P.J. Colando's Blog

I once had a friend named Robin. She was svelte and statuesque. Her oval face was framed by pixie cut auburn hair. Her softball pitch was clocked at over 90 mph.

She excelled as much in business as she did in sports. Men and women liked her because, despite her good looks and multifaceted talents, she was a solid and reliable friend. She was also intelligent, adventurous, and tenacious.

So much so that she traveled to Africa to retrieve the love of her life from Zimbabwe, where he reveled in his role as a safari leader.

I can’t, wouldn’t, won’t provide the romantic and/or salacious details because the trip occurred before I met her. I’m a storyteller, but not a tattletale.

Also, I didn’t ask – because I sensed that it was deeply painful – and she didn’t volunteer.

You see, the dude, the high-value male she traipsed after, declined her invitation to return to America, to her great chagrin. There may have been tears and deep depression, but I missed them. I would have, could have, should have comforted her if I’d known there then.

 

But she didn’t return to the States empty-handed. She bagged a trunkload of handmade African bling, and I bought several pieces. I garner many compliments on my big-beaded necklaces, made by African tribal women.

[image error]That wasn’t the only boon to me, though. She inspired me to travel to safari in Africa. My husband and I didn’t make the trip until a decade later and we went on the Great Migration route, through Kenya and Tanzania, in 2012. We agree that it was the trip of a lifetime, animals in the native habitat, moving and grooving, eating – even killing – splendidly.

Unlike Robin, I didn’t need to travel to Africa to snare a man…. I took him with me and it was grand!

Conversation is not always easy to start without being trite. My husband and I have many disparate people with whom to converse, so we’ve actively worked on some conversation starters.

As a conversation starter other than “How are you?” or “How’s the weather/” (a Midwestern mainstay), I love to ask, “What surprised you today?” It is an open-ended opportunity to be delighted, not only in my own mysterious day, but also in the mystery of my friend’s day. Or a house guest’s day… a frequent occurrence since my husband and I moved to Southern California.

We’ve recently endured two weeks of consecutive houseguests. While they’re largely independent sightseers due to Uber and Lyft, their need to eat and talk, talk, talk pervades our daily lives. We find that people from Elsewhere, USA, often have preconceived biases about the area we love, so the question is useful. It’s a starting point to delightful, informative, and non-judgmental conversation.

It’s novel, just as the Southern California experience is. Sunshine engenders happiness and good times.

But, there are other conversation starts, distasteful in the extreme, certain to foster negative thoughts, words, and deeds. These days I’ve successfully identified – and avoid – those with a willful lack of tact. You know the type, the ones who’ve preemptively spout Trumpisms and noxious ideology for nearly twenty years. (!)

Yes, that’s how long it has been since his semi-imperious, malevolent, and capricious impact on our country, which has widened to the world and narrowed to our individual lives, has dominated daily thought and talk. It’s a blight, now more than ever, as his half-baked plans and policies adversely impact Americans’ pocketbooks.

“What makes you cry?” has long been a useful barometer for charitable donations one wishes to make. I’ve utilized it often in the past. Now, unfortunately, much about the shroud that Trump’s words and deeds have brought upon us causes me to feel anxious and – sometimes – cry.

I’ve got the jitters, and my daily chocolate ingestion is increasing my girth while not reducing my fears.

I need a new conversation – can you start one?

It was overcast yesterday, and I spent most of the day inside, working intensely on my blog post. Lots of copying, pasting, hunting, pecking. On days like those, I lose track of my body, the idea of height or strength or even texture, and it is all just words.

Focus, focus, focus is my friend.

I ate lunch – at my desk as other writers do – seeking to re-fuel my focus and find more just-right words. Though I’m a word nerd, just-right is an elusive beast and causes – to my dentist’s dismay –  much gnashing of teeth.

In the early afternoon, I wistfully looked outside, wondering when the sun would burn off the fog, and it was then that I spied my husband’s robust garden. We’d backed the raised bed with sunflowers, not knowing the salvation they’d bring.

