On Being Alone

Thought for the day:  Language has created the word 'loneliness' to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word 'solitude' to express the glory of being alone. [Paul Tillich]

[image courtesy of unsplash]

There's a huge difference between reveling in the glorious solitude of an early morning walk on the beach, where we thoroughly enjoy our own company and feel at one with the universe...

[image courtesy of unsplash]

and the devastating soul-sucking feeling of loneliness. The sense that one has been deserted. Has no one. Is totally alone and unwanted in this world.

Solitude is not the same as loneliness. Solitude is a solitary boat floating in a sea of possible companions. [Robert Fulghum]

By contrast, I suppose the lonely don't believe there are any possible companions for them. Nothing but a sea of emptiness as far as they can see.

[courtesy of unsplash]

My guess is you've all seen it: crowds of people with downcast eyes, fiddling with their cellphones while ignoring the flesh-and-blood people who are surrounding them. This isn't just a phenomenon that occurs among strangers, either. It happens within families.

From the boardroom to the bedroom, we're connected 24/7, yet loneliness is at an all-time high. More people are reaching for mobile devices than for the hand of someone in need. Where did our humanity go? [Elizabeth Kapu'uwailani Lindsey]

But we can't blame this disconnect on modern technology. Sure, the proliferation of cellphones has made the situation more blatantly noticeable, but the truth is, the disconnect pre-dates the advent of the cellphone.

[image courtesy of unsplash]

Why is it that people are more likely to react to a lonely dog with empathy than they are to a person?

[image courtesy of unsplash]

Why does a pitiful-looking kitten pluck on our heartstrings, while the sight of a saddened human being is more likely to make us look the other way? (If we even notice that person in the first place.)

It's as though we're all insulated in our own little worlds (i.e. our vehicles) passing thousands of other people, who are also insulated in their own little worlds. Separated. Disconnected.

[image courtesy of unsplash]

 How many of you would feel compelled to speak to a lonely old woman sitting by herself? To a laughing child? To a person of a different race, sex, or generation than you?

I confess. To me, strangers are just friends I haven't made yet. You could say I'm an equal-opportunity annoyer. That's how I acted as a kid, and I still haven't outgrown it. (Just between you and me, I hope I never do.) Smarticus is the same way. Some would call us extroverts, I suppose. Personally, I think we just have big yaps. No one is safe from our friendly yammering, and no matter how standoffish or surprised people may be initially, they've always come around and engaged in conversations with us in the end.

Know why? Because I think people are lonely. We NEED to feel connected to other people, and that sense of belonging is achingly absent in the lives of far too many people.

Loneliness can be a serious health condition, too, especially for the elderly. According to an AARP study, prolonged social isolation is as risky to a person's well-being as smoking fifteen cigarettes a day.

Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty. [Mother Teresa]

                                   And loneliness all too often leads to depression.

So why don't we reach out to each other more?  Are we introverts, or are we simply afraid of being rejected? Afraid of what that other person might think or how he might react? What if there were a safe place to interact with strangers, a place where you'd know ahead of time that the other person does, indeed, want to talk to somebody, and would welcome the opportunity to meet you?

Thanks to English policeman Detective Sargent Ashley Jones, these places do exist. He became aware of how devastating loneliness can be for seniors when an elderly widow who'd been bilked of more than thirty thousand dollars by a con man told him she didn't mind, because without the con man's daily phone calls, in which he pretended to be her friend, she wouldn't have spoken to another human being for weeks on end. She was lonely and that con man temporarily eased her profound sense of loneliness.

So the good officer did something about it. In June, he got permission to give special status to a couple benches in two local parks.

How are they special? They're called chat benches... and they have made a difference. So much so, ten more benches were added shortly after the first two, often in places where the elderly tend to congregate. Now, there are forty of these benches spread throughout the UK, and other countries are starting to  notice, like Australia and the U.S.

Isn't that fantastic???


                             Here's a short video to tell you a bit more about the benches:

So what do you think? Think this is going to be an idea that'll sweep the world and make a real difference in lives far and wide? I sure hope so. In a world of manufactured problems based on our perceived differences, how wonderful it would be if we all could learn to sit down and chat a spell with a stranger. Remember, (s)he's just a friend you haven't met yet... and even without a bench, each of us has the power to change that.

