tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42777753800611337602024-03-13T21:49:24.319-07:00The Indigenous Grace of Raine and RosesWelcome to my comfy blanket of creativity. Glad you could make it!! I want to wrap my art and my occasionally chatty self around fellow artists, believers in the creative process and anyone that wants to read cool blogs. ha
What's up with the funky title, you ask?! I want to carry around my girls constantly, so my title is made up of their middle names; Grace, Raine and Rose. All of them so quintessentially equal parts of me that make me Whole.Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-40436366180211729382019-08-28T08:05:00.000-07:002020-04-16T09:12:14.646-07:00perfectly Imperfect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYufUFNPuqbLOi6nW9mpVjNZ3Y5Jkfz8M6czxiFXGaWDsolwWyRwqH0VAfuhC24-sMA4dKDZN-LnbLlu9Vz3X1TzULHFNELxyozR-Ob-4W_v74BPX6pg4zCSDb_wJo__9JxARHdv3UW0E/s1600/DSC03185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYufUFNPuqbLOi6nW9mpVjNZ3Y5Jkfz8M6czxiFXGaWDsolwWyRwqH0VAfuhC24-sMA4dKDZN-LnbLlu9Vz3X1TzULHFNELxyozR-Ob-4W_v74BPX6pg4zCSDb_wJo__9JxARHdv3UW0E/s200/DSC03185.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
28 August 2019<br />
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A long time ago, I struggled with inadequacy over how to express myself creatively. I lived in a world where everything had to make sense; the t's were t's had to be crossed and i's dotted - then I found collage. It was the comfy couch I needed to rest the imperfectly perfect Me. The preconceived notions of what Art was and my contribution to that world suddenly made sense.<br />
I was a new mom dorking through all the nuances and hiccups we make as a newly wed woman, then enter the in-laws, then enter little humans. It was all scary and beautiful but so overwhelming. I decided a I needed a break and wanted to actually use my brain for something more creative , so I went to this amazing forum of glorious teachers from all over the world. They came to share their art and teach us to ways to express ourselves unconventionally. Wait - did they just read my mind?<br />
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I was very shy with my first attempts, as the feelings from childhood sprang up inside me with a hammer to squash any thoughts of creating meaning out out of my ramblings and doodles. There were no judgy mean-girl ethics here - only lovely teachers embracing and grooming the very quirks I grew to hide from those Judgy Judys from my childhood. There were no stupid cheerleaders laughing at me, only guiding me to put thoughts on paper in different ways. Judgement suffocates your hearts purposes and makes you believe those thoughts and taunts from childhood. It makes you believe all the shit everyone has told you and reduces you to mush. These teachers basically said "Fuck the Cheerleader" and let my mind expand and explore a different artistic universe.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzJTKndS0JaEiG2NQcy_umJ9PPCfBmxoaLN5HdE9w_gMnNrcbqaBCtwUU4oFgtNyUoiA110xjBi1JyiWSDNP-LUHgq31JHEEhyh46hm3DTalU5LEzhNxzOboNqMjYHjlWz9cEXvTXEXw/h120/DSC03175+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzJTKndS0JaEiG2NQcy_umJ9PPCfBmxoaLN5HdE9w_gMnNrcbqaBCtwUU4oFgtNyUoiA110xjBi1JyiWSDNP-LUHgq31JHEEhyh46hm3DTalU5LEzhNxzOboNqMjYHjlWz9cEXvTXEXw/h120/DSC03175+%25282%2529.JPG" width="150" /></a>This collage up in the corner is entitled "Save Each other Save the World" When we get off our pity pots and give of ourselves, not only do we help someone else, we quiet that inner cheerleader and stand taller than ever before.<br />
This collage represents me standing tall amongst those very small dummies. How strong and beautiful I am in the middle! Quieting those voices and painting lifes canvas with truth and color. The theme of this pic is how I choose to be - tall and graceful, rich in experience not diversity, deaf to gossip and negativity. The more I plug-in to this image the duller that awkward teenager becomes; the judgy cheerleader becomes pudgy, grows three chins and facial hair. Perfect.<br />
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Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-89620986522877258522019-07-04T06:57:00.000-07:002019-07-04T06:57:39.603-07:00The days of worry and woe aren't over, but the complaining is. I mean, it Has to be. I got so sick of hearing myself, that the universe stopped me. Literally. I jumped 7 feet from a fence and landed on the cement floor on my feet, twerking my tibia and reworking my pride. My leg was so shattered I was rushed from urgent care to emergency surgery tout de suite. I was so high on pain meds I was telling everyone I had been training for the Olympics and forgot my javelin. Yep, I was higher than a kite and just enjoying the ride. <br />
