KISSING FROGS

I’ve kissed my fair share of frogs in this lifetime. I believe that our experiences shape us no matter the quality of those experiences. And I believe that experience is part of the reason why we are here. In response to my beliefs, the Universe has given me what I've asked for. My cup runneth over with romantic experience, but I’m absolutely parched when it comes to quality.  

My life is full. Some consider it full of chaos, but I consider it colorful. I’ve got tons of stories to tell, and my audience's reactions make the stories so much better. They usually laugh, and they openly tell me that they're not sure that what I’m saying is true. They say some things are so crazy that it makes me an unreliable narrator.

I get it. I do. Sometimes, even I have to step back and wonder if I dreamed it, made it up to make myself sound more interesting, or if I really allowed myself to step into these situations and hold myself there till they played themselves out.

I’ve run the gamut: There was the guy who had a secret family, the one who tried to blow up his school, and there was the tough guy who wouldn’t let me break up with him. I still chuckle when I think of how I let that one get away.

Doug was an ex-corrections officer who retired from jail life and started his own security company. He specifically went after low risk jobs and managed to build a successful business. It went well until he got caught napping while working a sweet sixteen party. Word got out that he was not really securing anything at the events he was hired for, and he dissolved his business. After calling in a bunch of favors, he invested in a case of No-Doze and got hired as an employee by another security company. Then he met me.

On the outside, he was beautiful to look at; tall, muscular, chiseled face, and exactly the right amount of facial hair to interest me. But inside, the book did not match the cover. Inside, he was an old, crotchety, neurotic mess. He complained of back pain, he was always tired, and every time we had dinner, went out to lunch, or did anything with a price tag, he made sure to tell me exactly how much everything cost. He wouldn't allow me to pay for anything, but I did pay. I paid every single time the server cleared our plates. Dessert was served with a side of what felt like guilt. First Doug would sigh. That was the warning shot. Then he'd lean in as if I was his friend. As if we hadn't only been on a few dates that had all gone exactly the same way. "CF", he'd say, "I live way beyond my means.”

He drove a car so fancy that only Doug and people who love cars would care about what model it was. I have never been that person, but I am a person who appreciates a pretty blue color and riding with the top down. I hated when Doug would stop for gas, but it felt like every time he picked me up, he also needed gas. We'd pull into the station and he'd say, "Look at them, looking at the car." Then, at the pump, an attendant would step up, smile, and compliment the car. The top was down, so he could pump the gas and talk to us at the same time. "This is a great car, sir."

Doug would smile and say, "Yeah. She's pretty." Then he'd hand over the money and turn the key. We would not even have pulled away before he'd say, "They all want this car. They're all jealous."  He had no inside voice, and I'd sink down in the seat when the attendant who had been very polite, would turn to look because he'd heard Doug's remarks. Finally, we'd leave, and Doug would say, "I can't afford it, but I'm not selling it." *sigh* "CF, I live way beyond my means."

I was patient for three months and a dozen or so dates. I thought what my generation was taught to think, he will change, he will do it for me. It took me a minute to realize that none of his problems were my problems, and that I didn't even like him enough to care if he ever changed. I finally grew tired of his complaining, and I tried to end things, but it didn't go well.

Me: "Doug, I don’t think we should see each other anymore."
Doug: "Why not?"
Me: "Because I don’t want to."                                                     

Doug: "Are you on your period?"
Me: "What does that have to do with anything?"
Doug: "You women are not in your right minds when you’re on your period. I’ll talk to you in a week. Will that be long enough?"
Me: "No, absolutely not."
Doug: "Are you serious? You bleed for longer than a week? You should get that checked out. That and your irritability."
Me: "No Doug, I mean I don't want to talk to you in a week. I don’t want to talk to you at all anymore. You're so rude."
Doug: "Sweetheart, sweetheart, calm down…see? You’re all upset because you’re on your period. We’ll talk another time, when you’re better."

Me (yelling): "I do not have my period, and I’m not sick! I don’t like you! This is over!"
Doug: "It’s ok. I understand. Just give me a call when everything has calmed down."

I hung up on him.

A month later I got an email that said: "Sweetheart, do you miss me?"
I deleted it.

I thought I'd learned my lesson. I even gave Doug credit for it. I certainly learned something, but not enough not to kiss a few more frogs since then. 

Cheers to all the men who have kept me from being bored by the same old flowers and candy routine. When I release book five of the Coffee Break Series, some of them might recognize themselves in the pages of DEJA DREW, the story of several dating disasters all centered around three guys with the same name, Drew. When one poor woman experiences problems with men over and over. So many of us have been there, haven't we?

In the meantime, answer me this, is it worth it to take dating chances for the experience? Or because he could be Mr. Something Special? Or do you avoid it all together because you're convinced that you’re better off staying out of the shallow end of the dating pool?

CF Winn is the award-winning author of The COFFEE BREAK SERIES, a quirky group of shorter novels that are meant to be read while on a lunch break or in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. Her first novella, SUKI, has been grabbing hearts and hugging souls all over the United States. 