We can all fight against loneliness by engaging in random acts of kindness. [Gail Honeyman]

In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit. [Albert Schweitzer]

Try to be a rainbow in someone's cloud. [Maya Angelou]

If you light a lamp for someone, it will also brighten your path. [Buddhist saying]

If you meet someone without a smile, give him one of yours.

Give a stranger a smile. It might be the only sunshine he sees all day.

Making a person smile can change the world. Maybe not the whole world, but their world.

                                         Be the reason someone smiles today.

                               Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Mixed Messages

Thought for the day:  Time is but a stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it, but while I drink, I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slips away, but eternity remains. [Henry David Thoreau]

How is it possible that I can look at this old photo of my mother and me from so many years ago and still remember so vividly exactly how icky it felt when the lining of that bathing suit got filled with sand?

So long ago, yet so vivid. Such is time. As Thoreau said, eternity remains.

Okay, so I'm not here. (Again!) You could say I've... gone fishing. (Hey! Stop looking at my bass!)

Ahem.

Anyhow, I won't be around to respond to your comments or visit your blogs and all that good stuff... but I WILL be back next Friday with a brand new post. In the meantime, I'm leaving you with an updated version of an oldie but goodie, which first appeared in 2011.. before any of you were following me... as Sum Tink Wong. So in a way... it's new!

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Thought for the day:  Man who stand on toilet high on pot.

Have you ever noticed how twisted up translations can become from one language to another? Sometimes, they're pretty frustrating, but they can also be inadvertently funny. Manuals for electronic gadgets can make you want to pull your hair out when the manufacturer's primary language is Japanese. And my hubby bought a box of drill bits, (made in China) only to come home and notice the box declared them to be "dill bits." We thought that was so funny, we kept the box around for a while just to show our friends.


BUT ... wouldn't you think if someone wanted to open a restaurant, a place for American people to come and EAT,  they'd check, check and DOUBLE-check how the name they've selected for that restaurant might translate before hanging their sign out front? I sincerely doubt if any of the following owners gave it a second thought:

What? You say, for some strange reason, you've decided to eat at HOME tonight?

And you have the oddest craving for Chinese food? How about this simple recipe for fried rice:

Surely you have some leftover cold rice in your fridge, right? No? Well, then you'll have to cook some, and stick it in the fridge to let it chill for a while. While it's cooling, you can chop some green onions, and gather whatever veggies and/or meat you want to add to your creation. For four cups of rice, you'll want about a cup of veggie/meat combo. Or more, if you'd like. (It's YOUR dinner.) Shrimp is good, leftover pork, beef, peas, carrots, whatever you happen to have on hand. OK, now beat two eggs and stir fry in 2 T oil (peanut, lard, sesame, or whatever your little heart desires) until the eggs are dry and separated into small pieces. Remove the eggs, put 3 more T oil into the pan, and toss in your veggies, meat and rice. Stir fry for ~5 minutes or so. Add 2 T chicken broth, 3 T soy sauce. Mix well, and then stir in your eggs, 1/2 t pepper and 2 t sesame oil. Voila! Your masterpiece!

Don't feel like rice? How about this? If you're feeling a little, um,  creative, these chicken wings are guaranteed to put a smile on your face:

I think some cross-language double entendres may be intentional. Like a while back, my hubby and I attended a function to honor Vietnam war vets. When Smarticus left the table to get some more food from the buffet, a young Vietnamese man came over to me to introduce himself. For all I know, he was born here in America, because he definitely spoke and acted like any other homegrown American fella his age. At any rate, he was very Americanized, if you know what I mean. Anyway, he looked me right in the eyes, grinned, and said... "I'm hung." Now I'm sure his name's probably spelled Huang or some such, but that's how it sounded. And he didn't say his NAME was hung; he said HE was. I kinda wondered if he wanted me to... congratulate him...? Personally, I think I deserve an Academy award for not laughing hysterically or making some inappropriate, but totally knee-slapping, response to his rather provocative declaration, but I didn't know the guy and didn't want to offend him. In retrospect, considering the way his buddies were laughing and raiding their beer bottles on high, I'm pretty sure either reaction would've been perfectly acceptable. In any language.

Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Putting Pants on a Cat

Thought for the day:  Writing is like giving yourself homework, really hard homework, every day for the rest of your life. You want glamorous? Throw glitter at the computer screen. [Ketrina Monroe]

Yep, you guessed it. It's that time again. Welcome to this month's edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group meeting... er, virtual meeting, that is. This, the first Wednesday of the month, is the time when writers all over the world post about the ups and downs, the highs and lows, the ins and outs... of writing. We celebrate... we complain... we commiserate. Whatever we need, this is the place to find it. Humble thanks and a jolly tip of the hat go to Alex Cavanaugh, our fearless ninja leader and the originator of this fine group, and thanks to all of the other folks who've pitched in to make this group such a rousing success. If you'd like to join (It's FREE!) or would like to read some of the other posts, please go HERE

[image courtesy of morguefile]

I think the love of storytelling is an intrinsic part of human nature, don't you? Long before the written word, ancient people recorded their stories with pictures drawn on cave walls. In many, if not all cultures, those individuals blessed with a talent for spinning imaginative verbal tales were highly esteemed, and the stories they told were passed down for generations. (However, alas, I betcha they rarely earned enough to put food on their humble rock table...) Various kinds of art, including interpretive dance, music, art, photos and films, as well as the written word, serve as outlets that continue to tell our stories today. It's how we communicate. How we relate. How we learn to understand each other, the world, and ourselves.

We can't help ourselves. Especially writers. Almost everything we see is subject to being interpreted through our writers' eyes as a possible story, as an avenue for pursuing another what if. In 1944, psychologists Fritz Heider and Marianne Simmel conducted an experiment designed to explore this phenomenon. Check out their video and see if your mind automatically creates a story from it.

        Pretty cool, huh? (Way cooler than a Rorschach inkblot.)

Time for this month's question:

What publishing path did you take, and why?

I'm tired of the anonymity of being an unpublished author. I crave the anonymity of being self-published. [Tristan Durie]

To be perfectly honest, I'm not familiar with Tristan Durie (Probably because he's still enjoying his anonymity...HA!) but I like that quote. 

Not that any concern about being anonymous played a part in my decision to self-publish. I went the normal route for a while... querying agents and jumping through their hoops... sending them synopses of their specifically designated length and the number of pages they wanted me to submit, blah, blah, blah. I even started a blog because so many of them told me to do so to establish a platform. (Now, that I don't regret! Not that I think of you guys as a platform... you've simply become friends.)

In between the querying, synopses and setting up a blog, I submitted a short story to a magazine, and it was accepted. Woo-HOO! Getting that check for eight hundred dollars gave me validation, and made me feel like I really was a writer, but as much as I appreciated getting that money, I hated the way the magazine edited my story.

Then it was back to waiting. Waiting for an agent to give me a green light, and then there would've probably been another interminable wait until said imaginary agent found a publisher willing to take a chance on me. With no advance, of course, because they've kinda gone the way of the dodo bird for unknown writers. Skimpy royalties, too. And if the book didn't do well within the first six months, it'd be pretty much relegated to obscurity. Publishing companies have no stomach for wasting time publicizing a new writer who isn't making money for them. It's sink or swim.

And I thought... Ya know what? I'm too old for this crap.I can relegate my books to obscurity all by myself.

(So far, so good.) 

Publishing can be tough. It can kill dreams. [Michael Stackpole]

Yep, constant rejections can cause those dreams to wilt a bit. The sheer number of years it can take before a book makes it into print, assuming one ever gets an agent or publisher willing to invest in your career, can be daunting for a young person, but for someone my age? Nope. For me, it was far better to take control of things myself. 

And BONUS: I never have to write a query or synopsis again!

The only rejection I stand to face is from readers, but even though the reviews have been scantier than I would've liked, there has only been one bad review. That, and a one-star rating from some dude in Morocco. (If he read Hot Flashes and Cold Lemonade, I'll eat my hat... and yours, too.)

Self-editing a novel is like trying to put pants on a cat; yes, it's painful and time-consuming, but in the end, satisfying. [Robert Jack]

Hmmm, I doubt if the cat would agree.

At any rate, there ya have it. At this stage in my life, self-publishing is definitely the best choice for me. I have complete control over content, cover, and all the rest. And no high-pressure deadlines! 

Life is good.

                    Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other. 