I spent 6 months in what I would call the Cuckoo's Nest, kicked and screamed my way out of basically everything they tried to do. It was my stop point. My "remember what is precious" point. My "everything is temporary" point. I was re-born, but not in the biblical sense. I was given another chance to have a different life, a better focus and a need to find gratitude in all things.<br />
I learned how to walk again but my fear kept me from taking that first step. I think about it often. At the rehab center, I masked out the stink from the halls, and focused on literally putitng one foot in front of the other. I only had my art materials and a few clothes, a bag of toiletries from where I was dog sitting at the time of the accident . The dogs owner came back to deliver both my car and my stuff and told me that the dog buried an eye pack the emy people left right where I fell. Smart pooch. <br />
I couldn't wash my clothes for 6 months, as they wouldn't ever make it back to me, so I handwashed everything like my grandma did in the 60's. I reinvented my wheel. I taped the holes, polished the rims as best as I could and now I'm rolling away from a life of pain and loss, and moving toward something greater.<br />
The things I'm grateful for are many. I have my health, my port-less chest, and a cat named Yoda. I have my girls, a great job and a cute lil' jeep. My house is not ideal, but it is home for now. So I am rich. Rich by the simple standards of a life free of judgement and bias, helpful hopeful me sees lost pathetic me now and then. Having tea with her is out of respect, not out of pity, and when the time comes, I can let go of her hand, not feeling I have to fix her anywhere, anytime. Free to disconnect.<br />
This new me isn't void of fears though. At times my fears get the best of me and I'm overcome with nausea and what-ifs again. I may have stopped the loop, but I haven't yet learned a way to fully detach, but I'm improving every day. I feel stronger even though I look compromised. A limp that I have yet to straighten reminds me there is still work to be done. Don't get complacent. Don't get too comfortable.<br />
<br />Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-72405905732124746172019-07-04T06:47:00.001-07:002019-07-04T06:47:19.400-07:00Since I've been out of the hospital I've seen all types of reactions to my situation. Pity and Defense. They either feel sorry or feel it's too dramatic for them to deal with. Hey you, I'm the one dealing with it, you are just listening to my story. That's right - it's My story and I'm in the midst of changing the ending thankyouverymuch. <br />
When I really look at the reactions, I can't help but wonder if I'm saying the information in a way that encourages either behavior. When the cancer was at the height of its story, yes it was brutal but I'm still here for gods sake. Literally. I've seen people perish and saw what labels one can create when telling this story. What good does playing a victim do? It regurgitates the situation and makes you feel like shit all over again. What good is that?! The person that is listening will either be empathetic or cynical, neither knows the true grit of the situation and frankly neither of them want to. Circle back to me; my part in delivering the story will be how it's seen. If I insert my puppy dog eyes, you damn bet peoples heart strings will be pulled. Citing every detail will bring my audience to its knees if worded right. I don't want that. Yes, a time or two I've pulled the cancer card. It's gotten me out of situations, but then I feel like the asshole that parks in a handicapped parking space when they're clearly not handicapped.<br />
That brings me to my next point - the cynic. Cynicism is a learned behavior that rarely goes un-learned because it's "worked" for them. Making fun of something puts them in control - they think they have you pegged so they run with their comedic flair, not really caring, while still waiting for the mic drop. The reaction from the audience is key to how far they go. If the other person is horrified or embarrassed, oh boy, they've down what they set out to do. If the person kids along with them, they still don't feel like the idiots they are, but the story becomes the joke not the person. <br />
