Storytelling – Even If You Think You Can’t.

She was impatient, as only a 3 year old can be. Her father was working late, and I was doing the dishes. But she wanted her story. NOW. And she had been patient all evening. It had been a nightly routine to read to her since before she could talk. With soapy hands, I couldn’t hold the book and she refused to hold the book herself. I knew that if I didn’t do something soon, we’d soon have a full blown temper tantrum on our hands, and she’d be too wound up to sleep.

Thinking quickly, I asked if it would be alright if I told her a story. “It will be fun; you can make up whatever pictures you want to go with the story.” The suspicious look on her face told me that she didn’t altogether trust this new idea. Finally she nodded, and then looked at me expectantly.

Oh dear, what had I gotten myself into? I was not a story teller. I was not creative. I could not improvise a story on the spur of the moment. So finally I decided to tell a story I knew inside and out, Cinderella. So did she, having watched the movie over and over, in the way that preschoolers do.

I started out tentatively, and any place where my story differed from the movie, she corrected me. And by the time that we were at the Ball, we were both fully into the story. Incensed at the behavior of the wicked stepsisters, she declared that they should not be allowed to be in the story at all.

Typically of a three-year-old, my daughter didn’t want to hear about Cinderella dancing with the Prince. “It’s boring.” But she was very interested in the mice, the pumpkin and the magic. She knew the magic turned them into a coach and horses but still didn’t understand why they couldn’t stay that way.

And when Cinderella finally made her way down the stairs in her ragged clothes to meet the handsome prince, she cheered, knowing that a happy ending was just around the corner.


Gayle McCain, Author

Story - Travel Light...

 She could feel a pulling in her chest as her eyes followed the laser light along it's path. It was made visible by the smoke rolling out from behind the backdrops. Something in her longed to fly along that line of light and come out anywhere but at the noise filled auditorium, sitting next to the date from hell. He had asked her if she liked music. 

When she'd said "yes" he'd hung up before she said she loved the symphony and Celtic music, and that she could take both Jazz and Country in small quantities. So he had picked her up, looked at her little black dress strangely, shrugged and drove downtown to the amphitheater. 

 She should have taken a taxi home immediately when she saw more leather and chains in the lobby than she'd ever seen before. But she was on a date. So, finding a set of green earplugs in her purse, she stuck it out, purse clutched in her hand to keep it from being stepped on by the enthusiastic fans all around her. 

 It was supposed to be fun. But the longer she followed the lights with her eyes the more she began to think that she was stoned from the weed being smoked all around her, she swore she was being pulled out of her chair by her chest. 

Distracting herself from the noise of the hard rock concert, she allowed herself to relax and let the mysterious tug take her. She couldn't figure out how she'd ended up backstage. But the odd pulling in her chest was gone. 

Convinced that she was totally stoned, she stumbled into a stagehand standing behind the backdrop. He herded her out the back door quickly, mumbling something about 'came from nowhere'. 

 The silence outside was such a relief. Purse already in hand, she decided not to go back. He wasn't worth it. 

 It took her an entire week before she figured out what had happened. And even then she had trouble believing it. Somehow she had ridden the laser light to its end. 

A little bit of searching turned up the term Temporal Bi-Location, pen size Laser Pointers, and not much else. 

So she began to experiment. 

Trial and error proved to be a bit dangerous as she couldn't remember what she'd tried and not tried. But keeping exact records in a small spiral notebook gave her enough information to be able to determine that while any of the visible wavelengths worked, when she really focused on the feeling in her chest she could get the most distance out of the red Laser pointer. 

Day after day she practiced, gaining distance until she could ride the laser light one hundred miles, even though it's label stated that it could only be seen for ten miles. 

 But no matter how often she practiced she couldn't seem to go further than a hundred miles, and at that she usually ended up stumbling when she landed. Sometimes dropping as much as 4-5 feet. Some of this was due to terrain differences but she finally realized that it was mostly due to the curvature of the earth. 

She began experimenting. Could she interrupt the flight in the middle? Once she could do that, she tried going straight up for a few feet and then changing directions by re-aiming the pointer while falling. She learned to travel great distances by this stair-step method. 

