I have needed to sit down and write. Sometimes I feel there is a cord between myself and you that read this, and when that cord feels a bit dried up and shriveled, the only way I can plump that baby up is to sit down and just type, type like the wind.
The other day, when I was looking at my blog stats, I have readers in Egypt, Russia, Canada, the UK, and of course the US. Wow, that is amazing to me. I don’t believe I know anyone in Egypt, nor Russia so a big wave to those readers (seems there’s quite a few). Sometimes reading the “journal” of someone else helps to spark your own imagination. Our minds come up with some amazing things, they can make things an infinite amount scarier than they really are, create mental escapes, produce story lines, the possibilities are endless.
Lately at work I have been doing some pretty mundane things at work. I don’t mind, it puts my into a very hypnotic state (very high level) that puts me in a rhythm, but it also has been stimulating my temporal lobe and I have been having these flashbacks of wonderful times that have left warm fuzzies in my left (and right) atrium. Maybe some of you will understand, I think most won’t, but that’s Ok. Maybe it will spark your own feel-good moments.
Nostalgia is a very powerful emotion.
The feeling I got, being in the back seat of the car, driving home from tap dancing class, in the winter time around 6pm, knowing that mom had made meatballs and rice (one of my favorite meals) and that it wasn’t long before it would be Christmas Day. (Gering, Nebraska)
The feeling I had when my brother was about 2 years old, and we were “surviving” at the nearby park, it was a windy, winter day, there were snow banks, we had sleeves of crackers and Kool-Aid in thermoses along with a flashlight, an AM/FM radio in a backpack and an umbrella. Even then I thought I could be a survivalist, or at least wanted to be, I must have been about 9. (Alliance, Nebraska)
Again, that feeling I get remembering the time of waking up just before the sun, around 4am, and walking in the open field next to my house on an early summer morning, until the sun had been up a few hours. (Scottsbluff, Nebraska)
The smell of Petrichor (I think I’ve typed about this a million times before and will possibly type about it a million times from now) at my paternal grandmother’s house and how it reminded me of her and how much I loved her and looked up to her. Being with her and walking in the woods, picking flowers, picking up sticks, telling stories of buried jars of money, talking about woodland fairies, magic and old Cherokee ways. (Harlem, Georgia)
Seeing the little Hansel and Gretel outside thermometer at my maternal Step-grandmother's house.
That was kind of the one thing I wanted when she passed. She really didn't consider us family, so I knew it was a long shot. Didn't happen. Also for some reason, loving the protein mix she had to put into milk. (Cheyenne, Wyoming)
The treat of Saturday nights, when we'd have homemade popcorn, m&m's (before they made peanut ones (I think!)) and a bottle of pepsi. We'd watch a movie on VHS or play Atari or watch something on HBO (if it wasn't rated R). That was our Saturday Nights (Alliance, Nebraska).
By the way, this is where that happened (in Alliance). I could recognize it just by the shame, regardless of the house numbers. This was where paranormal entered my life. This house was active, as the people that lived there before us were wild, swingers, heavy drinkers, had nothing but chaos and instability in their life. It carried over to when we got there. Our family went through so many things there. Infidelity, sickness, my cancer, broken arms, it all just carried over. After we left, rumor had it that a minister bought the house. Wonder if people had paranormal events happen to them afterwards. *hmmmmm* That sectioned out room on the top right? That was my room. (Alliance, Nebraska)
How I felt floating on the two-man raft on a summer's day listening to "Sailing" on Little Lake Alice. The thunderstorms there were amazing. I was allergic to the cottonwood trees, but they were all over, and I didn't care. We had a wonderful dock, and I would fish for hours with corn out of a can. (Near Scottsbluff, Nebraska)