I met a man that is the epitome of the Dons - Don Rickles mixed with Donald Trump. He's handsome as hell until he opens his mouth. I may be dramatic, as he constantly pointed out, but I found his life to be boring and predictable. So there. He gathered bits and pieces of my story and in one or maybe eleven comments he shredded me faster than a food processor shreds onions. I kid you not, at first I was affected but not nearly as bad as I would have taken it even months ago, It wasn't even in my delivery of the information - I said things very matter-of-fact, like one would talk about what they ate for lunch. He was just ready to rip and classify to hopefully pump his scrawny chest up and wield his sword of power over me. It didn't work. The minute he said he was a Trump supporter, the whole 2 hours of getting to know each other went right in the shredder with the onions.<br />
When I got back I didn't think of it too much as it would just get my panties in a bundle and get me hot and bothered all over again. What it Did do is appreciate what I've got. A roof over my head, a loving cat and food in the fridge. I talked to two of my neighbors , not to commiserate but to be kind, reminding my that it's always my prerogative to change the storyNancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-19057343686085516372017-08-27T07:43:00.001-07:002018-01-20T08:43:59.328-08:00What the Faith?Faith is like a scientific experiment. It's your controlled substance you plug-in too, like one of those nifty electric car stations you see scattered about town. It's always there, never waivering unless you scrap the whole idea and think you can do it alone. It'll still be there drumming it's fingers on your life until you wake the hell up and try again. It teaches you patience. It teaches you sacrifice. It teaches you that all the shit you've been through is merely a hoop you'll jump through to get to a bigger, more brilliant hoop. <br />
Some shy away from that word. <i>Eww faith ! </i>It's like saying toilet paper in the 50's - no one likes to say it out loud as it may make people judge you. I say Who Cares. If a person is judged by their own beliefs and it isn't harming anyone, F that. Fear is to Faith as Death is to Life. If you go around living in a bubble, because so-and-so said you were a dumb fuck, that dumbfuckishness will shape you to be the absolutely Best dumbfuck in ...Fuckerdom. If you live in a belief that you can run naked through the mud of life (well, not literally) and see what happens next, know what ever Will happened will be ok, then buddy, you got Faithed. The belief in a power greater than ourselves is rich. The unchanging belief that I can do anything if I set my sights toward that goal is Rich. The things that Do change are the variables; the actions, thoughts that bounce around in our heads, like kids jumping on a feather bed. If we can take that belief in our pockets and apply good sense and work, we can do amazing things...but we have to see how fear can be the catylyst for change, not the enemy of Life<br />
I have to see, remember, utilize what I've done to see with open eyes how faith works. I'm not turning into a bible-thumper or a egocentered hypocryt if I have faith. I'm empowered with a new battery pack, that will take me over the puddles and maybe through a couple too, but I know I'll be okay on the other side. Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-32194953987907484472017-08-26T09:30:00.000-07:002017-08-26T09:30:08.575-07:00Whats My PartAlright. It's been a couple days since I spoke to you, sweet blog o' mine. Have I been good to you? No...sigh. neglectful as f but still remember where you live. You live in my mind; my twisted, beautiful, sometimes complacent, always repectful mind. Though I seem to have misplaced my pen, I haven't misplaced that thing called Change. Change is like the lint you can't seem to get off your favorite sweater. It follows you, taps you on the shoulder when you think you're alone or in the "all good" mode, and shifts the gears on lifes vehicle (like that one?!) and spins you out into new & vastly undiscovered territories. God how I loath change. and lint. Or do I? Do I really dread change or do all of those lazy-assed complacent cells in my body really crave it? Do they feed off of it like hungry larvae because they secretly crave the things I fear most? The answer is an undoubtable kick-in-the-head Yes. <br />
A lovely human walked into the shop ( oh yes...since I've last written, I've changed jobs, got fired, got hired, met boys, ran from boys, ran from girls, buried animals, wept profusely, moved 8 or maybe 9 times, drank alcohol, stopped drinking alcohol, ran from more people and...found-lost-and found my chi. Now that you're caught up, no more questions. thankyouverymuch). So what was I saying before I so rudely interrupted myself? oh yeah...<br />