She was exposed to the weather every time she was stepping down and re-aiming the pointer. So she learned to check the weather, check the elevation and always have zippers on her pockets. 

She knew that when she sped along a beam of light, she was not visible. She figured it was because she was moving too fast. 

Not having the equipment she couldn't test whether she was traveling at the speed of light or not. But her travel felt instantaneous, unless she was in a course correction. She learned to cross the mountains, and oceans, jungles and deserts. She had 3 old fashioned compasses on lanyards and four pocket sized laser pointers. 

 So with her passport, a pocketful of currency, and courage she learned to Travel Light... 

Gayle 

Author's note - I don't know whether it works this way or not.

But I'm hopeful. I just bought my own laser pointer thingy.        ; )

Story - Stuck as a Bean Counter

 
A new story for your reading. Does it work this way? I don't know, but there are sure a lot of people who say - rewrite the story - and come unstuck. Plus it was FUN to write. 

SHE was not lost! She was never lost. 

She knew exactly where she was. 

She was stuck. Stuck as a Bean Counter. 

Stuck in not allowing. Not allowing money to come into her life. 

Stuck, keeping joy from manifesting in her life. Stuck not moving forward in her career. Stuck not allowing love into her heart. 

She was stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. 

And it had started eons ago. God only knowing how much living she had done - stuck.  

Stuck in the act of being birthed into the life he had always dreamed of. With no money for a midwife - and unwanted to boot - his family had broken the ribs of his fragile body in order to save the life of the mother. Allowed him to die, having never lived and never accomplished the things that would save thousands upon thousands of lives. His desire to live had been so strong that he had struggled to breathe with broken ribs, lungs damaged beyond repair, until finally sometime late in the night he had given up and let go of the fragile body.  

What was keeping her stuck was the idea that they had trained her to be something she was not. Trained her to count beans, when she was at heart a planet mover, a world saver. Trained her to be small, bound her up in rules and strictures that kept her from breathing. And yet through it all, her will to live was so strong that she had continued to breathe, living shallowly. Though each inhalation was a struggle, she had kept taking breath after breath. Hoping that someday she would break through whatever it was that she needed and that someday what should have been her birthright – air – would come easily. 

 And finally the burden became so difficult that one day she said “Enough. ENOUGH. I DON’T WANT TO PLAY THIS GAME ANY MORE. I’m going to change the game.” And so she did. She re-wrote the birth story.  

 

This time his mother was laboring to birth a new fragile life into the desert that was the family’s love for each other. His father had so valued both the life of the mother and the fragile life waiting to be born that he had called for a midwife, not knowing how he would pay for her. She, generously waiving her fee, had arrived not long after to find the nearly born baby stuck, coming feet first - ready to hit the ground running. Not understanding the ways being human, he was expecting to come full into life – ready to move about and be productive. 

Gently and tenderly, this woman had talked to both mother and babe, with voice, energy and hands. And she had persuaded him to pull back his foot so that he could spend a few more uncomfortable minutes being turned. Patiently the woman had turned the babe inside the mother until clenching his fists in impatience he was finally in position to be born. Three contractions and he was out, telling the world of his arrival. 

Finally relaxing his fists he allowed himself to be soothed. This child, loved, nurtured and wanted, grew eagerly into a strong young man, creating a new irrigation system, bringing water to the fertile but dry desert. Staving off the drought that held the land in its grip for a decade, he found a way to bring water up from the depths of the earth to water their crops when the rivers ran dry. 

 In his lifetime he became the patriarch a loving family who found creative solutions to whatever was standing in their way. He built a legacy of Joy and Prosperity that they shared with all, for the betterment of not only their own tribe but all tribes. 

With the prosperity that came, he provided midwives for all, so that fewer children would have to be sacrificed to save the life of the mother. And because there was some thread that had known that he had been unwanted, he created a system where unwanted children could easily be matched with parents who would love and nurture the child, no matter the age. 