The BOOKLIFE PRIZE (a division of Publisher's Weekly) has praised CF WINN's MOORE THAN MEETS THE EYE: "This novel is a unique and original storyline that readers will likely find much enjoyment in. Winn's fiercely plotted storyline makes for a suspenseful read. Every plot point feels as if it is being revealed at precisely the right moment. Winn's word choice makes for a joyful ride through unexpectedly dark terrain."

CF Winn's blogs have been syndicated on multiple sites including The Masquerade Crew. More posts like these can be found at Humor Outcasts and The Patch where she is a regular contributor.  

FOLLOW her on Twitter, Facebook, and CF_Winn on Instagram

A Cliche In The Hand Is Worth Nothing In the Bush

I've been told that I can be frustrating to talk to. I've been told I rarely answer questions the way I am expected to. 

When I was little, my mother would tell people that I march to the beat of my own drum. She was mostly right except for I am the drum, I am the DJ, I am the whole dang band. I came here to shake this party up. To provoke, to challenge, to inspire.

I feel like it's important to stay true to who I am. To be honest. Sometimes when I answer a question, the asker's face knots up. Or their eyebrows lift into surprised question marks. Some stay and banter. But way too many excuse themselves. They leave the conversation that they started and I'm left wondering, if you knew what you wanted to hear, if you thought you knew the answer I was going to give, why did you ask the question in the first place? 

I guess talking to me can be kind of frustrating. I'm blunt. I'm to the point. And while some people enjoy that kind of thing and will engage with me, there are others who don't. I tell stories that start as an adventure and end in a life lesson, but I love a good punchline as much as the next guy. Unfortunately, I have learned that my way is not everyone's way.

One afternoon, I was hanging out at a mom-friend's house when her sister-in-law stopped by. My friend let her in, but before she could say hi, her sister-in-law's eyes went right to my friend's hip. She unzipped her jacket and spoke in one fluid motion, "Where's the baby?", as if one action could not exist without the other. Then, she looked around, like she was trying to help my friend find the baby so she could be whole again. As if without the baby, she was unfit to entertain. As if moms have nothing interesting to talk about if a story doesn't start with diapers and end in spit up.

My friend answered, "He's taking a nap."

I watched. It seemed as if the whole thing was scripted:

Scene 1:  <Visitor distributes the obligatory hello hug while speaking> "Will he sleep tonight?"

I have heard this conversation many times. I've been part of this act; the weary mom, dressed in my barf stained t-shirt, just trying to grab a moment or two of normalcy, of something that belongs to me the person, not me the mom.  I wish more for my friend, even though I know better. Even though I have lived every line of this same scene.

Something in me took over. It probably stemmed from a connection only us exhausted mothers know. I needed to save my friend. Less than five minutes before her sister-in-law arrived, she had confessed that she needed to go back to work. That she missed her job and Friday night happy hours. Not conversations like the one her sister-in-law was dragging her into. So, I yelled from the couch, "No. Of course he won't sleep tonight, but she knew that when she put him down. She told me that she's trying to create a new group of humans. Ones who don't sleep at night. Just to shake things up. She said she's gonna start with this kid and then any babies after this one will be the same way. Then, their kids and grandkids won't sleep at night either."

I paused for the sister-in-law's reaction. Is she mad? Is she confused? Who cares? Keep going, it's funny! "I think she can do it. I mean, look at her. Clearly, she doesn't need any sleep at all, otherwise, how could she possibly pull off such a grand plan?"

Did I need to be snarky? Maybe not. Did it change the conversation and make the visit a lot more fun? You better believe it did. Would the other person think twice before sleepwalking through a conversation again? I hope so.

She asked a mom this question. This mom who has her hands free. HER HANDS ARE FREE! She is not nursing or making bottles or changing diapers or giving baths or holding anyone in her lap. She is not listening to babbling and she is not baby talking back to her kid. She will multitask at bedtime tonight, because that's what moms do. She will fall into her bed while praying that her child sleeps through the night—because whether he naps in the afternoon or not, this kid is still adjusting to being on the outside of a warm belly, and he doesn't care what any of us think or expect.

That is only one example of one type of conversation. Not everyone we talk to will be a sleep deprived, adult conversation deprived mom. So, who are these people we talk to and how can we best enjoy chatting with them? 

My thought process is not for everybody, and I'm not perfect, but I try to stay actively engaged in my conversations. I try to really hear the person I am talking with while staying open minded and respectful of their opinions and their thought processes. If I catch myself waiting for a sentence to end just so I can say what is on my mind, I know I need to reel it in and bring myself back to the present moment. 

By doing this, the person I'm talking to gives me valuable gifts: I've laughed. I've learned things. I've accrued decades of perspectives heard and perspectives learned. I can either return the favor by bringing a new point of view to the table, or I can understand what we're talking about through different eyes. In my opinion, both are valuable to the energy we put out into the world. 

