Pause and Think About It

You don't have to hustle to flow.
                                   Prophetess Katie Peecher

Get On Up!

When you arise, God will cause you to shine.
                                            Joel Osteen 

Pajama Day

I’ve declared a Pajama Day. I searched my soul and every room of my house to find a reason NOT to, but to no avail. Not that there isn't plenty to do around here or no work deadlines. Just that they don’t trump PJ Day. Not today.

It’s Monday, the arch-enemy of Pajama Day. And we all know that most of the time Monday wins big time. Routine, guilt, obligation, shame, paycheck are part of the Monday Gang and well, six against one, who can win that battle? But every now and then…every once and again…even without the help of an impending storm or a sniffle, PJ Day finds its super-power and bamm! They lose.

We used to call it taking a mental health day, but frankly, I'm mentally quite healthy. I don't need a day to get my head together because somebody or something got to me. I'm good. All I need is to cozy up to a traditional work day, freshly showered and in my new PJs, and do NO work, guilt free. I mean NO work. Not housework. Not homework. Not heart-work. Not catch up work. Not work-work. None. 

That, my friend, is a Pajama Day.

Happy,

Karen 

Happy 2015!

I decided to give myself a break and use the entire month of January to get re-organized. Who takes on an organization project during the holidays? Okay, not me. I was overwhelmed at the very idea of having to get it all straightened out in the first few days of the year. So, I gave myself all month. February 1^st is show time.

How disorganized had I become? My dresser drawers were a ball of confusion. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. Did I say that I did not care? Not at all. After a bout with pneumonia that sneaked up on me and wore me all the way out, all I cared about was clean linen and pajamas. It mattered not at all which drawer they were shoved into. When I needed a pair of socks and found a mosh of stuff in that drawer that included Christmas gift wrap, I decided that last Thursday was the last day for that mess. Now every single drawer is in working order, with my Christmas-present PJs sitting proudly in their rightful place. I do love my PJs.

Drawers organized. Check.

Don’t ask me how it happened, but I had this paper shopping bag that was filling up with, well…paper. Bills, receipts, articles, cards to be mailed, notes to self, etc. Writers are partial to paper, yes? I pay all of my bills online, but I still get paper notices cuz I like it. I do. I digress. A paper bag y’all. I’m embarrassed. I think it got started on one of those pneumonia days when, after huffing and puffing and coughing my way up 27 stairs, I just started throwing stuff into the first thing I could find. Good thing that wasn’t a trash can. 

I knew I was feeling better when the rustle of that paper bag (hidden between my nightstand and bed) began to make my flesh crawl. On Friday I sat down and handled every piece of paper. Trashed receipts. Consolidated notes to self. Opened envelopes. Found three, count ‘em, three reimbursement checks from my health care provider. And two credit notices from utilities companies. There’s the case for opening stuff and not throwing it out ‘cuz it’s the third envelope from the same company this month (yes, each check came in a separate envelope).

Papers organized. Check.

On to the main closet. Twelve days to ground zero…

Happy New Year!

Karen 

Love, Come Quick…

I’m a Prince fan, and one of my favs is Thieves in the Temple -- “Love come quick; love come in a hurry. …thieves in the temple tonight.”

That’s how I feel about the relentless barrage of holiday hype. Christmas ads waaay before Thanksgiving. Stores open Thanksgiving Day and all night long. Too many weeks of ‘how to cook a turkey’ on every cooking show. Spoofs mocking families around the dinner table. 

As I sat looking at yet another ad for the best Black Friday bargains, I began to feel…robbed. Thanksgiving signals the beginning of the year-end holiday season, at least for Americans.  It is a time for gathering, reflecting, celebrating and being, well, thankful for oh so many things. While it takes some jockeying to be inclusive of even the most difficult relatives, and although this year may find you a little less equipped to host a big celebration, whether for financial, health or logistical reasons, it’s still a time to exhale the stresses of the past ten months and inhale the sweetness of the most wonderful time of the year.

I don’t know that I care about the traditional reasons for Thanksgiving…you know Plymouth Rock and all that rot. And my family situation has changed so much over the years that I have had to establish a new tradition almost every year, so it’s not that I’m bound to generations of tradition.  But what I’ll always be committed to is the spirit of the season, which is Love. All the grocery and gift shopping, all the menu planning, all the juggling and jockeying, even all the overspending… is a Love thing. It’s one of the few times a year that we take the limits off and lavish Love on our family and friends without apology.

Talking with others about how many people they have invited, which grandma they’re honoring by using her recipe, how many desserts, how the biggest family is always early and always stays late…sometimes overnight, how they have to steal a nap, the Soul Train line after dinner and before the football games and on and on…these are what Love is made of. These are the things for which I am, we all are, I believe, Thankful for.

I just wish the advertisers and the retailers who assault us with their ‘clever’ ads while robbing their employees of precious family time with holiday store hours would forsake their ‘thieving’ ways, stop sucking the life out of the most precious time of the year and for the few weeks that are the holiday season, be led by the Love that is the very heart of it.  

Love…come quick,

Karen

Hmmmm

"What is right can never be impossible."
                                           Lord Mansfield in the movie Belle

What's in a Name?

There are only two of us left, my daughter and I. The last of the Stark family. The last of this Stark family. My name-bearer brother went home to be with the Lord almost five years ago. But that’s no reason to let our name pass away with him. This has been my name for lo these many years and even when I’m married to the greatest of men, I plan to keep it. So, I will be Stark-Whathisname. 

You see, I like my last name. They tell me its origin is German and that it means “strong”. What’s not to like? In English it is an adjective that means forbiddingly bare and plain, unambiguous and harsh, complete, without clothes, and rigid. As an adverb it means utterly, to the utmost degree. I like those definitions too, as I have been all of them at one time or the other in my life.  Like today, I’m feeling utterly and to the utmost degree. Yes I am.

Friends have teased me about my name. One in particular calls me Stark Ravin’. She tells the truth. I can rave about one something or the other on a regular basis. But she never adds the final tag -- “Mad" --  so I don’t believe that she thinks I’m altogether cray. That’s a good thing.

Those who have really wanted to get under my skin have called me Stark Naked, pun intended. I’m no  prude, don’t mind being disrobed for a doctor, masseuse or a lover, but otherwise I really don’t like people talking under my clothes, thank you very much. So while I am utterly, complete and unambiguous, the without clothes things doesn't set well with me; especially not in mixed company.

Most people add an “s” to my name, attempting to identify me, along with them, as the property of the Stark’s plantation. While my family probably was owned by ole man Stark -- after all, I am a Black American -- my ancestors dropped the “s” for obvious reasons: Y’all don’t own me no mo’. Hence, I correct anyone who misspells or mispronounces it -- S t a r k, no “s” on the end, thank you very much.

Now this may have cost me some extended family because most Starks are, well Starks, not Stark (naked and utterly ravin’). But some of my could-be-cousins still embrace me as such (shout out to Tim and Marva) because they get it: I can drop the “s” and still be in the bloodline. Come on somebody.

And if this sounds like a rant to you, so be it. After all, we’re talking about my identity here. All that said, I’ve decided to keep my name until God takes me out of the earth. After all, it’s a good name because He, knowing I’d be born for such a time as this, gave it to me via my parents. When He takes me Home, I’ll return it to Him all wrapped up in a pretty pink package with a big silver and gold bow and a beautiful handwritten note that says With Love to You, from Your Daughter, The Strong, Forbiddingly Bare and Plain, Unambiguous and Harsh, Complete, Without Clothes, Rigid, Utterly, To the Utmost Degree, Karen the Stark.

Needed a laugh today, 

Karen