  And so the woman, having dreamed a different story, began to breathe. She could feel her ribs moving, muscles relaxing that she had not even known were tense. 

 Letting go of angst and sadness that had kept her from building the life she truly wanted. She became the planet mover – the world saver - which she had been born to be, never counting another bean in her life, and never missing it. 

She and her partner founded a dynasty of brilliant inventors and world movers who found creative, loving solutions to problems that had plagued mankind for eons. 

Sharing a long life together, they lived the kind of life that had only been spoken of in myth, larger than life. She was free to generously give her time and energy, caring for those who could not care for themselves.

Story - Welcome Home

This story was 1st published in Booksie.com 1-16-2009 - 17 people read it. No one commented. This fiction is written to help me understand the possibilities. Does it work like this? I don't know. But it feels right. I have left the story essentially unchanged though my life has changed since this was written.

It was frightening for me at first, because so many could not see me. Yet I was still there. I was not dead - there was no body. But I was gone from their sight. As if by magic. I moved among them, touching and trying to comfort them. Yet all they did was brush me away, as if I were merely the touch of a fly.

There were a few who knew that I was there. Small children, and the very aged, but I still had a body. And the man that I loved got lost in grief for a time. But I kept leaving papers on his desk. And soon he began to read them.

I could not write, but I could move books from one place to another. I could pick up pieces of paper.

‘Read this’ I’d whisper in his ear. ‘I am here. Do not grieve for me. Live your life, Love, and you will see me soon.’ His heart healed. And he let go of his grief, long before anyone expected him to do so. So he must have felt me loving him.

He began to devour the writings that I left for him. He began to devour the things that I had sent to him over the years, which he had kept in folders on his computer. He called my friends and asked for their help. For somehow he knew that if he could only understand one critical thing, that he could achieve all of his dreams.

But what was that critical thing? Did his heart long to be famous if love was not part of the picture? What use was a big house, if he was the only one in it?

He began taking longer and longer treks into the wilderness, wilder and wilder he explored. Searching for a guide to teach him.


Until one day, he went to the Forest of the Ancient Ones, searching for answers. Arriving shortly after dawn, he simply sat. Leaning against the rough bark, he rested quietly, allowing his mind to become still. His breathing slowed, his eyes closed partway, and his heart calmed. Peace stole over him that day.

He melted into the tree, feeling the life blood of the earth rising toward the treetops of the Ancient One, and his eyes widened. For finally, he could see me, sitting next to him, cross legged, leaning against the same tree, smiling my quiet smile.

“What do the trees say to you?” asking him the question that he had asked me so many years ago.

“That they are glad that I have finally come. They say that you are really here, but that usually I just cannot see you,” voice barely above a whisper, he smiled for the first time in months. Then his smile disappeared as he spoke again. “But what use is it for me to know if you are here, if I cannot touch you.”

“Are you sure? Take my hand.” And I reached out to touch his knee. For the first time in months he felt my hand, warm and tender. Not thinking it was merely a trickle to be brushed away.

Fingers entwined in mine, he looked at our hands in wonder. “But you’re gone? How can you be here? I must be dreaming.”

“No, I have always been here, waiting for you to stop lowering your energy in grief. I have always been here, loving you. Now you must trust. Trust that you are ready for the shift that is occurring within you.”

He leaned back against the trunk of the old tree once more, and I told him the story of ascension. How one day I was playing with the energy in a crowded room, and I just disappeared. Right in front of people.

It had not been dramatic, except that they looked around, and then dismissed my disappearance, as though I had merely stood up and left the room. Their minds had not been ready to accept the reality of what they saw, so they simply forgot it.

But I had still walked around. I had still moved from place to place. I found that moving by thought was easier than driving. I learned to fly again. At first it was awkward, like swimming through mud. But eventually I got the hang of it. And then I remembered him. And went in search of this delightful man, only to find him immersed in grief. For to him, I had evaporated, leaving a hole in his life.

We talked the afternoon away, leaning against those old trees, holding hands, the other visitors of the park ignoring us completely, as though we were invisible. It was almost dark when he finally stood.

