We humans are the only species that uses actual words. Some domesticated animals understand a handful of words.

We’ve had a few smart dogs over the years, with big vocabularies. That is to say they knew words, but they never used them.

Koko the famous gorilla was unusual in her ability to use words. She was able to name objects or ask for a limited amount of things, even express emotions.

I think it’s fair to say that we humans are the only ones who think in words, the only ones to assess in words, to conclude and reason in words.

Language is very important to us. Communication. We humans love communication.

Yet, research has suggested that our words are only a percentage of how we communicate, both to ourselves and to others. We, like animals, consciously and unconsciously rely on non verbal, body ‘language’ (when not remote, this is another interesting topic) Its been proven that standing with our hands on our hips can actually communicate confidence to our own brain!

Yet words can pack a punch. Narrative is powerful. What we say to ourselves or each other can absolutely make or break a moment. Or a life.

Its hard to not think in cerebral wording, so I imagine its good to choose the ones we use, carefully. Are they kind? Are they nessesary? Research says not to speak to ourselves in absolutes. Can’t, won’t, never, always. Probably because these can never be true.

Meanwhile, I have this feeling that there is a bigger goal. Could it be less about eliminating certain words, and more about paying attention with our whole self. Sure, don’t eat poison, but, you know, fortify. Build. Love. With words, with intention, with the entirely of our beings. Maybe there is something to taking some time to FEEL how things feel.

Could it be that the quality of our life might depend on the quantity treatment of ourselves. Could this affect everything and everyone else?

A frightened or angry or unhappy human uses different words and actions than a calm one.

This has been my thinking lately. After I read that book, after I broke my ankle. After a summer of big and little disappointments.

At the end of the day, it just makes good sense, to say kind things. To do kind things. To be kind.

Probably most importantly, to ourselves.

You know what they say about changing the world…

Starts with us.

The furthest I ever traveled from home was Kenya. The physical distance in so many miles and time zones, makes it an obvious answer for today’s prompt question. I know we all live in a very physical world here on planet earth.

I’ve been to Kenya twice. Each time I felt an overwhelming connection to a reality beyond what I have always accepted as real.

I felt like Africa had reached out to me at different times throughout my life. But then, when I finally found myself standing on the soil, truly experiencing the continent, or at least a tiny bit of it, I felt this strange familiar home feeling. Like a welcome back, a jaw dropping surprise or series of surprises that I will never forget. All for me? All for me.

Africa changed me. I loved her, I’d always known. I was surprised when Africa seemed to love me back.

I used to tell people, that trip changed me. Now I will say I was probably pushed closer to who I already was.

Life, civilization, upbringing, society, school those things sort of shaped me, maybe those things led me to conclude things that weren’t absolutely true. I don’t know, but I have often been mistaken about who I am. Or how I am precieved.

There always is the same me underneath all of that, we all are already ourselves. I’ve recently become curious about this concept.

I’m reading Martha Beck’s book, ‘Diana, Herself’ and it has caused this subject to come up a lot.

Also, I fractured my ankle five days ago, which has given me the luxury of a major perspective adjustment and a lot of literal down time.

When I said I was reading the book, I meant I’m reading through for the third time because underneath all the kitschi story telling, are some very interesting concepts. It’s an allegory, a silly far fetched fictional story, the kind I’m not usually a fan of because when its too obvious that the author is trying to illustrate a point, I don’t know, it’s usually not my thing, even if I agree with the concepts.

So here I am nearly finishing. Three times through, and I might be able recommend it. I’m not sure to who.

For me, it’s got me thinking about expirences like Africa.

Of moments when I felt the mystery that veils life for the most part to flutter open for a few seconds, which it does and has for me often. Those little occurrences that are impossible to explain, but reveal or awaken knowing.

Know thyself, Gnothi seauton

We all do, even if we forget, we do still know. And we are, all of us, much more than our tiny human brain thinks we are.

Thanks for asking

Funny prompt for today.

Things have been mildly interesting around here these past few days.

Monday I did paddle board yoga for the first time. First time ever on a paddle board. I loved it!

Tuesday I got talked into going to an event I don’t know how to describe. There was a woman they called a medium who ‘saw’ dead relatives of several audience members. After an AA/church like preamble, she spent an hour giving clues like : there’s a man here who worked with his hands, until someone in the audience claimed it to be a brother or cousin or father. It was believable a couple of times. Overall, probably not my thing, but interesting for sure. I’m still in CT.

