My 30 Day Challenge

      I’ve  been interested, for awhile, in doing a 30 day challenge on my blog. But, like everyone, I couldn’t find a topic, or series of topics, that really grabbed my interest. And, also, like Hamlet, I usually talk myself out of action before I start. I get discouraged about the whole “30 days” thing. I know I can keep up for a week, maybe even two, and then the dissipation and discouragement would set in. So, I quit before I would even start.

This time, however, I am going to take a great big step, flail at my biggest dragon and commit to a 30 day challenge. I am going to post a picture to my blog for 30 days straight. I am not going to attach any written words to my pictures. I am only going to tell you now that they will be pictures that say something about my life. There might be people, or places, or things in these pictures and there will always be clues hidden in the images that say something about me and my life. How I feel, what I think, what I do, who I love, for example. I will let the photo use one of the thousand words at its disposal to tell you something about me.

I hope you come on this journey with me.

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“…and the nights were cold.”

“I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills.

I have a farm in the middle Kootenays, at the foot of a mountain.

The Equator runs across these highlands, a hundred miles to the north, and the farm lay at an altitude of over six thousand feet.

The ferry runs across this very water, valiantly struggling against the pull of the current, and the farm lies tucked in a northern corner.

In the day-time you felt that you had got high up; near to the sun, but the early mornings and evenings were limpid and restful, and the nights were cold.”  (Isak Dinesen)

In the day-time, I feel the crackle in the air from the raging power-lines, and in the evening the breeze blows through my house. And the nights are cold.

I’ve always maintained that Amelia Earhart is my heroine. A spunky, attractive woman who took a prominent role in a male-dominated occupation. She was also extremely intelligent and creative. Have you ever read her poetry? And what better way to seal your persona in an enigmatic mystery for eons to come, then to disappear of the face of the earth? Who wouldn’t want to emulate this charming and delightful woman who is always pictured with a carefree breeze ruffling her hair in such an appealing way? But for sheer romantic-heroism, for shiver-inducing images that are created with beautifully picked and impeccably placed words, I seek out Karen Blixen. A woman who accepted adventure and remained refined in the face of life’s sordidness. Despite great heartbreak and devastation, she continued to be a woman who could tell a great story.

I’m off to the library. Hope they have “Winter’s Tales”, because I need to read a wonderful story told by a valiant woman who tilted at her own futile windmills.

A crisis without change is failure.

I like words. I sometimes wonder if my love of reading has nothing to do with the story itself but with the fact that all those words are lining up and filling in the empty spaces on the blank page. Painting a picture in my head with their little pixels of colour until the whole is realized. Using their pinpricks of emotion to create a tattoo of love, or hate or anger on my heart.

Recently, I pointed out to someone that the addition of an ‘r’ to “toque” (a lovely, Canadian word, BTW) makes “torque”. Two disparate things. Although, not getting “your toque in a torque” has a certain ring to it. And that got me thinking about the word “crisis”, for some reason. One can have A crisis or, in my case, many crises. I think women should be categorized as having mid-life crises, not just one crisis. A crisis feels like a one time thing. Something unexpected that happens and that you get over in a little while. My child is  getting ready to leave the nest, aging parents are demanding more of my time and energy and the job, or lack of it, is a dead-end street on Hell’s cul-de-sac. This is not just one problem, they are many problems. And I haven’t even mentioned the depression that comes with watching my body fall apart.

So, I think I’m experiencing my mid-life crises. I don’t know what they’re going to look like. I don’t know how long they’re going to last. But I do know that I want to meet them with a certain amount of foggy romanticism like Don Quixote. I don’t want to work out or journal or take long baths. I want to take on villains only I can see. I want my faithful friends to stand with me and support my incalculable disillusions and treat me like a hero. I don’t care if I’m laughed at, as long as it’s behind my back. I don’t care if I’m the butt of jokes, as long as they go over my head. I’m waiting for something I can tackle with impunity because aging is just too big of a giant. I prefer to tilt at spinning wheels.