You see, it was only when we moved to Southern California that we learned of June Gloom. To make matters worse, to betray these Midwesterners’ promise, that seasonal phenomenon had expanded to include May Gray.

While I didn’t physically cut those valiant flowers, I plucked them as metaphorical words for my blog post. God gives what he’d taken away (our perceived promise of constant sunshine) and my word count is complete.

I smile – and then another miracle transpires.

My husband steps into view to water his garden, tending the crops in the thorough, well-plotted manner that he takes care of me. His is a methodical, purposeful love. He often brings me flowers – not the florist high-priced and artfully-arranged variety – but serendipitous bunches of thoughtfulness. Today is the deadheads from the marigolds that ring his raised beds, the varmint wardens he’s planted.

His is the universal care of a farmer that loves the land and its mayhem, the better to curb it to his will.

I wish I had a similar ability to bend words to my will.

 

 

Self-care isn’t escapism – it’s how we stay engaged. Self-care isn’t narcissism gone wild – it’s how we preserve our core so we can serve others. Self-care isn’t expendable – it’s an essential for mental and physical health. Self-care helps us maintain our equilibrium.

Especially as we mutually endure the words and deeds of the Trump regime, self-care helps us feel safe.

Many weeks ago, he was persuaded to invade Iran by one of his few present-day pals, Netanyahu, a yahoo power-monger akin to him. He did discuss the matter with members of Congress, to whom our Constitution imbues the power to declare war. He listened to the applause of the former Fox channel weekend host, a man who personifies the Peter Principle on steroids. One wonders why his Chief of Staff, Ms. Wiles – the one who’s supposed to manage his schedule and his worst impulses – has been rendered ineffective.

We don’t wonder who has benefited from his war-not-a-war: his sons and others (Hegseth?) who uncannily purchased stocks in defense contractors.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ztZI2aLQ9Sw&list=RDztZI2aLQ9Sw&start_radio=1

Self-care is especially important for me because of several medical issues:

I’ve been diagnosed with partial stiff person syndrome, in which my muscles involuntarily tense and spasm.I’m a sensitive, empathic person.I’m ancient (wink-wink)To remain unfazed by Trump’s capricious, vindictive nature requires constant vigilance.

Recently, I was invited to engage in a new mode of silliness, one that helped me regain equilibrium and joy: music improv, something I’d never. heard of before, let alone considered. I’d find it difficult to describe to you, so suffice it to say, it was an hour where sense was abandoned in favor of nonsense and unrestrained whimsy.

Other people, places, and things that help initiate and maintain my joy are music, laughter, community with friends and family, and my guys, my husband and my dog.

My cool dude and my cool dood.

 

Yesterday, I opened a closet door to stow our income tax records. But first, a few forgotten boxes tumbled out, landing on my toes. They’ve been there for decades, quietly gathering dust.

Forgotten in my busy, busy work, then retired life.

After I kicked the boxes from my toes, I opened one. Inside were reminders of different seasons of life. Creative projects saved with good intentions. Something set aside to be repaired “someday.” Cards from people once close. Tickets from moments that mattered. An object kept not for its usefulness, but for the memory attached to it.

Sort of a 3-D scrapbook, if you will.

Each item has a reason for being there, although it may be forgotten now. Each tells a story about who someone once was – me. Adventures and episodes. People, places, and things. Times gone by, never to be reclaimed.

As I sit, surrounded by all the detritus, an uncomfortable realization arises: what’s being held onto is the weight of these things, not their joy.

Truths surface to deride me. Some things will never be repaired. Most memories don’t need physical proof. These items aren’t preserving the past; they’re just taking up space.

So the sorting begins. Keep. Maybe. Let go.

That last pile grows faster than expected. And with every item added to it, something inside me shifts. Not because the objects are heavy, but because the obligation to keep them was.

By the end of the day, the space looks different. The air feels lighter – like me.

What’s surprising is what isn’t felt… no regret, no longing. Instead, there’s simplicity and ease. Easier to open the door without bracing for things to fall.