Wednesday morning I was getting ready for yoga when I got a text from the guy who was going to dig the hole for the plumber. We had the plan that the plumber would be running water for an outdoor shower and fixing a hose spiget. We would discuss running the water from house to garage, Thursday.

So I was surprised, by the text from this guy. He came with two guys, shovels and an excavator.

The next thing we know he’s pulling back the garden fencing, and they are digging with care, but DIGGING.

G was at work. I didn’t get to yoga. By midday it was a mess.

By the time G came home everyone was a wreck. A pipe was broken, they were adding onto the price after we had already agreed to a higher price (right before they started). No one was ready or expecting any of this!

Yesterday, more digging. G thankfully stayed home. We worked out the price. The plumber showed up, he fixed the pipe, did the majority of the job…

Then, in a horrible moment, I rolled my ankle and fell. Likely sprained it.

It’s swollen. It hurts. I’ve had this ankle roll thing happen off and on, at least four times before in my life. It looks broken thanks to all the swelling, but it never is. I am refusing to go get an X-ray because I’d rather not spend hours waiting to find out what I’m pretty sure I already know.

Rest, ice, compress, elevate

It happened around 3:30 yesterday.

We have plans to go to Vermont tomorrow. I’m supposed to work this afternoon. I have a yoga thing tonight…

I am mostly annoyed at myself for not being more careful, mindful, and not paying proper attention. Which I pretty much learn every day in yoga, and mostly do.

But not in that three seconds.

Weirdly, I’m reading Martha Beck’s latest book, Diana, Herself

I’ve been reading a lot lately, so my high school speed reading course has kicked in. I flew through the book and since I’m now on my back with my foot up for hours, I’m a third of the way through for the second time.

It’s the next book club book. The recommendation came from a reliably good reader. She said it was a bit strange, but she thought it gave her a complete shift of life perspective.

The main character sprains an ankle. Then the story takes a bizarre turn.

I may be at threshold for bizarre today but with no choice except to go with it, here I am.

What might this be about, I can’t help wondering. Just as things were so good. My week started out hopeful and happy with plenty to look forward to.

G thinks we should cancel our trip to Vermont. The lawn is a mess. The hole can’t be filled in for days. The town can’t get out to inspect until Tuesday. Its, of course, raining.

Im going to work in a little while.

My ankle does feel a bit better, though it looks worse. A neighbor brought over crutches. I predict a full recovery, I’m a quick healer, I can tell it’s not legaments so much as just bruised bone. I will be fine. I am fine. But for right now, I’ll laid up, swollen, healing.

So G made me get an Xray

We had a great time in Vermont btw, even though I couldn’t walk

Fractured the inside of my ankle, the tip of my tibia, not the side that swelled out like a goose egg. After seeing the orthopedic doctor, and finding out I didn’t need a cast or surgery. I have been following orders scrupulously. I also sprained the other side. So lots of rest, ice, elevation

This is a good question for a rainy Wednesday afternoon.

I’ve been back from my trip west for a week. Initially, there was a readjusting few days. I went to yoga as often as I could. Three days in, I made a strong choice to not just endure, but to embrace this whole situation. I read somewhere that if you resist your circumstances, you cause yourself tension and anxiety and make everything harder.

I have a big feeling of motivation to find a way to grow and evolve positively IN my situation.

What is motivating me?

I guess I want things to be better.

I know I have the ability to make good things happen. I know everyone has power to swing energy. I’m motivated to find the good, to be thankful, to thrive. To be joyfully on my way to something wonderful. This is who I want to be, not the cranky, victimy, woeful complainer I was becoming, nope, that won’t do at all.

I wasn’t her at the beginning and I refuse to be her in the end. I will embrace, learn and grow, because that is who I’d rather be, every day, no matter what…

Pretty sure, ALL of them,

Life has taken me away from my own and toward the traditions of other’s for now.

I was once told that tradition is a kind of anchoring glue for families. By doing the same things at each holiday, the same things our previous generations did, we keep each other close and can even lure any wayward family member who may have strayed, back to the fold.

This concept stuck. It gave any and all tradition magical powers. It bumped their importance into manditory. At least in my hopeful young mind. I was responsible for four small humans, I HAD to maximize their chances in the world. I set up my life to give these four the best shot a very limited me, could. Tradition was big, probably because of all the effort I went to, I want to report now that tradition was more of a a fun way to celebrate and not the serious glue I counted on.

As a young mom, I one-upped my own spotty tradition-lacking childhood. I mined my early years and found tortaires, traditional French Canadian meat pies. Borrowed and made up others traditions, kept them sacred. Every one.