A lovely human came into the shop, and after said duties of both of us were done, we talked about life, crystals and Life in capitals. That should be the name of my business: Life in Capitals. Anyway....She was and is and probably always will be a life coach. Not the hey batta batta kind, but the I-want-to-help-you-get-off<br />
your-ass-kind. I think we could help each other greatly. Talking to a real person, as in a face-to-face kind , would be useful. I would much rather have a relationshipish face-to-face kind of person in my life instead of a virtual kind of human (thus this virtually inhuman blog I'm typing must be a dream. or a nightmare my single fan is experiencing. Sorry fan. You count. you really do. I will surely send you a token of my appreciation for following me. You virtually matter. you really do ) :)<br />
Seriously though. I value work and technology, and new experiences that can be handled via computer, but I truly think the human race is failing to see how incredible and incredibly important it is to see each other in our totality. not just virtually. How do I know my fan is legit? It may be my fan is a spy or an axe murderer who reads my blog when the're in the bathroom . Who knows? When I meet my fan in person, I will firstly bathe them in compliments and offer cookies and tea, thanking them for their support and virtual wisdom and commitment. I will then plunge into the why side of their following , as part of me is fucking insecure, which should really be one word - fuckinginsecure. The fuckinginsecure part of me will tread water just a titch because being secure is still being able to acknowledge and periodically wallow in said insecurity. It reminds us where we've been (hiding) and where we stand today. <br />
My point is...there is no point. There is breath that I need to feel when my fan talks to me. There is eye movement and body language they tell me when I'm telling one of my would-you-get-to-the-point sagas. We are both sages and students. We are both aligned to give and receive information in order to grow and bloom and discover and experience the oh-yeahs in life. Not just sharpen their reflexes to dodge and delete. Technology is beautiful, but human touch is much More. <br />
<br />Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-5672214085931022012016-10-27T14:11:00.000-07:002016-11-09T09:35:36.112-08:00Just over a month has passed since my last entry. I'm surrounded by friends that want the best for me; my trusty rogues, flying high in the sky. I watch with wonder as they help me put lifes fires out and add fuel to my own joie de vivre. Opening myself up, exposing myself to a life where the glass can and should be half full is a blessing. Letting the glass-half-empty practice wither is so gratifying and timely. I've come into a life where there is loads of possiblity just waiting for me. I cannot go back to who I was. Spirit has planned this all along.<br />
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The present scenario I'm "living" in has shown me a lot. It has taught me that a truly cluttered life starts with a cluttered brain. Seeing this property littered with shit is an immensely accurate portrait of what is going on in the owners brain. I've experienced her clusterfuck of rants, and instead of spewing back with the same dark force of energy, I check myself. I make sure my side of the road is clean, so to speak, then reply accordingly. It really isn't all that difficult when I remove the desperation and focus on the solution. I do not and will not function in an environment where being a bully is more important than being a compassionate human. There is no room in my world for idiots. <br />
<br />Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-68630657282994518892016-10-27T14:10:00.002-07:002016-10-27T14:10:38.054-07:00Yesterday is over. I am done with forfeiting my dreams in order to make others happy. Living from place to place, I put my animals in jeopardy just to have them with me. Saying that I could take the best care of them was prideful, as I know they have come here on this earth to love and be loved, no matter if it's me or another lucky person. Their next owners will fill them with a life that they deserve. I simply couldn't do it anymore, as I was compromising my needs in order to think I was saving theirs. If I truly love animals, it is an honor to find them a home that can care for them, be there for them, give them all that they need while also living their own life well.<br />
It is indeed one of the most painful losses, but I have to realize my dream. In order to realize what I've been put here for, I have to step out of the way and let my heart be heard. I have to find me; the creative part of me that is deep within the core of my being. I have not been honoring myself and looking at what I need to bloom. I've just put the seed in the bottom of a hole, covering it with excuses and fears instead of enriching it with Truth, Wisdom, Positivity.<br />