This 'n' That

Thought for the day:  Compassion is language the deaf can hear and the blind can see. [Mark Twain]

[image courtesy of morguefile]

Yes, I agree with Mr. Twain, because compassion is communicated heart-to-heart. I'm all in favor of compassion and understanding, and I wholeheartedly applaud the laws which were (finally) enacted to level the playing field a bit for people with certain disabilities. A caring society should do no less than to provide equal access to all citizens whenever possible.

And yet... there's THIS...

I honestly don't know what to think about a newspaper article I read earlier this week, so I'm gonna throw it out to you guys, and see what you think.



Movie enthusiast Paul McGann asked a Cinemark theater in Pittsburgh to provide a tactile interpreter so he could see the movie Gone Girl. [FYI: Tactile interpretation involves placing one's hands over the hands of an interpreter, who then uses sign language to describe the movie's actions, etc.] The movie theater denied Mr. McGann's request, and the gentleman took them to court. As of now, an appeals court has ruled that according to federal disability law, theaters are required to provide specialized interpreters for blind and deaf patrons. This case will likely go through more appeals before a final decision is made, but what do YOU think?

[image courtesy of morguefile]

Is it reasonable, or even possible, for every movie theater to hire interpreters? How would they even do that? Have a number of them on call and summon one to the movie when needed, or would they have to pay a flat rate to keep interpreters available, whether or not a patron ever requests their services?  Mr. McCann uses American Sign Language, but would it be sufficient for theaters to hire ASL interpreters? How about the patrons who use a different sign language...? How cost-prohibitive would this all be? Could this signal the end of movie theaters altogether?

Seriously, I'd love to know what you think about this matter.

And now... on to THAT...

[Dot and Dash]

It's no secret that Smarticus and I have two very spoiled and most-loving-in-the-whole-world cats. Lots of you guys have much-loved kitties... and dogs... too, and I know you're every bit as attached to your critters as we are.

Another newspaper article highlighted a different sort of furry companion that's expected to hit the markets next summer. An invention of Japanese company Yukai Engineering, Qoobo has fur, a twitchy tail, and even vibrates like a purring kitty, but it doesn't eat, or ralph up hairballs all over the house, or gnaw on your plants, or need a litter box... because it, um, has no head. It's essentially a round 2-pound pillow with a tail.

Some outraged pet owners say it's ridiculous to think anyone could ever love one of these things, and it's insulting to think it could ever replace sweet little Fluffy or Fido.

And YET... I believe this gizmo will find a niche. Not for those of us who are able to love and care for our pets, but how about for certain nursing home patients (or others) who may not be of sound mind or body? Wouldn't it maybe provide them some of the valuable serenity and calmness ordinarily found by holding and petting a real living, breathing purring kitty? What do YOU think?

Now that I've covered THIS and THAT, it's time for me to scat. (ahem) Dot and Dash are seeking my services...

                                       Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

A Bouquet of Joy

Thought for the day:  There are always flowers for those who want to see them. [Henri Matisse]

To those of you who are visiting for the first time because of this Valentine's blogfest, welcome! To Arlee Bird, thanks so much for coming up with this cool idea, and to all of his co-hosts, thanks for supporting it. To my regulars, who are wondering why the heck Swiderski is posting on a Monday... I say again... blogfest!!! I hope you'll stick around, even though it isn't our usual Friday rendezvous, and this isn't my usual subject matter. (If there even is such a thing.) Clicking on the badge in the sidebar will whisk you away to a list of other participating bloggers, so if you'd like, you can check out all kinds of offerings about love, both lost and found.


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Anyone who has spent time away from home knows how much it means to receive a letter, and this is especially true for soldiers. Particularly during wartime. Those letters provide a much-needed tether back to the world, and offer hope in the midst of horror.

This is a picture of Smarticus during the Vietnam war, writing me a letter. Being out in the field, he couldn't do that as often as he'd like, but I wrote to him multiple times a day, both to help preserve his sanity, and to try to preserve my own. Mail was dropped to the guys from a helicopter, but most of the time, they had to destroy those letters after reading them. They had no place to keep them, and the last thing they needed was additional weight to carry.

Although times have changed, and modern day soldiers have other ways to keep in touch with their loved ones, I believe hand-written letters are still very important. They're life lines. Smarticus and I were already married when he was in Vietnam, but I truly believe it's possible for people who have never met in the world to establish a real relationship through letters. That's the basis for my blogfest offering, which I call The Language of Flowers. I hope you enjoy it.