“I must go now. I’m supposed to be with the kids tonight,” regret filled his voice. “Will I see you again?”

“Take my hand; I have something to show you.” And we walked off into the forest. Finally reaching a clearing, surrounded by a half dozen of the Ancient Ones, we stopped. Puzzlement filled his face as we began to glow.

“Children, come here,” the words were spoken at barely a whisper, and yet they carried out into the Forest, on a wave. The Forest fell quiet and one by one our children stepped out between the trees. “They have always been here, because they did not forget. Somehow they were allowed to remember that they belong here. How they lived in both worlds, I do not know, because I couldn't do it. Perhaps it was as like a game of role playing. But they are here. Now. They live with me. All of our children. Both yours and mine. And other children come and go. It is comfortable, and we are used to each other now. Though at first it was awkward, because your children did not wish to be disloyal to their mother. But we adjusted, and they have helped me to understand how to come and go between the energies, of high and low. In that way they could visit you, and then return here to recharge and renew. Though I can't seem to do it yet.”

“Many of our friends are here too. Not all, but the ones that we loved best are here. And I am glad that you have finally joined us.”

He was concerned about getting out of the park before they locked the gates, still caught up in the idea of the lower energy. His children laughed, and told him that there were no gates here, and that his car would be all right. And that he should come and see our home. . Surprised that they should say our home, he was nearly overwhelmed when we arrived at a comfortably snug home. The boys climbed to their shared loft, my daughter was preparing supper. Pausing a moment in her movements my daughter hugged me, and then went to stand in front of him. ‘Welcome home,’ was all she said.

Shaking his head, he sat at the simple table, while I got him a drink of the clearest, coolest water he had ever had. Clean and tidy, our home was not large, but it was cared for with love.

After supper, my daughter hugged us both again, patted each boy on the head, and went to the door. “I’ve work to do tonight. Is there anybody you especially want me to love, mother?”

“Why don’t you check on your father? In fact you might want to take him to a movie. I think he’s kind of lonely.”

“It’s getting harder to manifest a body. I’d rather he brought his energy up,” she complained. “Will he ever ‘get it’?”

“You know that no one is kept out, except those who will not love. So sooner or later, your father will get it, though he may have to die to do it,” was the answer heard through my sigh. “If he can learn it from you, then he need not go through that pain. Good luck, you’ll need it.” Nodding, she waved as she went into the dark and closed the door.


“Am I dead?” asked the man at my side.

“No,” was my reply. “You are finally vibrating high enough to shift to a new dimension. Here, we live our lives, creating that which we want, no more, no less. We live peacefully, because there is no need to take things from someone else, when we can make whatever we want.”

“I don’t understand.” His face reflected disbelief.

“We have no crime, no war, because they are caused by fear, hatred, and wanting. Those are lower vibrations, and whenever someone falls to these levels, they cannot maintain their place here, so they simply shift back to the old. But after living here for a very short while, most people are changed forever and no longer wish to live in the lower vibrations. So they work hard to elevate their energy through allowing love back into their lives. This allows them to shift back to this level.

“You are here now, and may stay, if you wish. Or you may return to the lower vibrations, and this will seem like a pleasant dream. But sooner or later you will reach for this dream again. You may stay if you wish; you may stay in our home, with me if you wish.”

“Is this real? Are you real?” was his question.

“I am as real, and as passionate, as I was in my old life. I am more loving that I was then, there. And I am still not easy. Remember that I have told you, I will never be easy. You will have to put effort into loving me. For without that, we will not be a vibrational match, and we will simply drift apart. Easily, naturally. The choice is yours.” And I sat quietly, looking into his eyes, waiting for him to decide.

His breath became ragged, for a moment as the implications sank in, and he said “I want a purple balloon.”

A moment later, from the loft a voice was heard – “hey, I’m trying to read… Do you mind?” And a lavender latex teardrop floated down to land on the floor next to his feet.