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The sacrifices I made yesterday have left me completely flat emotionally, but when I see and re-read The Alchemist, I remember that the fuel I need to energize again isn't to be found in a pill, wine, negativity. It is found when I see what lengths I went to make necessary change. I did hella things in order to be happier, so now I have to bless the experiences leading up to this very moment I'm typing to you, dear journal, and see what is next with fervor and excitiement, not jumbled nerves and crying. I have see my tears in different categories: it is greatly healing to cry when there is grief, loss, pain. There is a time and a place to share these things, and I must get a better handle on my floodgate of tears shed at the drop of a pin! There are the tears of excitement, where your face is blissfully hurting from realizing your goal, seeing hardwork rewarded or...reaching or pursuing your personal legend. The tears that are the most disturbing and run out of every pore of me at any given moment are the tears of forecasted fear. I call it that because they futurize the unknown horizon and think the worst is about to happen. I mean, I have lived in allllllll kinds of precarious scenarios - you would think that these prepare me to receive Any thing without being fearful. There is a time and a limit the Universe allows for upset and fear. It is at those times where I am not supporting my calling and trying to control my environment. I came here to realize something my parents did not. I came here to be of service, to be happy, to make others light shine makes mine shine greater. It is my time..Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-35319188267568263732015-04-28T05:51:00.000-07:002016-10-24T07:34:38.549-07:00I haven't written for nearly a year. Though I'm not here to make up for lost time, I am merely here to make up with myself. I have not been an attentive partner. I've neglected everything that matters; my psyche, my belief in others, but especially the belief I had in myself. I used to be a fighter, a negotiator, my own advocate. Now my brain is fuzzy, I trust no one and I go through my days like I'm thumbing through a boring book of fiction. <br />
I read this wonderful work by Dr Brenne Brown on Shame. She did an interview with Maria Shriver that sounded like she was reading Me. "Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that
we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging'. If she could actually interview me, what would I say? Would I be able to share from my gut, a different part of me? One that is stronger, sounds better, a clearer defined part of me that I didn't know was inside?<br />
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The thing is, Magic and Shame don't go together Magic is oil to Shame's vinegar. I have let shame into my life, and it has worn out its welcome. It's time to sweep that guest out of my house, as it is just does not fit with my decor! I really do think changes happens when I let myself be open - I just allow my whole being to be porous, soaking up the entirety of the promise or the possibility, or too-good-to-be-trueness of another. But in this phase of my life, I have not left any space or energy for me. In other words: I've wasted so much time holding space for people and the problems they bring to me, I've nothing left for myself. <br />
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I re-read my entries and feel like they all sound the same. The shake-up needs to happen! I need to stop carrying the black cloud around and just leave it for Eeyore.<br />
<br />Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-3718053643578404072013-03-14T10:18:00.000-07:002020-04-16T09:14:52.637-07:00Don the capeI had yet another Light bulb moment. I Am a Writer. This realization knocked me clean into Kentucky and wasn't something that happened overnight. It happened probably as soon as I was old enough to put two words together and make my first sentence. I was a Writer even back then. My only fan was my sister, my quirky confidant. We were polar opposites stuck in a family that thought girls were useless and were constantly reminded of that notion. Endlessly. My sister, who is 6 years older than me was like the Poster Child of Nerdom. She could've probably won awards for it, but instead, was bullied and messed with because she was smart and different. I love every bit of that Nerd, because she taught me to write and to think and to Dream. She taught me that just because I was cute and blonde, I needed to use my brain not my looks, because sooner or later, the hair would turn colors (she checked Daily!) and my looks would change. Thanks, sis...thanks a lot. <br />
