Just flew in from a conference in New Orleans.  Should be unpacking or sleeping or something...but I'd rather write.

Flying for work is not nearly as much fun as flying for vacations.  I noticed this evening somewhere over the coastal south that there's not much I like about it other than the rare opportunity to look at the topsides of clouds.  I'm chronically replacing factual descriptions for abstract metaphors so it's times like those that I truly appreciate cotton balls.

The other thing I like about a window seat is the 3-D landscape below.  I saw a lot of baseball fields.  For some reason, this was highly comforting to me.  Everywhere I could see the ground, I could see red clay and emerald grass neatly shaped into wedges.  Our own form of crop circles.  Even in areas that seemed to be miles from any other civilization, there'd be a diamond.  Even in these times, we can all find a place to play.

As we were making our descent into Atlanta, you could see neighborhood streets, houses curving and bending, attached by their driveways like leaves tied to branches.  But there were some empty spots here and there, infrastructures of streets and lots, but no houses.  Even from the air, it was clear that construction had ceased long ago because what would have been sandy and clear was choked with weeds and grass.  No bulldozers or plumbing trucks.  Lifeless twigs.

Left me wondering about my own lifeless twigs...cul-de-sacs that had been built in my life in preparation for something bigger, and more vibrant.  What happened?  When did construction stop?  Out of money, out of time, or out of enthusiasm?  Or simply a bad investment abandoned in hopes of a new start?

I sure would like to bring in a new crew, some heavy equipment, plumbers, electricians, framers, drywallers, roofers and finish carpenters.  I sure would like to start building again.

I love the sound of nail guns in the morning.

WS

While getting myself ready for work this morning, a song popped in my head.  I knew then it would be a far better day.  How can you be sad when Kermit is playing and singing and all you want to do is sing along?

Here's the song.  Sing it with me, won't you?

WS

Written by Paul Williams and used by Kermit the Frog, of The Muppets, Jim Henson Productions

Why are there so many songs about rainbows
And what's on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
And rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it
I know they're wrong, wait and see.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
when wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that
and someone believed it,
and look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing?
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
the lovers, the dreamers and me.

All of us under its spell,
we know that it's probably magic....

Have you been half asleep
and have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it.
It's something that I'm supposed to be.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
the lovers, the dreamers and me.
La, la la, La, la la la, La Laa, la la, La, La la laaaaaaa

I just got finished wallowing.

I do that sometimes, and a few years ago I decided it was best to always give myself a time limit.  If I didn't, either I wouldn't wallow at all, which is detrimental to one's emotional well-being, or I would get stuck in wallowing and have a hard time crawling out of it.  Wallowing should never become a hobby.  The time limit works really well because I give myself permission to get down in there deep and FEEL it.  Pity party for one.  Yep...that felt awful.  Yep...caught me totally off guard.  Nope...never saw it coming.  During world class wallowing, I'm pretty much pissed off at the Universe and asking the "why" question over and over, knowing full well that when I get the answer, I most certainly won't like it.  I stomp and pout and cry and do all that silly stuff in a BIG way during the allotted time and then I'm done.  Also, under no circumstances am I allowed to stop wallowing prior to the completion of the time limit.  That encourages me not to weenie out and leave any of those noxious feelings inside.

By the end of all that, I've usually turned it around to something positive.  Sometimes it's a big stretch.  Stretching is good.

Here's what I learned in my most recent roll in the mud.

I have become stuck in my own legends.  We all have them.  They are the stories we tell ourselves about what we're going to be when we grow up and what our lives are supposed to look like.  The legends grow and change as we gather evidence to support or debunk them.  When people arrive, they become part of our legends too.  When our interactions seem magical and fated, it's easy for the legends to become epic.  It's easy to think destiny is at work.  That kind of legend is fun for all involved.  Until destiny takes a turn that doesn't include us anymore.  Then it feels like tragedy.  At least it did for me.

Melodrama is probably the better word.  Hoopla of my own making.

Owning horses in Florida, particularly in seasons when it's endlessly rainy, can be a dirty business.  Pastures get muddy.  Paddocks get muddy.  Puddles are everywhere and when you throw horse poop into the mix, you'd better have a good way to keep your feet dry and clean.  I used to have a pair of tall, black rubber boots.  If you've ever seen a bunch of guys pouring a concrete slab, you'll see them wearing boots like these.  Let me tell you, when it was wet outside, I loved those boots.  You can only imagine how unattractive I looked schlepping around in a t-shirt, shorts and knee high black rubber boots.  Stunning.  But I didn't care because to my horses, I was the "Food Lady" and they loved me unconditionally for that reason, no matter how I looked.

There were occasions when the mud got very deep and slurpy.  I'd be walking along at a reasonable pace when - zhluuup - boot got stuck - and I either stepped out of it mid-stride and landed barefoot in the mud, or I tripped and lost my balance and nearly landed face first in the black sludge.

That's what happens when we become too attached to our legends.  They grab our ankle when least expected and pull us down into the slop.

As I concluded my wallowing this morning, I looked back at the person who recently joined my legend to see if perhaps the meaning I assigned to him was not really why he arrived.  I mean...it was obvious when he rode in with pillows taped to his bumper (sorry...inside joke) that there was something magical about to happen.  My error was in not letting the tale tell itself.

I started a book this morning.  Not reading one, writing one.  Why?  Because the knight with padded bumpers is an author, among other things, and he told me awhile ago that the way to write a book is a page at a time.  One a day, and in a year, you've got a book.  I've always wanted to write something, but didn't know where to start.  What should I write about?  Who would want to read it?  Why would they read it?  Why would I write it?  Silly questions really, because it doesn't matter. 

The knight has been blessed with a fairy tale ending.  I'm so happy for him. He's a good guy and he deserves it.  I just had to let go of my old legend and welcome a new one to see this clearly.  Perhaps he rode in to just give me a dose of courage...and for that I'm grateful.

Making mud pies with candles on top.

WS