“Oh my god, this is real. And you knew all along. Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“I tried, but I couldn’t find words that you could understand and believe. All I could do was love you. And I couldn’t wait for you to come with me. I tried, but it just didn’t work. So I came first.” Tiredly, I smiled. Reaching out my hand, I continued. “I promise I will answer every question that I can. But let it wait till tomorrow. For now let’s just go to bed, for I have been waiting for you.” He stood, the twinkle in his eye said he knew exactly what I meant.

Story - The Healer

 I had a dream that ended badly. And thus the dream came to be rewritten. I present to you ---- 

The Healer 

The Healer Medic stood over the dying man, tired and frustrated. It had already been a long day by the time Anlar’s wife, Keeri, had pushed her husband through the doorway and said “You’re the Healer. Now heal him.” 

She had expected the Medic to wave his hands and make it all better, as if by magic. She had not understood that the patient must be willing to do what is necessary. 

Kaylar’s skills required that the patient let go of the old way of doing things, the old way of thinking. It required a great deal of trust. Trust in the process, trust that things could be better, and trust in the unseen Energy. 

But Anlar was a stubborn man and not very trusting. Suspicious of this new-fangled healing, he wanted something he could put his hands on. Wanted something he could see. 

Unfortunately his condition had not responded to the traditional methods of healing, and he had only come to Kaylar as a last ditch effort to save his life. 

 If Kaylar had been wise, he would have told them to go home and prepare for death. But at heart Kaylar was a kind, gentle man, who understood that sometimes fear of death can accomplish miracles. He could see the love that Keeri had for her life-mate, and the fear that she would lose him. As Keeri took her husband’s hand, the Medic wondered if the patient was finally willing to accept any healing. 

Huddled together for comfort, they looked at Kaylar with varying degrees of trust and hope. The Medic had spent a great deal of time listening to one complaint after another from the ill man. 

Kaylar’s explanation of the process went unnoticed. As did his statement that Anlar would need to change his way of looking at the world. That the patient must begin to look for what was right with the world, one thing at a time, leaving behind complaints and negative habits. 

The Healer knew that neither one of them had understood what had been said. They were grasping at straws, but in the end the couple had agreed to see the Listener, the next day. Kaylar could only affirm that the patient would accept and absorb enough Energy to make it through the night. 

And thus he had begun preparing for the healing session, clearing his mind and bringing his focus back to the Energy. 

 It had started out as it always did, simply. Anlar laying under the clinic lights, covered with layers of blankets, shivering as his body began shutting down. His wife sitting nearby, wringing her hands, tears falling to her lap. Kaylar stood beside the patient, feet spread, and Reached. Reached within himself opening the door to the Energy of Healing. 

As the Energy flooded up through him, it filled every nook and cranny, until it expanded out to encompass the entire room. Only then did it begin to flow into the patient, being instantly absorbed. Kaylar knew that this was not HIS Energy, but that it came from the Sacred Ground upon which the clinic had been built. 

His hands began to move of their own volition, following the paths of light and dark that surrounded the patient. Pushing light into the darkness. The darkness was anything that was not supportive of love and life. 

The Healer unaware that it was long past sunset continued to allow the Energy to flow through his body. Using him as a conduit, filling but not consuming him. The moon had risen at dusk, and by the time Kaylar felt that he was done, moonlight filled the room brightly through the roof window. The Healer backed away from his sleeping patient, finally allowing his hands to fall. 

Still buzzing with Energy, he spoke quietly to Keeri. “I am done. You may have waited too long to bring him to me. But I have done what I can. All we can do now is wait and see whether he will allow the healing.” Kaylar nodded toward the sleeping Anlar and added one last thing. “He must let go of his anger. Or he will die of it, and there is nothing that I can do. The Listeners have the skills to help with that, if your husband will see them. He agreed to speak with them, but the choice to speak from the heart is his. Always. But now if he is to recover he must sleep. I will return in the morning.” 

Silence descended as Kaylar left the room, broken only by the sound of labored breathing. Keeri slid under the covers next to her husband, and taking his hand again she settled down to sleep. The two had been so long in each other’s company that her breathing had slid easily into rhythm with his as she drifted off. Soft, gentle, harmonious, comfortable. 

