bigger and darker fears that people have. Death doesn’t scare me. I can’t summon up fear for a one-time event that is inevitable for us all. It will happen. It’s all of humanity’s destiny. And once it happens, it’s possible we’re not even going to know or care. It’ll be over, and our book of life, at least in this realm, will be closed.

Fear of failure is a popular choice of many, but I’ve never feared failure. Perhaps I’ve fallen short so many times that I’ve become inured to failing. I’ve always believed that if you’re not failing, you’re not trying enough. So, come at me, failure, and I will give you a great big hug.

Way back in 1974, Jim Stafford had a Billboard-charting song titled “Spiders and Snakes” in which Stafford sings of his dislike of the title creatures. They perfectly describe you, my fear. I don’t literally mean creepy, crawly spiders and slithering snakes, although I will admit that coming across a hairy spider in the basement or a snake ready to nip at my ankles in the garden are not my favorite experiences. Maybe if I lived in Australia, where most living creatures are ready, willing, and able to kill humans without any provocation, actual spiders and snakes may scare me. But I live in the USA’s Midwest. Most spiders and snakes I encounter are benign and harmless, except for the figurative ones.

I’m referring to “spiders” like:
“It’s going to take too long.”
“I’m not creative enough to come up with ideas.”
“I don’t have the skills to do that.”

And to “snakes” like:
“I just don’t have the time.”
“I’ve never tried that before.”
“I don’t know how.”

I fear falling prey to those “spiders and snakes” far more than a hairy spider crawling toward me while I’m sitting in the bathroom or turning over a garden rock to find a snake. I much prefer a small bite that will surely heal (again, I’m in the US Midwest and not Australia where almost every living creature is poisonous) to the crippling power of the metaphorical “spiders and snakes” that can stop our lives dead in our tracks with fear. I always try to be kind to animals, but I have no qualms about squishing my symbolic spiders in a tissue of determination or whacking my figurative snakes with a club of resolve. I hope PETA will cut me some slack and look the other way as I dispatch the imaginary creatures representing my actual fears.

And so, I have eschewed fears of death, failure, shark attacks, tornadoes, IRS audits, time share contracts, and buying life insurance, and I have settled on the ever-present metaphorical spiders and snakes in my life as my greatest fear. I can’t carry a tune to save my life, but you can always count on me to sing along unabashedly with Jim Stafford, proclaiming to the world that we both don’t like spiders and snakes.

With great disregard,

88% Style Score

What is a book?
Is it just a collection of letters,
Sorted into words,
Arranged into sentences,
Grouped into paragraphs,
Bundled into chapters,
Bound together by a central theme?
If that’s the case,
Then I’ve written a book.
A couple, actually.
But it doesn’t feel like it.
My books are digital only.
That’s the way to go these days,
Isn’t it?
Print is dead, right?
Then why do I feel as if
I have NOT written a book?
Maybe I’m just being foolish,
But I want more.
I want my book to occupy space
On my bookshelf
Next to the fireplace.
I want to be able to read the title and my name
On the spine of the book as it is
Nestled in the bookshelf,
Uncomfortably squeezed literally and literarily
Between classics like Ulysses and Moby Dick.
I want to physically hold the book
And curl up in a comfy chair with it.
I want to riffle through the pages,
Creating a breeze I can feel on my face.
I want the tactile experience of the printed word,
As I rub a page between my thumb and forefinger.
I want a book that can be ruined
Should a page be torn from it.
I want a book that has some staying power,
Whether on a shelf or in a storage box gathering dust,
While the owners forget what’s inside.
I no longer want my book to be only a digital file
That can be deleted with a click on a trash bin icon
Or lost forever at the next hard drive crash.
I want a sense of permanence for my book.
At least I want it to outlast me.
Perhaps this may be a flight of vanity.
I prefer to think of it more as a legacy
That proves I was here,
That I had thoughts,
And that I recorded them for posterity.
For those reasons and others,
I will publish a book in print this year.
I will riffle the pages
And breathe in the smell of the newly printed paper.
Then I will place my book on my bookshelf.

There comes a time to stop
And finish a chapter in your book of life.
A time to bid farewell to the rat race.
A decision made to retire and enjoy the good life.
Except … two of my five children live at home.
One working toward an advanced degree.
The other still a teen with college ahead.
Neither fully independent yet.
Was pondering retirement irresponsible
Considering those familial obligations?
I reviewed every possible scenario,
And came to the conclusion that
It seemed to be an imprudent time to stop working.
It wasn’t that I was no longer productive.
I could still do the job well,
When I wanted to.
It’s just that my heart wasn’t in it,
And both my heart and gut told me it was time
To set aside my sales tools and retire.
But to what?
A life of morning coffee or tea,
Blending into an afternoon newspaper or book read,
Giving way to an evening of television?
I knew that it didn’t have to be that.
I have recently fancied myself a writer,
A part-time amateur for sure.
I rationalized that retirement would bring me
All the additional time I needed
To promote and sell my writings!
But would I then be retired,
Hawking my thoughts as merchandise
Rather than the equipment I once offered?
The solution was so simple.
I will be a writer without selling one single word.
I just need to write.
For myself.
With a purpose ahead of me,
I chose to retire in 2024.
It wasn’t easy to disentangle from my career.
It was difficult to set aside the ways and habits
That led to past professional successes.
It was painful to let go of career plans
That will forever remain unrealized.
There are work tendrils still attached to me,
But they grow weaker and fewer each day.
I closed the chapter of my life
That I called my job
To enjoy my retirement.
But that is not the end of my book.
I have begun writing my next chapter,
As an author,
Creating for myself.
I’m grateful for readers
Who choose to spend their time
Exploring my thoughts.
But I’m not dependent upon them
To find validation in my narratives.