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In addition to my tutelage from my sister, I wasn't doing normal kid things like the other kids in my 'hood. Instead of making tree houses and pretend bat caves, I was sequestered on one of those lawn chairs of the 70's, where you wear the imprint of the webbing on your ass all day. I studied the thesaurus. Yep, I became a wordsmith at the ripe old age of 6. I would sit there for hours looking up words and writing poems and stories. I got accolades from my first grade teacher for my poems and even got published in the local newspaper. I still have the article to this day - 'Squeaky the Mouse' made it in the paper next to the ad for gas for a buck and the obituaries. My poem, "War, War...What is it for?" made it as far as my first grade teachers bulletin board, as the subject matter was too advanced for a kid like me to write about. It dealt with the atrocities of war from the innocent eyes of a 7 year old kid. Mind blowing that it was over looked and misunderstood, but I was a kid in the Midwest, so go figure. </div>
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Over time, I've written and scraped many poems, kept more journals than there are volumes of the encyclopedia. When I was unattached, I used to befriend guys online to test drive my stories. I had given up finding a guy that understands me for Me, so instead I seasoned my dialogue with just the right kick to keep them wanting more. They fell in love with my writing, but never got as far - or as near - as looking into my eyes and seeing the depth my heart could truly go. I put a limit on my spending as far as my writing went. I was very frugal with my stories and poems, as I knew if I 'sold out', I could never really have my souls secrets to myself anymore,. That's why they call them secrets after all. I preferred to be a bit of a ghost writer to these men that swooned over my words, as the confidence faded when time comes to actually meet the someone that has fallen...for my writing. The risk of maybe someday someone Getting me was a tightrope I was not quite willing to walk. How about if they reject me - say my work is stupid? No way, no how. I always kept a metaphorical baseball bat at my side in case someone failed to see my tender heart lay behind my mellifluous words. </div>
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Fast forward to my Light Bulb moment. That thing I was getting to that I had to take 3 or more paragraphs, before editing, to explain. The thing I need to focus on is not if my writing wins other people over, but if it wins Me over. I'm not looking to fall in love with a reader, because then I would become the 13th Disney Princess and become animated and buxom. I needed to fall in love with myself, with my writing; see that I have purpose and unleash my guarded heart, not settle for Mr. Almost. .<br />
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Once burned<br />
lessons learned<br />
twice shy<br />
stupid guy<br />
wants to look for something more<br />
sounds like Macys closed at 4<br />
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Told me he's a fragile man<br />
Can't you buy that in a can?<br />
Think I'll put him on a shelf<br />
Sell him for a penny<br />
Give him free if you don't mind <br />
I'm calling in his nanny<br />
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More is betta<br />
so he said<br />
I though that meant in money<br />
Conquests are a dime a dozen<br />
I don't think its funny
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Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-88061419376092482642013-02-15T09:34:00.001-08:002013-08-17T08:41:00.214-07:00Maria ... I just made a gem named Maria!This may seem like a fairly simple feat for the average jewelry artist. Making jewelry that is pleasing the eye of both the creator and their audience. It's more than that for me. Two years ago, I could see myself walking into my studio area, fondling the individual stones, maybe even piecing something together in my head, but it would stop there. I wouldn't, couldn't let myself see that I had even a smidgen of creativity to follow this pursuit, this seemingly straightforward task of creating this perfect little bauble. Looking at these today, I haven come a loooong way, baby!<br />