My parents made these pies for many years. It was part of my Christmas memories, the lively Christmas fights we could count on every year. There was the pie baking, the tree finding, the ornament unboxing and of course the fight of all fights, the wrapping of the tree properly with lights.

I have one good memory of a Christmas Eve dinner of tortaires.

My aunt on the side of the family we hardly saw, made them. We dined at her big formal table, we kids actually ate WITH the adults, as if we were every bit as valid as our parents. So strange and yet so cool and memorable sitting up at that table. The memory burned itself into my five year old mind.

I miss making these clove and cinnamon spiced pies.

As it turns out, if you weren’t raised on them, the odd combination of spice, mince and mashed potatoes tucked into buttery short pie crust, is a hard taste to get used to. Who knew?

Well, not me. I was born with a very wide palette, so new and foreign tastes have always become new loves for me. Not the nose wrinkling, culinary trauma that my meat pies have caused my new in laws, the meatless version didn’t win any prizes with our vegan and vegetarian family members either. My new daughter in law was even allergic to potatoes. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not, but other things had to be added!

Quiche, shepards pie, lasagna joined the Christmas Eve table. I still made one token meat pie for my own kids, (and me), but the magical tradition was dying out, as were many others. Eventually, every single one had its last day. I stopped making pies years ago. I don’t bake cookies, I don’t serve Easter brunch, I don’t make hot crossed buns, I don’t go anywhere for fireworks. No popcorn, no movies. I let all loyalty to tradition go.

I am no longer tethered to the strict rules of creating the perfect traditional meal or activity or holiday. I’m a go-with-the-flow girl now. I have no fear of what will happen without magical family glue to keep us all together.

Tradition has been replaced by this new magnetic force known as grand children. The happy faces of this new batch of small humans, lure us back together all the time. Luckily because we are now living in five separate cities spread far across the county.

Life. What a ride.

Was not typical. I flew out fot my granddaughters seventh birthday. Out of my oppressive uncomfortable New England summer, and into some fun.

My son and his family were there to pick me up at 10 am. The party started at three, so lots of time to catch up and get ready. My daughter had it all covered.

Just our family and a couple of friends, a pool, some cake. It was relaxing, refreshing and fun. The cousins played in the water for hours. We stopped for French fries and burgers on the way home. Simple. Kid friendly. Perfect.

It was a day filled with light and sunshine and joy. The echoing laughter of kids in a pool. Of all of us enjoying happy children and each others company.

Endearing names that we are sometimes called by loved ones or friends.

I actually nicknamed my first grand daughter without really meaning to. Somehow it stuck and she still will smile when one of us calls her ‘Bean’

She’s thirteen and out-growing us older folk fast. She will always be our little Jelly Bean, though, the first of the bunch. A sweet loving force.

The others all have their real name as part of their nickname. Somehow I like having endearing nicknames for these babies, I think they feel even more loved and special to me when I call them by their names (which we all use) which they absolutely all ARE, super loved, nick names or not.

My grandfather nicknamed me, his first grandchild, Andie. He was the only one who called me that. My parents tried to discourage it, but I secretly loved having a different name even if it was a boy name (according to my mom).

I mean

I have been. I can be. I probably will be.

Mostly I’m trying not to focus in that direction. It’s not easy some days. Really, truly, not easy.

After a good nights sleep, I’m ok. Reset. Ready to tackle the tasks that are easy in today’s modern world, but weirdly not in my current situation. Laundry, dishes…Ready to let all the conflicts and tough energy roll off my back.

There is no yoga today, no work, so I’m up and out in the cool of the morning. it’s already hot in the house, muggy as usual, but there might be the chance of air conditioning later. You never know.

I’m breathing. I’m walking. It’s not so bad.

Good luck out there, according to the news, it’s rough in every direction. Our struggles are part of our being human. The less fun part.

The other day G went to buy a tool at an automotive store. He learned while shopping that he could rent the tool for sixty three dollars and eighty cents. He’s not a machanic, he likely won’t need the tool again so even though the tool cost fifty nine dollars, he considered the rental, asked the guy about it. He was told if he brought it back within 48 hours he would be given back the sixty three dollars and eighty cents.

G asked : “So, it’s free?” The guy looked at him and with the voice inflection only an impatient, grumpy New England man could, said “No. It’s sixty three dollars and eighty cents.” He didn’t add, “Are you completely deaf or stupid?”, but he sounded like he may as well have.

The next morning G got his money back and, well, the rental was in fact, free.

Oh the grouchiness, the odd confusions. G still can’t get over this business model.