When did we stop seeing and hearing each other? And how did it happen? Have we grown tired of trying to be heard over all of the shouting? Over all of the opinions being shoved down the throats of those willing to swallow them? 

I can't speak for others. Their thoughts aren't mine and they shouldn't be. The differences between us are what keeps us balanced. They keep us moving forward and growing. Unfortunately though, I'm watching a platoon of angry robots armed with viral negativity slide in to silence our better halves. The scale is tipping. While sometimes we need the bad to see the good, the scale will completely tip over into nothing new and nothing special if we don't wake up. If we don't keep poking the robot until it reprograms itself to do better. Till it humanizes itself and works to create greater meaning and purpose. Till better habits are formed: I will listen. I will respect. I will try to do better. I will use my voice to spread positivity, gratitude, love. To open myself and others up into new perspective. To inspire.

Deaths have been plentiful this year. We've lost many celebrities, but my family and friends have also suffered a bunch of losses close to home. We've hit some real low points and because grief is so complex, these low points have stirred up plenty of mixed emotions and life lessons. 

I've felt it, I've watched it, I've talked about it with some of them, and I've found one thread through all of it. The people we have lost were neither good nor bad. At different points in their long and short lifetimes, they were both. Some were more colorful than others, but everyone had a story of their own. None of them were perfect, but they had another thing in common. Someone loved them enough to feel the loss. 

There was the man who took his own life to avoid the consequences of his shady and illegal dealings. He left behind a family. A grieving family that may have been shocked to discover his secret life. A family that he left to clean up his mess in the midst of their mourning. 

There was the last voicemail; an elderly relative asking for help with a task. It went ignored: Too busy. I'll do it tomorrow. The belief that this person will always to be around to annoy us with her favor asking. In the weeks before her death, when she knew that she didn't have much longer to live, she showed her generosity by giving away belongings while she could still see gratitude in the faces of the recipients.

There was the man who built a family of seven and a successful business from nothing. Once an example of strength and determination and moxy, dementia wore him down until his dependents became his caregivers. They fed him amd watched over him. They drew on his sense of family and his sound advice, so that they would have the tools to do right by him. As painful as it was to watch their role model deteriorate, their perspective about their own lives were changed during the process.

Lately, posts about pain and loss and depression are the norm. Hug emojis abound, and canned promises of prayers are always plentiful. We've heard it all: She was one of the good ones. Gone too soon. This is what he would have wanted. God has a plan.

I've struggled to make sense of feelings that have overwhelmed me and kept me from moving on; feelings like guilt or of not being enough. So, after my friend lost her dad and the well wishers had their say —Time heals all wounds. He's in a better place. These things happen for a reason. — I waited till she and I were alone before I said, "Tell me about him. Tell me why he was your hero." Her face lit up, and even though I could still see the pain of loss, I also saw love and pride. "A few weeks ago, I called to see how he was doing, and my mother said that he went to the office with his oxygen tank. It's so surreal. My son is never going to have another Grandson Sunday with him."

I asked, "Do you think that your son will carry on the tradition? Do you think he'll have Sundays with his kids or grandkids where he makes it a point to spend time fishing with them, or cooking with them, or whatever?" 

She smiled and answered without pausing, "I think so. I really hope so."

I said, "You know, a person isn't really forgotten until the last person who has a memory of them or knows their story is gone. If your son carries on the tradition and tells his kids and his grandkids how Grandson Sunday started, your dad will not be forgotten for a long, long time unless someone breaks that tradition or stops telling that story." Her smile was the solace I had hoped she'd feel while we talked. Then I continued, "But you know what I just thought of? Now I know the story. I'm a story teller who reaches many people, and I'm going to tell it. So now, your dad will be remembered even longer."

My friend hugged me. And when she tightened her arms and lingered a bit, I knew that she could feel that I'm here to support her. That she can talk to me, and I will really hear her. I truly believe if I had dared to utter one cliche, These things happen for a reason or Time heals all wounds, she would have felt no relief, and our conversation would have been very short.

Because I care, I will always risk being annoying by insisting that we speak in truths and perspectives without judgment, no matter what we are talking about. Until it sinks in that I see you. Until it sinks in that I hear you. Until all you want to do is give me a great big hug knowing that I will return it with the same force. I can take it.  

I want to hear how you think outside the box. I want to hear how you tore the whole thing apart and built a new box in those moments when the canned answer seemed like the only answer. 

And for those of you that build a whole new box, if you leave room for the Ring Dings we will enjoy with our crazy conversations—bonus points.

CF Winn is the award-winning author of The COFFEE BREAK SERIES, a quirky group of shorter novels that are meant to be read while on a lunch break or in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. Her first novella, SUKI, has been grabbing hearts and hugging souls all over the United States. 