Imagine this…You are a newly married couple and are told “You can’t have children. Everything we have tried has failed. There is one more option.” The young couple chooses the last option and it is adoption. They foster to adopt several children before being told in December of 1997, “There is a 4 day old baby that needs you.” They foster this baby and then, about a year later, are told “Hey, that baby has 2 older sisters you are bringing home too.”
Now imagine this. you are a 2 year old child who has endured more than a 2 year old should and you don’t trust anyone or anything.
That was me. It took me a very long time to earn my foster mom’s trust because of the physical and mental abuse and neglect I sustained before being removed from the home. I am so glad I earned my foster mom’s trust because she and her husband went on to become our adoptive parents and this past September, we celebrated 25 years of our adoption. Two of us kids have families of our own and me…well, let’s just say I am taking my time and spending as much time as I can with my parents. Just remember, trust is hard to earn, easy to lose, and easy to love.

So I’m a veteran now..
Help me open this
C & P exam notification.
Look at that,
a winner has been selected
for my mental health’s raffle.
Combat activity report card reads as follows:
2 deployments for me
&
93% on the subject of
American history.

I felt the ghosts
of our heroes
let their tears fall
over my shoulder,
because the heaviest pen in
the planet struggled to check the box that was applicable to me.

I’ve been feeling decently
until recently,
when I was notified,
that everything
that I try to hide
in the tombs of my psyche,
will be –
resurrected,
dissected,
&
placed under
a microscope.
Picture my ptsd..
As a protozoa in a petri dish,
just small enough that I will never
feel whole (fill hole)
unless I open up,
I will never heal my soul…

Or maybe a telescope,

for everytime I’ve
spaced
out.

There’s a dissonance
in the distance that
slightly resembles the terror that
holds my happiness hostage.
“Incoming,”
Incoming,
Incoming!

any alarm
& this action movie
shapeshifts
into the horror genre,

Michael Bay
transforms into
Stephen King.

“It” is
“The Pet Semetery”
Where
“Cujo”
Is buried,
alarms also make me feel like
Jon Coffee walking
“The Green Mile.”

The Doha Accord was signed on
29 Feb, 2020.

Despite this alleged “armistice,”
the mirage in the dark was the target of many armaments..

12 bombs…I think?

like scalping your enemy,
i’ve tried to sever
that memory from my head,
but try as I might,
it hangs on by a thread,
how could I ever forget
the bomb that knocked me out of my bed?

& the subsequent phone call
to my parents..
telling them how
f*cking scared I was.

Oh, the heartbreak harbored in their eyes,
for only a handful of times,
have they seen their son cry,
but anytime I heard
Incoming, incoming, incoming..
It was at least possible
I might die.

I genuflect to inspect
These 17 coins I have earned,
Jaded-
I helped pack the grave dirt of far to many urns.
The petri begins denting from the inside.

Still Sealed by the gravity
That re-wrote history:
the fat man who crashed
bockscar in
Nagasaki.

Or
the little boy birthed
from enola gay
in Hiroshima.

“Do alarms really bother you?”
“Yes, it’s my heart beat playing hide and seek,”
“Is it getting any better?”
“Not really,
Every time I try & get some sleep
I hear the floorboards creak,”
“Isn’t it just another noise?”

“No.

It’s every thought I’ve ever had against my life,
The Grim Reaper’s sychte felt so cold upon my cheek…”

Im thankful for all of the help
that I have seeked,
for the last 4.5 years
I have my good days &
bad days,
& I’m hopeful that
one day,
it will be
Just Another Noise.
But until then,
I hope you see everyone is different after they’ve deployed.

Borrowed time, tampered prime, descenigrating lapse of systems.
Taser filled opportunist lumes over sensibility. Exact knowledge of rephrased wisdom. Confiscated mishaps of vengeance paralyzing the, what if. In the midst of flavor verses favor, I prepare a table. Intense undermining of preparation, I convict thee. To serve or not to serve, the facade of the misled. The challenges exceed exhaustive state of forward movement but I stay ready. Tempting thoughts of fragmented steps so you can get ready and when you do, you stay ready!