What Is The Smallest Thing You Will Do Today To Prepare For A Storm?

Tornado season is upon us, with a vengeance. I lived in “tornado alley” for many years, and know how devastating and life changing these storms can be…even to the point of being deadly, as we are reminded, all too often.

Some storms come with warning, and some strike with no warning at all. Some we have time to prepare for, and others happen so fast, there is only time to react. When a large snow storm looms, we all go crazy and buy more milk, bread, and toilet paper—sometimes, in an un-needed panic. We get salt for the sidewalk, and hunker down to wait it out.

But when a tornado strikes, it is unpredictable. In many cases, we only have minutes to do what we can to shelter those we love. In those instances, people have been taught to get into basements, cellars, away from windows, into bathrooms. But sometimes, despite our best intentions, there are no safe places to go.
In those cases, what happens after the storm says a lot. Entire lives can be blown away in moments, and it’s up to the family of people to help each other pick up the pieces.

Having a plan can help a little. Some of these storms are so devastating that nothing seems to help much, but you read about the people who got to shelter because they knew what to do—and survived. Knowing ahead of time that there is so much out of our control means that we plan for the things we can do something about—like make sure we have a way to reach out after a catastrophe and find one another.

Then there is what we can do for each other, to prepare for a storm and the aftermath. Raising awareness of neighbors who have lost everything and being willing to lend a hand matters. Building relationships in the good times means we have a safety net during the hard ones.

What Is The Smallest Thing You Will Do Today To Prepare For A Storm?

You Play Like You Live

You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation. --Plato

I'm one of those oddities. I am a fifty two year old grandmother, and I like to play video games. Not all of them--you probably won't catch me playing the latest Grand Theft Auto, or any first person shooter--but I love to play Guild Wars 2.

Yeah, I know. It's a juvenile waste of time. Except it really isn't, for me. I like the social interaction, and I have become a decent player--certainly won't win any awards, and I'm never going to be at the top of any leader boards anywhere. But I've noticed, over the years, that people game like they live.

If you become frustrated easily and get angry at the game because "it's not fair", then it's a pretty good chance that you have that problem in your real life, too. If you are generous with help and give new players a hand up, you probably are the kind of person who holds doors open and chips in an extra dollar if someone is short at the grocery store checkout.

I've seen quiet leadership emerge from players, and seen bombastic headstrong people who will try to win at any cost. I've seen people who will stop to revive a fallen comrade at great risk to themselves. And I've seen people run over each other, just trying to avoid getting damaged themselves.

I know people tend to think that online games are anonymous, ways to release stress from behind a mask. But I also think that sometimes, those masks are just facets of who we really are.

Character means more than a cartoon on the screen. Just my .02.

Dy

A Quiet Place To Work

As a Freelance writer, I have a challenge. I bet I am not alone.

Even though I have a home office,  I have trouble turning off the phone and closing the door. Distractions rage. Facebook beckons. My cats fight upstairs. There's noise in the kitchen--what is that? The Zombie Racket of the Unclean thumps in my mind: my laundry, stairs that need sweeping, bills that need to be paid--

Noise, noise, noise. Internal and external. So I grab my laptop and car keys to find a quiet place to work.

The Coffee House

Some days, it's perfect. Not another soul in sight, and the music is reasonably low. Then a chattering group of people come in, greet each other with cheerful noise and make small talk, just loud enough to pull my focus. I fight with it for a while, then I pack up. I begin to understand the Grinch, and just want to escape the Whos down in Whoville...

The Library

Libraries used to be a mecca of enforced layered silence. Librarians were guardians of quiet, frowning at the sound of a pencil dropping on carpet. Whispers were tolerated, but only if there was a fire.

Now libraries create programs. I understand the need. Without numbers, libraries lose their funding. But just try to find a quiet space in most libraries anymore. A few have actual silent rooms, glassed off and highly booked. Most just don't have the space and have become central meeting places.

Cell phones ring, and people answer them, chatting about their latest drama. Toddlers scream. A woman reads out loud to a group of barely attentive kids who cry and yak, and mothers try to corral the chaos. A bank of computers has an army of loud typists, printers crank and whine in corners. I leave again.

Escape To The Outside

The summer has been hot, but there is some shade. There is no place to plug in my laptop at the local park, but it's fairly quiet and I have battery power. Half of the picnic table is sticky with some unknown goop, and hornets buzz, but it's at the other end of a six foot span so I take my chances. It works until a bunch of softballers show up, followed by a team of loud, profane teenagers. I am beginning to realize that the problem is two-fold. Part of it is the world. It's gotten noisier. The bigger problem is me. I have too much noise in my head, and I am not good at shutting it out anymore.

Prowling Before Dawn

My grandmother used to wake up in the wee hours, and wander through the dark house, never turning on a light. She'd finally sit alone at her front window, watching for the newspaper delivery or lights on across the street. I thought she was a little crazy. She actually was, but not so much in this regard. I am now writing this at 5:00 AM, after waking full on at 4:00, unable to fall back asleep. The house is completely silent. I've taken advantage of this lovely time of day before. My mind is calm, and I know the phone won't be ringing. The cats are asleep. What little traffic there is holds the same conspiracy of quiet. We appreciate each other.

Finding Silence Inside

I need to learn to find dawn at noon, learn to stop being so available, shut off the phone and shut out the racket. As a mother, I think I've been programmed to respond to every noise. It's what we do. But maybe true quiet is gained when we seek the quiet before sunrise--even in the middle of the day.

The Ultimate Laziness, with a mouse click.

Oh, it's just happened to me. I am awake at Insane O'Clock, and have turned to the comfort of my keyboard. Instead of doing something productive, I checked the news (there wasn't any); checked FB (because it's just what I do, probably some insidious mental programming thingie they've done; there's an APP for that); and now I just came to a realization that would probably irritate or alarm me if I were awake enough for such things.