Unnoticed by the sleeping couple the moon slid across the sky. 

Kaylar had returned to the clinic as the sun crept softly over the horizon. Standing in the doorway he relieved to note that Anlar’s breathing was no longer labored, and his color was much better. 

 Crossing the room Kaylar Reached for the Energy and checked Anlar’s condition. Though the patient was still weak, there was no sign of the disease which had nearly taken this man’s life. And Kaylar breathed a deep sigh of relief for he knew that the patient would recover. 

Anlar snapped awake at the sound, seeking the smiling eyes of the Healer. Remembering his promise Anlar said, “I will seek a Listener, for I have much to talk about. Much to release in honesty. It is time.” 

 

 Gayle McCain 

Originally posted on Twitwall 05/11/09

Overachiever or Just Really Bored?

My Psych major daughter and I were talking yesterday about some very interesting things that I’m doing right now, and what she said completely blew me away. 

She said I was the smartest woman she knew. 

 Why should that surprise me? Because I have not adjusted to the fact that she’s past the phase where parents get ‘stupid.’ 

When the children were little, they both thought I was brilliant. But as they become teenagers I, as their primary caregiver, became just too stupid to be believed any more. Because I had my kids so far apart, my daughter finally slipped out of that phase just as my son hit it this spring. Sigh. 

I’ve had to bite my tongue for so long with my daughter that I forgot that I even had a tongue. I forgot that while I only got a bachelors degree (in general studies at that), I made extremely good grades in any class that interested me, the first college degree for any woman in my family, out to 2nd cousins. 

I forgot that I had a vocabulary that most PhD’s envy, along with the ability to explain things to small children as well as my friends who didn’t graduate from high school. 

I forgot that I have raised two highly gifted children, constantly on the prowl for something that would keep them entertained, and enriched at the same time. That I was always just one step ahead of my kids, keeping them out of mischief and boredom. Raising children well takes extraordinary time and talent and I’ve forgotten that in the hubbub of daily living. There’s no time left (or perhaps I should say energy) at the end of a day to study higher math. 

 My kids and I often poured over my college anatomy texts to explain things like why cold and flu season starts right after Halloween. Or going to their father’s physics book, that I had never opened before, so we could talk about parabolas and why a snow saucer is that shape. 

We didn’t get into the calculus books until my daughter was in high school taking statistics. She was really mad that they wouldn’t let her use calculus to take the test. 

One of the things that has contributed to not feeling brilliant anymore for every non-housewife that I met, approximately 80% of them had a conversation with me that went something like this: “What do you do, Gayle?” 

“I’m a housewife. I am spending my time raising my kids.” 

“Oh,” he said, as his eyes glazed over and he hurried away to talk to someone more interesting, like the CPA. 

What should I have said? 

“I am the housewife, who is spending 18 hours a day, chasing two brilliant children, teaching them college vocabulary before they can read. 

"I am the woman who successfully, as president of our Homes Association, led the fight to keep out a big box store from our backyards. Speaking in front of county commissioners, television cameras and the public, and making it look easy. 

"I am the woman who organized and ran classroom parties for both my children’s classes. Parties that these kids and the other volunteers are still talking about ten years later." The information I gathered about giving a children’s party for an organization is a ½ done eBook. I got bored. 

Should I have said to these people who dismissed my ‘career’ as a housewife “I am a woman who built a warm and loving home, furnished on a shoe string from estate and garage sales. That my home was as nice or nicer than that of those of you who make twice what my (now ex-) husband makes. That I decorated it with things made lovingly with care, and quality, used these things for a while and gave them away, because it was time for new things. 

"I am a woman who made sure my kids were fed, and cared for. And a surprising amount of time – your kids too, because you were too busy to care for your own children.” 

My home was only minimally messy. The yard was mowed, trees trimmed, gardens full of wild flowers and perennials, the dandelions dug out of the one acre yard by hand because I didn’t want to use chemicals on the land, that would flow into the nearby artesian spring. The only water for ½ a mile around that is still running in the dead of winter for the wildlife that the animals drink from. That I figured out what cleaners I could use that wouldn’t impact their water quality because our septic tank drained into the land from which the spring came. 

