Is that true?

 

Just a little story about not giving up and questioning the stories we tell ourselves...

A few weeks ago while running, I spotted a dumpster on the path in the distance. My mind started making up stories... "There’s a dumpster blocking the path. That's rude. I should turn around or just end my run."

But I kept running. As I got closer, I realized the dumpster wasn’t ON the path at all. It was next to the path. It just appeared that way from a distance. An optical illusion. A trick of the mind.

Our minds often play tricks on us, don't they? They make up stories. Stories that often aren't true. We are NOT our thoughts.

I’ve developed a habit of asking myself - when I think something negative or discouraging about my situation or about myself - "Is that true?” Often, it’s not.

And as my experience with the dumpster shows, clarity may come if we keep going. If I had stopped running, turned around, or otherwise given up, I wouldn’t have gotten close enough to see that the dumpster wasn't actually on the path at all.

Where in our lives do we give up because we perceive obstacles that are surmountable or aren’t even there? Where in our lives do we give up before getting close enough to see what’s really happening? When do we allow false narratives or thoughts to dictate our actions? Stop and ask yourself, “Is that true?”

A frequent false narrative for me is that perfectionism is possible. It isn't of course. That means releasing or sharing my writing - whether here or on my blog or elsewhere - even when it's "good enough."

Investigate the stories you tell yourselves, my friends. Keep going toward your goals! You got this!

#amwriting
#writer
#keepgoing
#positivevibes
#goals

contrasts & coexistence

Walking and running time are thinking time for me. I usually skip headphones in favor of observing, pondering, savoring, reflecting, brainstorming, and even problem-solving. Not all at the same time, of course.

The reflections in this poem came to me during a recent run. I love the contrasts, starting with the deer. They're city deer who allow people to get close. You can see the truck parked at the apartment building in the distance.

I've written before about the place I live in the city but also along a forested river. See "Place Where You Live: Milwaukee, Wisconsin" in Orion Magazine.

#amwriting
#writer
#poetry
#naturetherapy
#milwaukeeriver
#milwaukee
#mke
#running
#runner

Stronger

As posted on IG @marysk.writer:

Last Monday I came home from a 3-mile run and felt exhilarated. I was inspired to write these words. Why not be amazed at what our bodies can do?!

There's societal pressure to consider ourselves "less than" if we don't meet the manufactured beauty ideals sold by mass media. Aging is also frowned upon. And yet I've never felt better as a whole. Sure, aging brings changes in our bodies. Maybe even some aches and pains. But middle age, as I experience it, also brings an increased level of confidence and freedom. I love it!

A week ago - @the.holistic.psychologist posted "Normalize talking highly about yourself and holding space for others to do the same." So, with that, I'm sharing these words. I celebrate myself. And I celebrate you!

 

Searching for a story

 

Recently, I was looking for an essay I wrote several years ago. I wanted to revise it for my writing group. I didn't find the essay, but - oh - I found so much more. So instead, I wrote about that for my writing group. This is a revised version of that piece. 

*****

There are countless documents in a folder titled "writing projects" on my PC desktop. A search for keywords in that folder doesn't yield the hoped-for result. There's another folder titled "OLD PC documents." A quick scan of that folder reveals a hodgepodge of documents, including a variety of resumes and cover letters and a range of my children's files from "Anna's fall party invites" to "Max's rap" to "zine template - about me." Those documents predate the essay I'm searching for, so I move on to paper files.

Several overstuffed manila file folders crowd the bookshelf near my desk. One holds multiple copies of an essay I wrote over 25 years ago for an in-person writer's roundtable at Red Bird Writing Studio in Milwaukee. We printed out copies for each person in the group, and they wrote comments by hand. Behind those is my senior honors thesis written sometime in the spring of 1991 before I graduated from the University of Minnesota. It's about telenovelas. It seems to analyze the economics of Latin American countries developing their own programs versus importing shows from the U.S. I'm not sure as I lost interest after reading the first few pages. Next are various other college papers and essays, including one on the "new technology" (written in 1986!) and another entitled "The Existence of God." I'm intrigued by that one but decide I'll read it later and keep searching instead.

Another couple of folders hold completely random pieces of writing with no particular order or organization. There's a Black History month skit I wrote with my fifth-grade students in 1999 filed with an essay about my kids' obsession with "arm farts" that was published in 2008. There's very personal writing, like the speech I delivered at my parents' 50th wedding anniversary in 2008 and the obituary I wrote for my dad's funeral in 2010. Drafts of blog posts are also in the mix; I published 130 posts from 2014-2020. Then there are printouts of pieces I wrote for various classes or groups along with the feedback from facilitators and cowriters. 

Besides my own writing, the folders also contain printouts of articles about the craft of writing, submissions guidelines for publications that no longer exist, and rules for outdated writing contests. I also found a printout of "The Seven Continents," a short rhyming poem to aid in memorizing the continents. That, along with a fraction problem on the back of an essay draft, are evidence of our homeschooling years woven in with my writing. 

I may not have found the story I was searching for, but I found so many others. And I'm not even talking about the writing. Whether for an audience of one or one hundred, my writings are artifacts filled with ideas and memories and love. I was so moved while rifling through those papers that I almost came to tears. And then, there's another story too. One that says I always come back to my writing, all through the years, no matter what. And I always will.