I’m excited to go back to town hall and try to get one of the employees to come out to the house, so we can get a trench dug for a water line. I have thought of getting a job there so when a person goes in to ask a question, they’d get me, instead of one of the cranky cast of a work force they currently employ. I’ve wondered more than once if the job requirements include a generally negative disposition. I probably wouldn’t do well in that environment, so just as well.

My current job that I liked for its zen-ness has been worrisome lately. For reasons no one knows, they bumped one of their drivers into a full time position inside, without training him how to do much of what we do there. So he does everything interestingly different. An unusual amount of mix ups, losing orders and chaos has resulted. He has some notion that he is also a boss over everyone and gets upset when no one takes him seriously.

Tension has risen around this situation, I’m sure you can imagine. The fun zen vibe has been sadly replaced.

This morning G and I are waiting to go to a place an hour away. We don’t care to go.

We are waiting because…

I’m not sure what is happening or why, but I should absolutely not run over to this very popular garage sale that is a block away because what if I’m not here at the exact moment we are leaving.

Oh man.

This part I sort of understand, I’ve learned that G’s mom, like many people, stresses over getting ready to go places. She tries to hurry, even though there is rarely a strict time for anything. I’ve noticed that efficiently is not a thing, (most tasks are drawn out) so she doesn’t have much practice with it. The concept of hurrying is rarely tested. Ever seen someone trying to hurry when they are stressed? Add in that they only move in slow methodically practiced ways. We always tell her to take her time. It doesn’t matter to us how long she takes. It really doesn’t. Still, self imposed stress, lots of lost keys or glasses.

I was hoping she WOULD take a while so I could check out the sale. Communication around timing is also tricky, so better to be safe and just wait.

I’ve already had my fun for the day. I was pushing my luck as it was.

Lots of complaints about weeds, grass, traffic, etc. complaining is a perfered form of conversation. Meanwhile I climb into the backseat, country music is playing loudly so I can’t hear them anymore. Just banjos and yodeling. I’ve tried to gain an appreciation of this genre, but it rarely puts me in the good mood it puts G’s mom in, which makes it worth it. Sadly I forgot my ear pods.

It’s never one thing that tanks the day. Usually after a few errands, involving angry drivers who are impatiently enduring fellow drivers, speed limits, and parking. (they don’t have freeways here, but maybe they should consider building some so people can satisfy the need for speed). What they do have are long, winding, thickly tree lined, two way roads with double yellow lines, everywhere.

Everywhere.

Apparently the double yellow lines are optional if a driver is following the speed limit or going any speed, but in the way. This can really tick another driver off and commonly, they rush around the person in an exaggerated huff. It’s both frightening and surprising, but very typical.

By the end of the day, I’ve experienced enough disgruntled people who don’t like this or that. The way things are, what’s being done, weather, sports, people, there’s a long list. I’m usually exhausted from all the sighing and quiet exasperation. New Englanders are generally polite, (with a silent edge), side eyes, sighs and sarcasm pepper their complaining. Oh and also the assuming that everyone is shady and up to no good or just really really stupid.

I’m not a fan of trying to be understood here. It may not sound like I’m speaking another language, but since most people have already made up their minds about everything, anything I say is filtered through a lot of negativity and lands meaning plenty of things I didn’t say, so being clear is challenging. I do love a challenge. I don’t love being balled out by a plumber because he thinks I’m trying to get away with having water routed to the garage, because I guess I might be up to no good? Weird. But only to me. I’m not from around here, clearly.

We’re on our third plumber. I had a similar experience with finding an electrician. This new guy might be the one to make this miracle happen, you never know. I’ve alerted the town and it is awaiting the ‘pulling’ of the permit. There’s some amount of confusion around this, even though the form is only a half a page long and very straightforward. I get the feeling that progress isn’t wanted. Change is hard.

Suddenly, there is concern over where dirt will go during the excavation. This has caused loss of sleep, agitation and a general shift in whether the project can happen. That’s the latest issue. The dirt. Which will go back into the hole, um, after the pipe has been connected?

I’m learning that it’s all part of things New England. If I want to do anything, I have no choice but to wade on through, get over it. Find the silver lining. Keep moving. Let it all roll off my back. Euphemisms are sometimes helpful. Add in the muggy weather, no air conditioning, (New Englanders are so tough they don’t need the luxury of cooled air, I once went to this famous tourist island getaway, not a single shop or restaurant had air conditioning, not one!) rain every day and mostly cloudy oppressive feeling heat, biting bugs that itch for days, and there you go. New England.

Crankiness is completely understandable.