Coincidence? I Don't Think So.

I started the day with vigor and verve, newly-repaired Activator in hand. Somewhere around midday I realized. My finger is hurting. Inspecting the site of pain, I find a blister forming at the bend of my middle finger. No small feat considering it's right smack-dab on top of a callous. A fifteen year-old callous.

Really? So you mean the scratchy duct tape the dude (um, professional) used to repair the cracked shaft rubbed against my finger and gave me a blister? Grrrrr.

So I put it aside and used my other one. Now mind you, this Activator is cracking too, and on the brink of the same repair. But I've been careful, you see. Been nursing her along. Not five minutes later, BLAM!!! I turn around and she's lying on the floor busted, the handle in two pieces beside her.

🎝Dunt-dunt-da-da, dunt-da-da, da-da, da-da.♫

SCREEEEEEECH!

I know you can't hear me. But that was a high-pitched scream. Because, don'tcha know, it goes with the rest of my day. Week. Since getting home from Casper, Wyoming, actually.

GAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

After everyone left and I had time to stew, it hit me. Crap. Now it's obvious. Is it to you? One instrument hurts my hand, the other one breaks outright? BLAM, POW, KAPOOEE.

I interpret this as one of two things, both of which are signs. And yes, if you're wondering, I believe in signs. One, I was hating on my day job and indirectly destroyed the object of my hate, or two, the Universe, God, my angels, whoever's up there whispering in my ear, yelled "hang it up".

Get rid of my day job?

Did I just say that out loud? Because I have lots of reasons to keep it. And only a few to let it go.

"The heart is the hub of all sacred spaces.
Go there and roam." ~ Bhagawan Nityananda

But look at the signs. At my heart. The heart that calmed the moment I sat down to write about it, the instant I laid hands on my keyboard. Listen to her. She is the song of the sea, of wind-tossed waves sluicing against a sandy beach, the roar of quiet abandon to what is and what shall be.

Yes. I will. I will look. And I will see. Thank you, Universe, thank you very much. I will.

Is something trying to get YOUR attention? Will you look? Pay attention? Will you see?

~ Olivia J. Herrell

Agita aka A Bad Case of the Grrr's

ag•i•ta (ˈædʒ ɪ tə)
n.

1. heartburn; indigestion.

2. agitation; anxiety.

[1980–85, Amer.; < Italian, <agitare < Latin agitāre agitate], courtesy http://www.thefreedictionary.com/agita

Agita. I'd never heard the word until a few years ago, when my friend from Long Island introduced me. It perfectly describes what I'm feeling today, a deep level of unease. Dis-ease. A teeth-gritting, muscle-clenching day when everything and everyone gets on your last nerve. Of course, I know it's not them. It's me.

Agita. I found this excerpt from an article by David Giacalone upon googling the word. The highlights were supplied by me.

"...I discovered a fuller and fun discussion of agita at The Word Detective, which includes: You won’t find “agita” in most dictionaries, although it is a quintessential Italian-American slang word. Strictly speaking, “agita” is a stomach upset or heartburn. But “agita” can also mean that special kind of existential dyspepsia of the soul you get when absolutely everything goes wrong. Comedian Jackie Mason has explained “agita” as “when you have been aggravated to the point where it feels like you have a serious migraine headache throughout your whole body.” “Agita” is thus more or less the Italian-American equivalent of the Yiddish “tsuris” (”misery”), an equation not lost on Woody Allen, who made a song about “agita” the center-piece of his 1984 film “Broadway Danny Rose.” ~ David Giacalone 

Strange word, agita. One you don't hear growing up in the south. But it's one of Those Words. Once you know it and experience the feeling, you think, "Yeah. Exactly. Agita."

So like it or not, I've got the grrr's. Could it be the fallout from Flurryopollis or whatever Jon Stewart called it? Seeing nothing but white for three days running? Being on high alert for thirty hours, watching Facebook's newsfeed, helping pray family, friends, clients and other's loved ones home safely?

Or maybe it's the inner manifestation of an itchy rash I've developed from a new sensitivity to latex and spandex. Which, by the way, is in every bra ever manufactured, including the camisoles to which I'd resorted.

Whatever the cause, the best thing to do with a person afflicted with agita is: RUN. Or duck. But for heaven's sake, don't try to fix, or understand it. Just go away. Leave us alone. Hope tomorrow's better.

Of course, if you, like me, are the one suffering from agita, you're screwed. I can't run. I can't hide. I can't duck. I'm stuck. With an anxious, irritable me.

So here's hoping for a better tomorrow.

~ Olivia J. Herrell

From Awful to Blessings to Healing

Three days ago I returned from my ex’s funeral. Stepping out of the Atlanta Airport, I was greeted with plunging temperatures, body-slapped by twenty mile-an-hour winds shrieking down from the north.

Santa Monica Mountains Looking South from Pt Mugu

At home, the reception was warmer. Bugsy’s loud, long meowls lasted a good five minutes as we bumped and rubbed faces until he decided I was really home. Bedtime came late. My body and spirit linger in Southern California, where the temperatures are balmy and the time still early.

The trip was fraught with both blessings and healings, as is wont to happen at such times. I experienced the safety and shelter of being in the hollow of God’s hands, as doors and hearts opened and festering wounds healed. Gone are the chains that shackled my heart. Gone is the man at the other end.

Author Unknown

Buoyed as I am by this new state of being, grief weighs heavy, disguised as depression. My suitcase is yet unpacked and clothes pile high in the bedroom. Work has been difficult and any nonessential task, unbearable. Suffice it to say I've put it aside until later. That’s me being gentle with me. Tomorrow is Saturday. Color me grateful. I plan to do some writing, sticking close to home.

Monkey Paws on Seaward in Ventura, CA

Yesterday I received an allegorical short story while sitting in the sun watching the birds near the feeder. A love story which may or may not have a happy ending, its title is “Meadow Lark and Mocking Bird”. The writing will be cathartic. More healing.

Then, during quiet time this morning, a Book Two character appeared, along with an electrifying (literally) scene to introduce him. Key to the main character’s development, 'Taranis' will help move the story from local to international and be the first ‘god’ to enter the fray. Seems the second book of my "Peace Makers" trilogy is taking shape, in spite of the fact that Book One is incomplete.

Time now to relax. Maybe a movie. Netflix. Hulu. Something with worlds and characters someone else created. Here's to an early bedtime and a body clock (please, please) back on Eastern time.

~ Olivia J. Herrell