The BOOKLIFE PRIZE (a division of Publisher's Weekly) has praised CF WINN's MOORE THAN MEETS THE EYE: "This novel is a unique and original storyline that readers will likely find much enjoyment in. Winn's fiercely plotted storyline makes for a suspenseful read. Every plot point feels as if it is being revealed at precisely the right moment. Winn's word choice makes for a joyful ride through unexpectedly dark terrain."

CF Winn's blogs have been syndicated on multiple sites including The Masquerade Crew. More posts like these can be found at Humor Outcasts and The Patch where she is a regular contributor.  

FOLLOW her on Twitter, Facebook, and CF_Winn on Instagram

Date Night Decisions

It's date night, and I'm looking for something to wear. Something different. Not one of the six outfits I usually rotate through the Saturday cycle. Something that will make my boyfriend say, Ooh, and something that fools me into believing that things haven't been weird. Over the past ten months, there have been four funerals, umpteen thousand hospital visits, and between the two of us, at least a million and a half sinus infections, so our weekly date night hasn't been very weekly.

I toss a t-shirt to the side, then another. I find two bodysuits. They have long sleeves, but they're also sheer. It's Fall. While the weather is mostly sticky and warm during the day, at night, the temperature can plunge twenty degrees in an hour. The bodysuits are too hard to layer, and impossible to peel off if I get hot. So, I move on to an off the shoulder short sleeve I used to wear with the brown platform sandals I've had for at least two decades. I can't wear that top because my middle has grown, so now it hugs me a little more tightly than I'm comfortable with. These clothes have been around for a while, just like me. They've seen things. We've been through a lot of ups and downs together. My body may have outgrown some of them, but my heart has not.

A flash of white catches the corner of  my eye. I pull out a crop top that has spaghetti straps. It's something I bought recently, on a whim. When I bought it, I ignored the voice that said, Don't do it. You're too old for that. Do NOT embarrass yourself. Instead, I listened to the What Ifs: What if you keep exercising and eating right? You've been so consistent. You'll be mad if you get your twenties body back and you don't have it to wear. What if you come back to the store to buy it, and it's too late? What if it's not available anymore?

Get it rid of it. The shift is so sudden, I can't help but look around as if someone else is in the room. It speaks up again. Get rid of it. Get a trash bag and dump the whole drawer in it. Uh oh. The Bottom Lines voice is here. She's the straight guy who means business. She tosses an idea away as soon as she realizes it may not bring me joy. And she does it as casually as if she's taking out the trash on a Tuesday night. She makes "good" decisions. With no regrets. She doesn't take shit from me and the What Ifs voice. 

I hold up the crop top. I swear I'm about to fold it and put it in a donation bag. It says Bisous across the front of it. The neck is square cut and high. And while it's cropped, it's not so short that it shows off underboob. It's long enough that only a bit of stomach shows.

That's your style—subtle skin, super sexy! What if you hide your belly with a pair of high rise pants? Wear it, girl! Wear the hell out of it! What Ifs whoops and hollers over the responsibility and maturity that Bottom Lines preaches.  

Bottom Lines pushes What Ifs to the floor and puts a foot over her mouth. Don't do it. You'll be self conscious all night. What Ifs pinches Bottom Lines and wriggles free. What if you give it away? That means you're giving up! What if you start wearing frumpy clothes? What if you stop trying to take care of yourself?

Suddenly, both voices go silent. I don't know if I shut them up, but the attention is on me. We're all waiting for me to make a decision. But how can I? This is not just about date night. My brain has spun it enough that now I believe this one decision will shape the rest of my life. Will I rip off my clothes and put the top on? Or will I put it in the donation bag to give away? And what will the decision say about me?

...

That's when it hits me: I hang onto clothes like women hang onto guys who will never change. The hope is the same. The codependency is the same. The inability to go out and find the right fit for the person I am here, now, in this moment—it's all the same. 

The crop top falls from my hand. I watch it fall. I can't take my eyes off of it. It winds up hanging from the ledge of the open drawer. It waits for me to decide its fate. If I let it go, will someone better snatch it up? Will it look better and feel better on someone else? Was I never right for it? And if I hold onto it, am I settling for something that never fit properly in the first place? If I don't open myself up, will I ever find something new? Something more fun, more comfortable? Will I never be able to find something I truly love because I didn't make room for it?

 My thoughts take me back to the past: He said he's sorry. What if he changes? You've invested so much time in this. Don't give up now. They take me back to decisions that cost me pieces of my soul: Who gets divorced two months into a marriage? You made a commitment. Stick to it or you'll look like an idiot. Everything they think about you will be proven true. And on an on with excuse after excuse about why I should hang in there. No one puts the work in anymore. You're better than that. 

It was a long road with plenty of hiccups, but I managed to change my ways with men. I know I should be proud of that. But as I'm getting ready to enjoy a night out with a man who deserves my attention, I realize I never really learned the life lesson. Instead, I transferred my fear of failure to other things. 