I should have said “I am the woman who made those cookies you so gleefully snarfed up after the Xmas cookie party. I only made 90 dozen cookies this year. It was a slow year.” 

I am the woman who for her daughters 3 week classroom lesson in economics spent less than 30 dollars and (with her helping) made 9,000 deep fried Swedish Rosettes. A product that not only made a profit but made what was described as a staggering profit of about $500 which was donated to the school library, liquidating our entire stock, every single day for 15 days in a row. A school record that still stands. (While entertaining her younger brother with stories, word games, and building blocks.) 

 I am the woman who designed and built the main flowerbed for the school, organized the planting of 550 tulip and daffodil bulbs (one for every student-planted by the students themselves). Flowering bulbs that are still gracing the school 10 years later. 

I am the woman who learned how to use a database software package in an effort to combine the various different types of information previously kept in people’s heads for the school. The database structure is still being utilized today, 5 years after I handed it over to another mother. Clean simple elegant. 

 I am the woman who was always ready at a phone call to sit with a heartbroken friend, nurse ungrateful in-laws for weeks after surgery, cope with a mother with dementia, run a successful wrapping paper sale for the PTA sale three years in a row, attend most of the PTA meetings, listening and offering constructive suggestions. Teaching these chattering women how to keep a meeting running smoothly and moving forward, in spite of never being the president. 

And this does not include the things that I've forgotten that are really too minor to mention, but which make life infinitely easier for the people involved. I am the overachiever who everybody misses when she’s gone. But whom makes everybody uncomfortable when she’s there, because she does so much, has her fingers on the pulse of the organization. Who knows where the bodies are buried, and who to go to for information. 

 I am the woman who, on top of everything else, insisted on going to choir every week and church on Sundays because I had to have an outlet that was just for me. Where I could learn something new (music) and receive spiritual sustenance too. 

I didn’t get to be that overachiever by being stupid. I did it because I was easily bored. And to keep from being bored, I had to stay busy. 

And even though I know better, I have felt unintelligent because I didn't have an alphabet after my name, and a career making more money than I knew how to spend. I've felt stupid for a long time. 

Made more so because last October, I suddenly couldn't add or subtract without using my fingers. I had to go get flash cards to relearn this simple skill. And I managed to hide this from everybody except one friend. And it only came out because I couldn't keep score when we played gin. 

And yet now I'm looking at simple matrix logic problems and saying to myself "when is he going to get to something new?"

 I KNOW that I couldn’t have done all of those things if I’d been just an ordinary woman, it still surprised me when my daughter recognizes that not only am I an extraordinary mother, but that I am the smartest woman she knows. 

I am ! 

Gayle

 

The Value of Comments

 You came here because someone recommended my writing.

 It might have even been... me. And you will diligently read through what I have to say. Thank you. 

But many of you have websites or blogs of your own, and are wondering how on earth to drive traffic to them, because you have something to say. 

Here's how: When you read somebody's blog that you like - leave a comment and leave your contact info. (And yes this seems just a smidge like leaving your 'phone number' on a bathroom wall. Get over it.) 

If a reader likes what you said in your comment will copy/paste your contact info into their browser, following you back to your site. And voila, you have a hit, and everybody wins. 

What about those readers that are just readers, have no website and have no need to drive traffic anywhere? 

Please leave a comment anyway. Why? Because it takes courage to put yourself and your writing out onto the superhighway of the WWW. Because writers are often concerned about whether they're making any sense, your comments help them refine their message. And this is true whether they're writing about string theory or writer's block, the benefits of organic produce or organic underwear. 

Because if we care enough to publish it in a blog, we are a writer. 

I also know that sometimes you don't feel like you can add any wisdom to what has already been said. The appropriate comment in that place is: "Thanks. I liked it." And so I invite you to comment. 

Leave your URL so that we can follow you back to your 'house' and read what you have to say. 

 Gayle McCain 

gaylemccain.blogspot.com 

faithfultoyourjourney.blogspot.com