I just realized with relief that I have my blogger dashboard set up as a bookmark. My relief at not having to type the url is what has me concerned.

For heaven's sake. It had nothing to do with memory. I can go through the steps to get here without the friendly little icon.

I was just feeling too lazy to type.

Now, I have my lazy places. I use all the modern conveniences (except the dishwasher, at least most of the time) and I like saving labor. What I am saving it for is one of those questions that troubles me--not sure I'll need the labor-bank and I'm not sure what the exchange rate will be on some of the older labor I've saved--

Cripes, I write some drivel before dawn. I think I'll call this Vampire Writing. Anyway. On with the main theme, although I have an instinct the topics are somehow related.

Lazy. That's it. Too lazy to type a url. Glad for a point and click solution.

That means something dire for the human race. But I think I'm too lazy to follow it up with any thoughts. Thanks for reading this far; I hope it hasn't been too strenuous.

Reaching Out, and why it's so damned scary

So, I had a great experience last night. It was actually one of those quiet little confirmations that taking a chance is a pretty good idea.

Sorry. No tight rope walking, no risky investments, no dragon slaying or channel swimming. All I did was attend a writer's group for the first time. The people were friendly, the venue was fantastic, and even though I had to leave before I wanted to (work, deadlines, etc.) the overall experience was kind of like jumping into the pool and finding out the water was just fine. I think it will be a productive group to be connected to, and I think I can learn a lot from them.

And this morning, it's left me with an interesting thought. I resisted this very thing, for...well, for years, frankly. So I started looking at why.

It mostly boiled down to fear. Fear of not being good enough, fear of someone who would swoop down and take my ideas (wow, do I get the paranoid of the week award, or what?) fear of...shadows, mostly. I thought I was past that craziness, but this part of my life is sacred.

That uncovered another layer, no real shocker there. I want to protect this part of my life, this writing thing, because it's my core. The strange part of that is I can take it. I've faced rejection (what writer hasn't?), I've faced disappointment, I've faced my share of damned red dragons lurking behind doorways.

It's probably more than just that my writing life is so important to me. It's also that since I've worked for myself, I've really allowed myself to become isolated. The internet has been my main connection to the world. So I've been finding ways to get back out there, talk to actual people.

This makes me sound like some kind of weird hermit. I'm not. But the truth is, working from home means a lot of my social circle has shrunk. Some of that is ok. But I'm going to get better at what I do by finding some other folks out there who can help me be better at what I do.

And at the end of the day, there is no substitute for a good old fashioned conversation.

Critics and Critiques. Which one do we need and heed?

I have a problem with critics. I find I disagree (sometimes vehemently) with a good many of them; and yet, I find I still read their assessments.

And let's face it, there are critics everywhere. Political critics, literature and film critics, art critics. They serve their place, analyzing things so we don't have to, serving as a filter so we can use what they say to decide to check or not check out something for ourselves.

But there is a danger in letting someone else decide what has merit and what does not. I wonder how tinged with bias our own perceptions are once we've let a "professional" have a shot at telling us what they thought.

I wonder how many critics have ever penned a novel, produced a film, written a screenplay, or painted a landscape. How many critics in their chosen field have ever actually worked in a kitchen, created a clay sculpture, arranged an art exhibit with all the attendant background work it takes to even get a venue?

Granted, there are some folks out there who have earned their chops, worked in their industries, and have the balance to give a good critique. But I think perhaps they are in the minority.

It makes me think about the personal critics that rule many people's lives...teachers, preachers, parents. I wonder about the damage I've done unwittingly to my own kids, and ask for forgiveness for the critical judgments I probably put on them over the last 30 some odd years. Because the truth is, opinions are just that. Perhaps most critical reviews should start with the words "In My Opinion..."

Because at the end of the day, any work of creation is a monumental risk and effort. I respect the reviews of people who have walked it, those who still strive to create themselves, those who are willing to be under the spotlight.

But I have to hold suspect anyone who throws out criticism and doesn't have a clue what it means to do whatever they are reviewing. Politics, art, cooking, writing, dance, performance...

And I also am looking hard at not letting other people tell me what I should think. I'm smart enough to experience something for myself and make my own conclusions. So thanks for the critical views...and next time, I'll read those articles afterwards and see if we agree. It could be that I'll see something differently than they have--and that's my part of the partnership I have with the artist\author\creator\politician.

Maybe it should be mandatory that every critic has to be a creator first...what do you think?

Healing 14

I attended a book signing last night, promoting a new book by a fellow named Joe Stierheim called A Moment in Time. It was a great event, sold out all of his books, and everyone made some awesome connections.

One of the most interesting moments for me was when Joe told us a story about why he writes. He shared that like most writers, he had been "protected" by well-meaning people who told him he would never be able to make a living as a writer. At the age of fourteen, he said there was a poetry contest that he wanted to enter, but he talked himself out of it.

Then he related that a former poet laureate of the United States had a similar experience--but instead of giving in to that doubting inner voice, he pushed through it and kept writing poetry.

Joe's question at that point was "What if I had pushed through and kept writing anyway? Where would I be now?"

I noticed many heads nodding as he related this story, this place of being fourteen and making a decision based on well meaning, but probably flawed advice. And as I looked around the room, I saw a bunch of fourteen year olds in much older clothing, remembering...

I think it's time we healed fourteen. Or twelve. Or eight. Or whatever the age was when you might have heard a discouraging word, and somehow, have now coded it into "truth".

It ain't truth, Martha. It's just someone else's perspective. Pick up the pen, click over to a blank page and write, go dance, go sing, wake up that kid.

You can do it!