That fear is present in everything I do, from my inability to release bodies of work without obsessing over them—But what if I don't spend enough time on it and it isn't as good as it could be?—to the level of stress I feel about picking a date night outfit. For a man that took care of me when I was sick. Who has seen me first thing in the morning with last night's makeup smeared across my face and my baby hair sticking straight up on my head. He tells me how beautiful I am in these moments. I know that I could dress in pajamas and sweats and he'd be thrilled. Tonight's stress is not about him. It's about me.

I know that Bottom Lines wants me to quit my problem cold turkey. As if I can just drop them like hot pots burning my hands. And I know that What Ifs wants to always be prepared. Because she won't be wrong if she's covered every angle and perspective. Both voices have their place. They both should get a say. But sometimes they're too loud. And sometimes they're too extreme. And now I've taken too long. They're done waiting for me to decide. I need to get dressed for Date Night. They both tug at me. To convince me that their way is the only way. 

The urgency knots my stomach again. And What Ifs is right there, pulling the knots tighter. What if you... Bottom Lines interrupts and hijacks the sentence...toss that shirt...but then they blend into one, a new voice with a new perspective...into a box? With other things that should be out of sight, out of mind. To be evaluated as things to keep or donate at a later time.

I'm listening. Stand up and breathe through this while you go get a box. This voice is gentle but firm. Decisive. Not shrill or mean. It soothes me when I start to overthink. He'll wait for you if you're a little late. I know this is true. I just needed to be reminded. You can fix this. Let's start with getting that shirt away from you. Then we'll get you dressed.

I recognize this voice. Balance. She's always there, in the background, waiting for me to acknowledge her. Without ego or expectation. She's my true self.  I've summoned her in my time of need. I've quieted everyone else down enough to hear her. She knows what's best. She knows that the What Ifs and Bottom Lines are not distractions from my path or enemies of my soul. She knows that they're necessary for my growth. They're the components of Balance; without both of them, Balance can't exist. Together, they show me the life lessons I need to learn. Through Balance. Through all the best parts of me. To support me on my journey.

The box is open on the floor next to me. I drop a few things into it while I look for something to wear. It won't all go away in an instant, but every time you catch yourself caught up in this tug of war, stop and think. Take another baby step toward a resolution and you'll feel better. Consistency and patience is key. You can do this. Balance feels like a warm hug. It feels like clarity. It feels right. 

 Baby steps. Compromise. I reach for two outfits I have worn before. Two outfits that make me feel comfortable, safe, pretty. The same way my boyfriend makes me feel. I pair the top from one outfit with the bottom from the other. They look good together. They feel good together. And I've never worn this combination before. One step at a time. Prove to yourself that if you remove people, ideas, and things that don't suit you,nothing bad will happen. You'll still be whole. You'll still be worthy. You're not a failure. You are enough.

It's date night. Tonight I will dress in confidence and self awareness and love. Not just for the man who is proud to be seen with me no matter how I look, but for myself. For the woman I become every time I make the decision to listen to my true self. I will not pick myself apart out of fear of failure or the unknown. I will be less strict. I will make decisions with love and kindness and patience for myself. And I will do this knowing full well that the next time my boyfriend asks me what I want to eat for dinner, we'll probably both have to take deep breaths after I answer, "I don't know."

CF Winn is the award-winning author of The COFFEE BREAK SERIES, a quirky group of shorter novels that are meant to be read while on a lunch break or in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. Her first novella, SUKI, has been grabbing hearts and hugging souls all over the United States.  The sequel, WHEN DWAYNE DIED, is coming soon.

The BOOKLIFE PRIZE (a division of Publisher's Weekly) has praised CF WINN's MOORE THAN MEETS THE EYE: "This novel is a unique and original storyline that readers will likely find much enjoyment in. Winn's fiercely plotted storyline makes for a suspenseful read. Every plot point feels as if it is being revealed at precisely the right moment. Winn's word choice makes for a joyful ride through unexpectedly dark terrain."

CF Winn's blogs have been syndicated on multiple sites including The Masquerade Crew. More posts like these can be found at Humor Outcasts and The Patch where she is a regular contributor.  

FOLLOW her on Twitter, Facebook, and CF_Winn on Instagram.

Happy Not Dead Day

I don't normally say this, but 2022 was a tough year. Like so many people, when the pandemic started and things changed, I stopped traveling like I used to. It took a while, and I finally decided to get back out there, but it seemed like every time I traveled, someone died. The first time it happened, I was four and a half hours in on a ten-hour road trip when I got the call. I continued to my destination, took care of my business as quickly as possible, then I turned back around so I could get home in time to change and travel three more hours to the funeral. The same thing happened a few more times, and I began to wonder if I was killing people when I left my house. That's what kind of year it was. An almost death, so many actual deaths, and the I refuse to live, so I'm going to complain while I wait to die kind of year.

I'm about to turn 53, so I have been wondering, is it my age? Have I hit an expiration date of some sort? An expiration date for joy? For life? Did I use up what has been allotted to me? Did I go too hard without worrying about the end of it all, so now I need to be taught a lesson? I've been living like I am the age I feel, not the amount of time I have been here. Is that not okay? Is the Universe trying to warn me that my own death is coming sooner than I want it to?

