Third Time is the Charm…Maybe

2020 is my third attempt to actively incorporate imagination into the third stage of my life. I am not talking about sketching a little sketch from time to time, or writing a six haiku and a bodice ripper.

I am talking about a “sea change” that shifts my perspectives at the deepest level that is possible for me. Falling back on analogy, I am not putting new and shiny objects on my desk: I am changing the desk itself.

From what I have read, and from what I have learned, the first step is changing my thoughts. Most of my thoughts are habits. The same thoughts recur every day at about the same time. If not at the same time, they recur with an action. For instance, the same thoughts always show up when I make coffee. These thoughts irritate me, so I am in a snarky mood at sunrise. For the past few mornings, when the irritating thoughts show up, I immediately start thinking about redecorating my bedroom in shades of lavender. Instant good mood, and for today I am not going to allow myself any reasonable thoughts about a minor situation that displeases me. It’s a day of lavender walls.


Imagination Time Pays Off

Just Muddling Through. . .

I rolled out of bed late this morning; walked straight into the day without spending time imagining my day and recording it in the Bullet Journal. It felt as if I were drifting around the compass aimlessly. There is such a heap of stuff that I think I have to accomplish, that I just pick stuff up, put it down and wander on to the next thing.

I experience satisfaction when I begin the day imagining myself accomplishing things with ease while having fun along the way. Today, my thoughts tell me that my general approach is too dour: lighten up, have some fun, get happy.


A Kick to My Back Side

Turns out the Joke is on Me

Yesterday I posted a frivolous scribble. Nothing much was on my mind, yet I needed to publish something in order to make check a box on the “to do” list. This morning, I woke up with an AHA. That sardonic, sarcastic, and cynical stance lurking in the background stands in the way of the enthusiasm, and exuberance with which I desire to live out my elderhood or stage three of this particular go-around on planet Earth.

Could the joke be on me? Was I posting a message to myself?


Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know. . .

That was said about George Gordon, Lord Byron. He was beautiful, romantic, and had some good moments as a poet. Rumor said that to keep his figure svelt, he dined primarily on boiled potatoes doused with vinegar.

My friends do not think of me as “mad, bad, and dangerous.” I present a phlegmatic face to the world: often to the point of coma. They do not suspect a snarky iconoclast lurks behind the cellar door of my subconscious.

On a Facebook page belonging to a serious and well-meaning person, I posted a snarky and sarcastic comment aimed to puncture the balloon she was flying.

This adversarial personality knocks on the door daily; I rarely indulge its sardonic comments. But I would like to: I would like to sow a hundred sarcastic and mean-spirited comments every day.

Sadly, I am mad, bad, and dangerous to know in sheeps clothing.