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       Ex-sergeant Cullen Smith paused to admire the florist shop window. Just as he expected, the Say it with Flowers graphics were cheerful, welcoming, and a perfect reflection of the owner’s personality. He took a deep steadying breath, and dried his hand on the front of his shirt to get a better grip on his cane. No sense taking any chances. He was getting around like a pro on his new leg now, but he didn't want to risk screwing up her first face-to-face impression of him by falling on his keister. No, not now, not when he was so close. This was the day he'd been dreaming of for months. He was finally going to meet his guardian angel.

      The bell above the door jingled merrily to announce his entrance into the shop. He stepped inside and looked around at her dream come true. Nice. Very nice… but where was she? Maybe his mother was right; maybe he should have called first. Maybe he should have warned her.

      Then the sweetest-sounding voice he'd ever heard called to him from the back room. “Just a sec! Be right there!”

      That was her voice. That was Angelica.

      His heart pounded against his ribcage, and then, there she was. Finally. Right there, standing right in front of him. Smiling at him. The first thing he thought was she looked just like the picture she’d sent him, the one he’d carried in Iraq and propped up beside him when answering her letters, and the one he’d found in the pocket of his robe when he finally regained consciousness in the hospital.

      No, scratch that. She looked even better in person. No fold marks through her face.

      Angelica felt a slight tug of recognition in her soul when she looked at the man with the semi-scruffy beard, but she couldn’t quite place him. She was immediately drawn to his eyes, though. They were an unusual shade of blue-green, and somehow managed to express the depths of both sadness and hope at the same time. Mesmerizing.

      “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “How can I help you?”

      Cullen hesitated. He should have known this would happen. She obviously didn’t recognize him, but why should she? He barely recognized himself as the clean-shaven, scar-free soldier in the picture displayed on the shelf behind her. With a tenuous smile, he cleared his throat, and said, “I’d like to send flowers to someone to let her know how I feel about her.”

      “Terrific! That’s my specialty,” she said, grabbing a scratch pad. “We’ll even include a cheat sheet to interpret the meanings for her. Okay, so what would you like to say?”

      “I want her to know I’m her secret admirer.”

      Lucky girl, she thought. “That would be yellow mums,” she said, noting it on her pad.

      “And I want to thank her,” he said. “To express my deepest gratitude. No matter how tough things were, she kept me going.”

      “Nice,” she said. “Pink carnations.”

      “I want to ask her to remember me forever,” he said, looking at her intently. “Just as I’ll always remember her. Her letters kept me alive.”

      Angelica’s hand shook slightly as she held it over the pad. “Forget-me-nots,” she whispered, before daring to look at him again. Daring to hope.

      “I love her,” he said around a lump in his throat.

      “Red,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “Roses or tulips. Your choice.”

      “No, your choice, Angelica. The flowers are for you. It’s me. Cullen. I got here as soon as I could.”

      She came out from behind the counter with tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “It’s about time,” she said, while wrapping her arms around him.

      “Thank you for everything,” he said. “Your letters meant the world to me when I was in Iraq. When I came out of the coma, there was a whole pile waiting for me. You even wrote when I couldn’t answer. How can I ever tell you how much that meant to me? How much you mean to me? Ever since you wrote me the first time, I told you I’d come see you when I got back home. Sorry it took me so long.”

      She smiled up at him. “You already told me. With flowers. And if I had some, I’d respond with a sprig of ambrosia.”

      “Which means…?”

      “Your love is reciprocated.”

      With a silent prayer of thanks, he held her close, rocking her from side to side. He kissed her with an aching sweetness, and said, “Too soon to propose?”

      She laughed, and said, “Um, yeah, a little. I think we should go on at least one date first, don’t you?  But when we’re ready, I’ll fill the church with birds of paradise for our wedding.”

      He raised an eyebrow.

      She smiled. “Joy,” she said. “They symbolize joy.”

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My joy then...

And now.

Since I'm posting today, I won't be doing a post on Friday, which happens to be Smarticus' birthday. (So I may be busy peeling grapes all day...) Seeya again next week, and every... okay, most... Fridays after that. (Ya never can tell when another blogfest might pop up.)

          Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever. [Alfred Lord Tennyson]

Love is the flower you've got to let grow. [John Lennon]

Flowers are the music of the ground from earth's lips, spoken without sound. [Edwin Curran]

Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead. [Oscar Wilde]