A few months ago, I was hanging out with my longtime friend, Leisa. She mentioned that so many people were dying that she was starting to get anxious when the phone would ring. At first, I chalked it up to her being popular and coming from a larger, blended family, full of nieces and nephews and grandkids of all ages. But my perspective changed when my aunt passed away in July.

I called Leisa to let her know, but I caught her while she was getting ready to go to another funeral. That's when I began to question things. And I began to pay attention a little more. I started looking for the meaning behind what I was seeing. Because now, even I was noticing the amount of death that surrounded me. 

Before my aunt passed, my son and I spent time with her in the mornings before work. It was hard for her to talk, and we could barely hear her when she did speak, but one day, she said two things very clearly to me:

-    I didn't think it would be like this.

-    I'm going to miss you.

...

To say I was stunned would be an understatement. To say my heart didn't break for her would be a lie. I had so many questions:What did you think dying would be like? When did you start thinking about it? Did you do things to bring your expectations to life? Did it not work? Did you find out there’s a master plan that we can't control?

Instead of asking questions that sounded rude, and instead of making her speak when she was having a hard time, I held her hand and said, "I'm going to miss you too. We're here with you. Max and I just want you to know that we are here with you." A week or so later, she was transported from her home to the hospital, then a few weeks later, she was transferred to a nursing home, and she transitioned into hospice just hours before she passed away.

Every time my son and I went to see her at home or in the facilities, Max would bring her a picture that he drew—of her house, of the birds she loved, of a heart, probably his heart, so full of compassion and love for his great-aunt. Full of perspective and experience gained by this sad situation. 

Max is an artist, and 2022 was hard for him too. He is sensitive, he loves his family, and he worries about all of us more than he should. He had been struggling to make art. His motivation and inspiration seemed to have been tampered with by negative forces that crowded him. They sucked up his strength and his joy, and eventually he was too weak to fight them off, so he stopped creating and took a rest until my aunt needed him to begin again. 

Although she smiled and said she appreciated it, in my aunt's pain and discomfort, in her refusal to eat or drink, she prepared to die. She developed some kind of tunnel vision about her situation. She saw doctors, and medicine, and visitors coming to see her, but what affected her most was when she saw them leaving her. It appeared as if she felt alone in her disappointment about how the end turned out. 

I mean, I get it. We start out as babies, totally dependent, hopefully held, and cuddled, and loved, until we are big enough to squirm out of arms that long to hold us forever. Until we need freedom and space because we ache to explore, and taste, and touch, and feel, and experience. 

Until we try to control our path, to achieve our hopes, and dreams, and goals. 

It is only when we can't let go of that control and live in the moments that life takes us to that we experience disappointment. When we forget what it was like to be young and strong and open to every option the world lays at our feet. When we forget that our true power lies in our minds. When we forget that young and strong are not temporary conditions. That their lack of permanence is determined by our expectations and beliefs. By beliefs that are just thoughts you think over and over again. Imagine if you trained yourself to center on positive feelings, ideas, and images. Imagine if you let the contrast of negative thoughts lead you to good thoughts. And imagine if you did that on purpose. 

 

The end of my aunt's life might not be what she imagined, expected, or wanted it to be, but her end meant something to those of us she touched. She gave Max a reason to create art. Not for monetary gain or respect in the cultural community. For his great-aunt. Out of love and humanity. To cheer her up. To allow her the chance to see the things she was unable to enjoy from her place of discomfort. To let her know that he was there for her, with her, until her last day with us. She gifted him with a reminder of his passion for creating—he has continued to develop projects with an excitement I haven't seen in a long time.

That excitement was missing in me too. Even though I expected to be busy working toward the release of a new book, and I looked forward to publishing my new project, I couldn't get it done. Readers had been begging for new work, waiting for it, and getting angry at me for not releasing it sooner. I set a date. I set expectations. But the weight of the year got too heavy for me. I started dropping things: I dropped out of social media, I dropped my regular writing schedule, I dropped this blog, I dropped all of the touring and traveling I was doing with my books, I dropped my manuscript in a file and forgot about it. I dropped out of life and stopped feeling things because it was just too much.

I tinkered with DIY home projects and cooked. I pretended that I was accomplishing things, but I was really avoiding my true self. The one who allows herself to feel and learn from the good and the bad, the light and the dark. It took a minute for me to come back. In retrospect, I have forgiven myself for needing to put my emotions up on a mental ottoman, to let them rest for a second. I have forgiven the excuses that took me away from my work: If I was too tired to support myself, what good would I be to my readers? How could I bring them the same catharsis and insight that I gave them with the first book?

I finally realized that in her death, my aunt brought me back to life. She was my biggest fan when it came to my writing. She read everything I wrote, and she told everyone she spoke to about me. "My niece writes the most wonderful books. She even wrote a book about her grandmother. They are on Amazon. You can't borrow my books, but you can order them." All I had to say to someone she knew was, I am the niece who is the author, and they would nod and smile because they already knew all about me.