This isn’t just about closets. Everyone carries things longer than necessary. Old expectations. Grief. Guilt. Promises made to past selves who no longer exist. The quiet belief that letting go means giving up on something important.

But maybe clearing space isn’t about loss at all. Maybe it’s about making room for what matters now.

It’s a rite of spring… which occurred a month ago.

Commonplacing is a centuries-old practice of compiling knowledge – quotes, ideas, observations – into a personalized repository, sort of a scrapbook for one’s mind. It helps improve memory retention, sparks creativity, and organizes information. Famous peeps like John Locke and Virginia Woolf commonplaced. Joan Didion, a more recently famous writer and an icon of mine, did, too.How to Start and Maintain a Commonplace BookSelect a Format: Choose a physical notebook/journal or use digital tools like Notes, Evernote, or a blog.Gather Information: Actively record interesting quotes, facts, or observations from books, podcasts, or conversationsOrganize: While some use chronological entries, others categorize by theme or use indexing for easy retrieval. Sticky notes may be ideal.Review Regularly: Periodically review entries to make connections between ideas and spark inspiration.

Common Uses and BenefitsWriting Aid: Serves as a treasure trove of inspiration for writers (me).Learning Tool: Helps to retain information from reading.Personal Growth: Curates wisdom for self-reflection.Organization: Functions as a central repository for scattered notes.Commonplacing differs from a personal diary as it focuses on external knowledge rather than internal, day-to-day reflections.It’s also not the Book of Common Prayer.Here’s a blast from the past about blogging: https://www.pjcolando.com/blog-as-virtual-diary/

In the sixties, I sewed my own clothes.  Before that, my mother did. There was no onus to wear home-sown clothes. It was the pattern, the habit of the times.

Everyone did it. It was the norm in the Midwest. We’re weren’t odd or considered poor. Further, we lived in small towns in Indiana, far from department stores to purchase the clothing we desired. Thank goodness we purchased – and didn’t have to sew  – our winter coats.

Neither did my mother attempt to sew my dad’s and brother’s pants and shirts.

My sister recently shared this photo of our family, likely taken in the ’60s. I’m in the middle back, my hair still strawberry blonde and not yet lightened by the California sun. I recognize a dress I’d made, another in my favorite shade: blue.

I vividly recall the crowning achievement of my homemade clothing era, the high school years before college, when I had time and inclination to sew. Jackie Kennedy was our style icon, our cherished first lady of Camelot. I emulated her A-line style dress with a hip-skimming jacket to match. Only I chose the color that most flattered me: teal. The fabric my mother and I selected had a knobby texture, and it was wool, perfect for dressing up for church each Sunday in style, come winter and fall.

While fall was my favorite, winter seemed to last forever in the Midwest, then as now.

Perfection was prime in my 4-H days, so my dress, with its matching jacket, won first place at the county level, earning the opportunity for placement at the Indiana state fair. The 4-H club leader suggested that I enter the dress review, too. Sort of like being a runway model in Paris or New York. a big opportunity.

The August heat cooked me good inside the wool, and I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. But breathe I did, in time with my careful steps. I didn’t often wear two-inch pumps.

I won grand champion ribbons at the Indiana State Fair for my sewing and my sashay. My style equaled Jackie’s in middle America.

Even my freckles were proud.

 

“I love to sit in front of you and hear your voice. I feel like a ‘we.'”

To which I replied, “Thanks for the compliment. My parents would be so happy if they could hear you.”

That church lady’s interaction was/is remarkable and delightful, welcome as a balm for my parents’ passage. It occurred recently, but it’s locked in my heart forever.

My voice is my heritage. Music stirs my soul. It lights up my life.

Reading and writing are my heritage, too. My college-educated parents modeled both, though math was my father’s forte. Mother had an English degree, but in the ’50s when husbands ruled the roost, she wasn’t allowed to work. My writing, which has evolved from a hobby into an encore career, honors the gifts I inherited from them: my mother, the word nerd grammarian, and my father, the mery prankster/comedian

April 1 question – If you have a playlist (or could put one together) that either gets you in the groove to write or fits with one of your books, what is it? What type of music or what songs?

