In the beginning

...was my first blog post, on this blog at any rate. I've entitled it "No Regrets." Actually, I have so many regrets; far too many to count, and they became so heavy and cumbersome I decided to leave them on some lonely back road and never look back. Time will tell if it was the right decision, but consider that airlines charge "extra baggage" fees these days. Maybe we each should consider the cost of carrying about too much of our own personal extra baggage? Is it really worth the cost? Well, that's what's in the name.

About me, the author. I'm in my late '40s. Female. "Retired" (why so will become evident further on). I live alone. My best companion has yellow feathers and a beak. I have wanted to be a writer all my life. I had the idea to write as early as age ten or eleven, as I was a devoted reader (and still am), but I have always lacked follow-through. I start things and often fail to finish them. Not always. But often enough. I've finished some quilts. But I didn't complete my college education albeit not for lack of trying. I got interrupted by Multiple Sclerosis. It cut me down, literally, in my early thirties. The best laid plans...

This is the blog about trying to live a normal life, while fighting personal challenges, and trying to end up in the playoffs, at least. But it isn't like those Christmas letters everyone gets where all the kids are making millions, and serving the homeless, and look like movie stars, and summitting Mount Everest. It's the letter we don't send, about the other things, the non-Everests, the managing to get by without the millions, about living with pimples and warts. I don't secretly hate the cousins and relations who do manage to climb Everest, or do make millions--more power to them--but they just so aren't the rest of us. Those people play hands from decks I can't imagine I'll ever catch a glimpse of. For me, life is more like trying to win at solitaire using a pinochle deck. But I have to play the hand I get, and more power to me if I can make something out of it at the same time. It makes for a far more interesting Christmas letter too, though my parents would doubtless disown me or wish I'd never sent it. Because I didn't become the doctor or the engineer they wanted me to be. My parents did not write glowing christmas letters about my wonderful achievements or the too-cute grandchildren I never gave them. I didn't get my PhD or make millions or even look like a movie star.

On living with MS. Today isn't bad. I took "mama's little helpers" today so I could get something done. I took the weekend off from them, and did nada. They're prescribed, don't worry. The so-called fatigue of MS is one of MS's worse dimensions. No idea why they named it "fatigue." It's more like wearing a lead wetsuit, added to staying up all day after working the overnight shift last night. I worked nights for years, so I claim intimate knowledge of that brand of tiredness. So today I chose to take my pill and get things done. The pills have side effects and taking meds is hard on the body, so I try not to take them unless I truly need them. But when I don't, the best I can muster is some reading and tv watching or maybe a game. Without them, I take multiple naps because I just can't stay awake. And when I'm awake, I feel like someone strapped me to my chair and I have to fight to move. It drains one very quickly. So I'm awake, and doing something I've promised myself I would start, a blog. The only other annoyance of MS, so far today, is the muscle spasms in my right hand which pull my thumb into my palm. Annoying and it feels weird. But the meds for muscle spasms make me sleepy so I'm going to live with it for now. Maybe tonight...

On writing. I have always asked, why should I, and who cares? But I stumbled upon some wonderful wisdom by Steven King, of all people, in his book "On Writing" where he suggests that if the imperative to write is there, just submit to it. The audience will look after itself. Now all I need to do is come up with the determination and stick-to-it-iveness that will make me spend time each day progressing toward some finished work that can be submitted for rejection to various publishers, and perhaps picked up by one. I have been published before, even regularly, so it's not as much of a stretch as it might seem. But I've got no formal schooling in this, other than the required English Comp classes that all college freshman are required to take. I have been considering going back for further education in this area.

I feel like I've been marking time here for the last decade. It doesn't feel like I've done much of anything, at least not purposefully anyway. Maybe the lack of goals is an issue. The long bounceback after my failed marriage. The depression I had to, and still must, fight. A succession of failed forays in different directions, or just uncompleted ones, some for lack of interest, some were just too painful, and more than once, I simply couldn't afford it. But, I refuse to spend the rest of whatever is left of my life regretting the lack of direction of the past ten years. There have been accomplishments. There have been lessons learned. There's been the invaluable time to simply think, ponder, wonder and wander. It's a luxury far too few get to enjoy; time to sit and consider.

One consideration that has repeatedly come to mind, I don't want to live the rest of my life simply reacting to what happens around me, like so much flotsam floating down a river aimlessly, washing ashore wherever it will. I see a lot of people around me doing just that. Like the Rabbit said to Alice,“If you don't know where you are going, any road will get you there.” At least I think it was the rabbit. I don't much relish spending what's left of my life so aimlessly. If I did, what point would there be to all I've experienced? It would be passed on to nobody and nothing will have been gained. So if I'm going to sit here isolated by a body that doesn't cooperate with my desires, then I can at least share before I'm gone and all the good stories (and bad) are wasted.

I finished "Robert Ludlum's The Arctic Event" by James H. Cobb this afternoon. It was a fun read. The characterization was the best part; I ended up really caring about the characters.

That's all for now. More on setbacks, challenges and joys in the future. Maybe ideas and cheerleading from the outside world will help me find the resolution to stay in the race no matter how wobbly my performance, rather than sitting on the sidelines and watching. Maybe just blathering in public will make me feel more responsible for the time I am allotted. I hope blogging can become a mutually rewarding exploration, just the way exploration is done in real time, one step at a time.