My aunt's death was tough. She was there for myself, my brothers, and my cousins in ways that always seemed to be behind the scenes. She played the supporting role that is often lost in the shadow of bigger stars. But if that character was absent, no matter how talented the main characters were, there would be no show. My aunt lived with my grandmother her entire life. And she let my grandmother have the spotlight—as the beloved matriarch, the glue who kept the family together, the sweet soul who fed us on holidays, and the one who hugged and kissed us for every reason or for no reason at all. But my aunt was the one who supported my grandmother—financially, emotionally, quietly and always in the background. She was my grandmother's best friend, her caregiver at the end of her life, the one who clung to her mother even after we urged her to let her go. Even though we wanted her to live her life. 

Without my aunt, there would not have been presents piled higher than our elementary school heads in her sunroom every Christmas. Presents signed Love and From others, even though it was my aunt who handpicked every one of them. Without my aunt, she and my grandmother would not have bought a house and moved closer to us. They would not have kept the pool they did not have the energy or desire to take care of, just so us kids could swim in it in the summers. There would have been none of the Sundays I will always treasure—me escaping the confines of my own home and spending all day with my aunt in her office. Learning how to be organized. Talking about things that bothered me. Drinking 7-Up she always kept on hand and in stock just for me because she knew I didn't like colas.

Watching her physical body fade did not erase any of the memories or the imprints she left on me. In fact, they sharpened them. With some time and space, the gratitude that has always bubbled under the surface has evolved into a deeper understanding of how much good we are capable of doing without knowing it. It has evolved into an understanding that if we could stay aware of the fact that our words and actions do have long reaching effects, we could do much more good. 

Her death has inspired me to get back to my writing. To get my work in progress over the finish line and into the hands that need it the most. It has inspired me to write this post. To hopefully reach those who are mourning—a loved one's death, the loss of their own inner light—and to inspire them into living again. For the joy of it. For the fun of it. For themselves and those they touch. I do not want to reach the end of my life and utter the same words my aunt did—This is not how I thought it was going to be. Instead, right now, I want to end every day by saying, This was better than I thought it was going to be. I am having more good days than bad, and the bad has led me to more good. I want to say this until it is a core belief. And until there are no more days that start and end for me.

At my aunt's wake, no one gave a eulogy or a few words in her memory. I hope that this post is representative of some of the thoughts and feelings my family might have shared had we done that. For today, Aunt Mary, you are the star of something I wrote. Not a chorus member in the background. Thank you for everything you contributed to me being me, both in life and now in death. I hope that you can read this and feel what is behind it. I hope that you are with Grandma and Mitzi, and all your beloved family and pets, enjoying their company and their love. 

I hope that you are finally in a place where you are not afraid and you can say, Wow. This is so much better than I thought it would be. And I hope that you know you don't have to miss me. I am right here, thinking of you every day.

CF Winn is the award-winning author of The COFFEE BREAK SERIES, a quirky group of shorter novels that are meant to be read while on a lunch break or in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. Her first novella, SUKI, has been grabbing hearts and hugging souls all over the United States.  The sequel, WHEN DWAYNE DIED, is coming soon.

The BOOKLIFE PRIZE (a division of Publisher's Weekly) has praised CF WINN's MOORE THAN MEETS THE EYE: "This novel is a unique and original storyline that readers will likely find much enjoyment in. Winn's fiercely plotted storyline makes for a suspenseful read. Every plot point feels as if it is being revealed at precisely the right moment. Winn's word choice makes for a joyful ride through unexpectedly dark terrain."

CF Winn's blogs have been syndicated on multiple sites including The Masquerade Crew. More posts like these can be found at Humor Outcasts and The Patch where she is a regular contributor.  

FOLLOW her on Twitter, Facebook, and CF_Winn on Instagram.

The Power of One

There is strength in numbers. That is a tried-and-true cliché that rallies the masses when there is a need for unity. When there is a common enemy. Or when it's movie night and the kids out-vote you into watching some sight joke comedy instead of the mystery thriller you had your heart set on.

Yeah, there is strength in numbers. All numbers. Even the number one. Sometimes especially the number one. One more dessert may put on one more pound. One more snarky, unkind remark may ruin one more friendship. One is a powerful number when it is considered from the right perspective. So, to borrow one more cliché, how do we use its power for good?

Photo Credit: Google Images

I learned about the power of one when I started researching Feng Shui, the art of arranging your living space to better suit your energy. One of its most basic tenets is that the area you are focusing on needs to be clutter-free. With very little research, I was able to find ideas for tackling junk drawers, junk spaces, and junk rooms, so that I could complete the first step to becoming successful and balanced. It turns out that holding on to objects for sentimental reasons, psychological reasons, or just plain laziness is a real issue and there are tons of gurus out there who are willing to share their ideas and experiences for solving it.