My husband and I are rockers, schooled by the Beatles, Eric Clapton, Fleetwood Mac, Bruce Springsteen, and U2 – all of whom I’ve had the pleasure of seeing in concert. (yes!) We also delight in symphonic selections, along with the Blues of Stevie Ray Vaughn, BB King, and Buddy Guy.

However, I don’t have a playlist for the literary fiction flavored with humor and snark that I write. I require silence to enter the world that I re-create, that of small towns, centered around church life. I need silence to let the various characters speak. I remain silent to ensure the word count is precise, with proper proportions of show vs. tell.

I often feel that I’m living the life my mother craved, which my dad would applaud now.

I feel like a ‘we’.

My husband is a sheet wrestler. In the morning, when the bed-making task inevitably falls to me, the aftermath of his good night’s sleep looks like a war zone.

He pummels his pillow – the special one, with its cooling qualities, that we paid over a hundred bucks for – as if it were an enemy. The fitted bottom sheet has hiked up like a hooker’s skirts, both sheets’ ample evidence of his tossing and turning. Throughout the night, he throws back the top sheets when he reportedly feels too hot, then pulls them back up when he feels chilled. All without wakening, so all is accomplished in stealth.

How do I know? Like all older peeps, I wake up a couple of times to pee, so I witness the sheets’ state.

He doesn’t report having bad dreams, so deploying pillows as weaponry against foes can’t be the cause. Additionally, we have just purchased a premium mattress that’s as “just right” as the one Goldilocks requisitioned from Baby Bear, so that potential source of sleepaches is obviated.

While our doodle likes to jump up on the bed for pre-sleep cuddles, he soon jumps down to his “just right” mattress nearby our bed on the floor.

Meanwhile, I remain inert in a single patch of mattress while my legs deploy themselves in involuntary muscle spasms due to my partial stiff person syndrome. My knees are the prime culprits in the apparent autoimmune war my body has fallen victim to. Except for the depression my head has made on my “just right” pillow, my body has made little imprint on our sheets.

As they say, opposites attract. Who knew evidence would surface in how we sleep each night?

Here’s my sign… in addition to an end to my uncommon muscle spasms.

Sadly, neither will happen.

 

verbicideMEANING:
noun:
1. The deliberate distortion or destruction of the meaning of a word.
2. A person who deliberately distorts the meaning of a word.ETYMOLOGY:From Latin verbum (word) + -cide (killing). Earliest documented use: 1826.NOTES:Verbicide thrives in political slogans, press releases, and corporate memos, where words like freedom, choice, reform, and family are repeatedly assaulted until they contort into meanings they never had.Verbicide occurs in every Trump stump speech.

I would never voluntarily listen to his speeches, tirades, or blather. Still, because he’s the prez, his sound bites and bits are reported, dissected, and/or lamented ad nauseam, especially because he followed Netanyahoo (deliberately misspelled) off the plank and blundered into another ill-considered war. Billions of dollars, ordinance misused, and bodies of Americans sacrificed to his ego-driven blame-shifting and responsibility avoidance.

My anxiety has burgeoned as the war creeps beyond the Middle East, with rumors of attacks in California. Even the gentle, repetitive surf we visited to watch the sunset fall over the Pacific didn’t calm me as the ’70s song, as our country’s ill-considered war in Vietnam took American soldiers’ lives.

I am a positive person… and I’m positive he’s a blight.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ztZI2aLQ9Sw&list=RDztZI2aLQ9Sw&start_radio=1

Trump’s shenanigans wore out their welcome in my heart and mind before his term began.

Thus, I’m symbolically turning in my citizenship in his world and have adopted a new daily survival strategy. Here’s its sign:

Escape – that’s what reading and writing foster for me… Good God, y’all.