Photo Credit: Google Images

The one practice that stuck with me the most was the one a day rule. So, for example, if you wanted to clean out your closet, but were having trouble getting motivated, you would focus on removing just one item each day. In that scenario, you may look and touch more than one item—the boot cut jeans you're sure you'll lose enough weight to fit in again when they come back in style (keep those!), that slutty halter top you'll for sure need during your mid-life crisis (Never let go of the glory days!), and the gauchos that weren't cute even when they were cute (Toss!).

The general idea is that it might take longer to get the task completed, but it would eventually get done in a way that does not have to feel overwhelming. For some, like hoarders or sentimental types, that could be a less painful solution to the situation. But for others, once we pull that first item and we see that empty space, a little pocket of energy opens up and motivates us to pull one more. And one more. And one more, until we finish. We may do it in one sitting, or we may find ourselves donating two or three items from the closet each day. But if we allow ourselves to feel what happens when that space opens up, our energy flows more easily, and goals are reached a little faster. That first good feeling morphs into intention, then accomplishment. And sometimes, it leads to conquering another project, because who doesn't want to ride that good feeling wave?

The same principle applies to anything you are working on. It could be weight loss. Do one exercise, one set a day. You'll burn more calories than if you did none. It could be money. Find a way to earn one extra dollar a day. Or put one dollar a day in a separate account and watch it grow. 

For me, it is very often my writing. Even though I create blogs and website content for other companies, there are days when my time is limited or I'm not feeling super creative. My deadlines don't care if I am overwhelmed with work. They don't care if I have a cold and the only remedy is watching the entire last season of Ozark. They don't care if I'd rather be working on one of my novels or posting on my own blog. While I'm sitting on the beach. With a cooler of beer next to me. My bills don't care either. And those bills don't come in ones, they arrive in packs.

Photo Credit: Google Images

Especially on days like that, when life and ego and dreams want to one-up responsibility, the power of one is the only way to keep me on track. Write one pithy paragraph. Polish and edit one manuscript page. Research and find one interesting fact about dental implants and type it up. 

I fool myself into thinking that the one task will be it, but I know who I am. I am a joy junkie. Yeah, I said it. And after that first initial burst of accomplishment hits me right in the creative cortex, the overachiever in me will hunt for more joy. Before I know it, and in the same sitting, one paragraph turns into one more paragraph, one more page, one task checked off, one short break before I decide to start one more project.

My one ask is that you take one chance: Figure out a manageable goal for the day. Factor in your present state of mind. Consider what will make you feel good, like a boss, like you are working toward something bigger. So that you do your best work. So that you reach your daily goal, and ultimately, your final project goal. Allow yourself to bask in the feeling that you moved one item, or you moved one hundred items. Let the power of one become a valuable, life-altering tool.

Action creates motivation. Not the other way around. If we were to depend on our current level of motivation, the only thing we'd conquer is a box of Ring Dings, or the next digital zombie apocalypse. 

If we apply the same level of drive that we use for binge watching Netflix series to reaching a personal goal, imagine what we can achieve. It takes just one thought and one move in the right direction. Don't let one more day go by or feel one more regret. It may not be just your one short and precious life that is affected.

Photo Credit: livelifehappy.com

I usually end my posts with a snarky one liner of my own creation, but this time I'd like to share a joke. I do not know who the author is, so I can't give the proper credit, but here goes:

At a motivational seminar, three men are beckoned to the stage. They are all asked, "When you are in your casket and friends and family are mourning, what would you like to hear them say about you? 

The first guy says, "I would like to hear them say that I was a great scientist of my time. That the one discovery I made changed the health of so many."

The second guy says, "I would like to hear that I was a wonderful husband and a schoolteacher whose one goal each day was to make a huge difference in our children of tomorrow."

The last guy replies, "I would like to hear them say...LOOK!!! HE'S MOVING!!!"

Be the one who moves in his casket.

 

CF Winn is the award-winning author of The COFFEE BREAK SERIES, a quirky group of short stories meant to be read while on break or in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. Her first novella, SUKI, has been grabbing hearts and hugging souls all over the United States.  The sequel, WHEN DWAYNE DIED, is coming soon.

The BOOKLIFE PRIZE (a division of Publisher's Weekly) describes CF WINN's MOORE THAN MEETS THE EYE: "This novel is a unique and original storyline that readers will likely find much enjoyment in. Winn's fiercely plotted storyline makes for a suspenseful read. Every plot point feels as if it is being revealed at precisely the right moment. Winn's word choice makes for a joyful ride through unexpectedly dark terrain."

You can now order SUKI in paperback at BOOK REVUE, one of the nation’s largest independent bookstores, by emailing info@bookrevue.com 

Her blogs have been syndicated on multiple sites including The Masquerade Crew. More posts like these can be found at Humor Outcasts and The Patch where she is a regular contributor.  

FOLLOW her on Twitter, Facebook, and CF_Winn on Instagram.