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When I started my journey back through this Ptsd stuff, I had no idea what I would uncover. The road is painstakingly hard and slow as a baby turtle, yet I know I am no where near the Finish line. When I started delving into this Pandora's Box of Emotions, I prayed, meditated, threw salt over my shoulder....anything that would take me back to the Me I knew was inside. With the help of time, patience and a few wonderfully wise women, I have begun again. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxZqjV8nWFHSyubFSLL8GiZwSzLgiQqTjm_raEiNg2eiByVR9OMnv4_U9YyXOjaFC4zBkii8uTOzf1d1IWTNVA2hgmWEln4L2hzg5djcSspiCxH1xT78Ej7i9BbOQoUJZPOUVi35L_Mg/s1600/maria+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxZqjV8nWFHSyubFSLL8GiZwSzLgiQqTjm_raEiNg2eiByVR9OMnv4_U9YyXOjaFC4zBkii8uTOzf1d1IWTNVA2hgmWEln4L2hzg5djcSspiCxH1xT78Ej7i9BbOQoUJZPOUVi35L_Mg/s200/maria+002.JPG" width="150" /></a>I titled this on my jewelry site, The Maria, as it is sleek, beautiful and quietly strong. The real Maria that inspired this piece has all of these qualities...and then some. I had the privilege to meet her last summer at Brave Girls Camp; an experience I'll never forget. None of us will. The experience of bonding with these girls was like the Ya-ya's, the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and any other fantastical novel about a group of seemingly different women, coming from different paths, different socio-economic levels, meeting in a lovely, unbiased, neutral ground to Find ourselves.. We saw that inside, in our core, we all want the same thing. Love. Love of self, more than any other type of love, is the missing link. The key ingredient that Connects us all.<br />
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Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-89953583378655526412013-01-15T10:05:00.000-08:002013-08-13T10:46:58.767-07:00This Lil' Light of MineI remember as a child going to church with my family. It was a bit silly, I thought, as our family is going to a sacred spot for an hour to "get all holy" was screwed up, as we would act as-if for an hour, inside this 4 brick walls with stained glass angels watching over us little fakers. When we got home, instead of feel refreshed and anew, took our usual places in the Punch & Judy show, and who the hell is Judy?! Even though I have these cray-cray memories of life as a kid, I also have the pictures that float in my mind; the sweetest melodies in that bliss-filled hour I still hum randomly. The best thoughts of Church weren't the damnation or tarnation people often link with the traditional Church Lady stereotypes. The best memories were those songs - songs that we there for me unconditionally every week. The liturgies, the Sanctus, the Offertoryhymns that gave me comfort, even though I didn't know what it meant. As my life at home was unpredictable and protected, this red brick building we went to every week to "Act Saved" was there for me, giving me these rote songs that didn't judge me or make me eat brussel sprouts or the dreaded liver and onions. It gave me the peace of my understanding - exactly what it said it would do.<br />
The thing I craved most as a child was peace. As a family, whether at the dinner table or the church pew, each member would play their part in the game of Deactivating Peace. Usually my brother would start the marble down the slope by saying something rude to my sister. That would send her into a tizzy, which caused me to delightfully kick my brother under the table to stop being such a tool. That would make him complain to his mommy, which made my dad yell at her for being his cheerleader. On and on, no matter where we were, this pinball game would go off, sending the ball this way and that, going no where while going everywhere. This constant state of unrest seemed a bit of a cheat, as even in a legit pinball game racks up points; feel that momentary rush when the lights and bells go off at the end. The sad point of our game was there Was no end. All I learned is how groovy flowers and fuzzy neon pink footprint stickers would cover the holes in the wall that were made by my father.<br />
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Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-63539678738965033392013-01-15T09:44:00.004-08:002013-08-17T07:31:17.237-07:00the good fairyI remember when I was in kindergarten, my constant goal was to be good. Not "good" in the sense that I could finally sit in the "A" table or be one of those annoyingly perfect curly headed beauties soccer mommies oogle over. I wanted to be the Good Fairy that taps everyone on the head when nap time is done. Remember that? In school, I was taught that you would be rewarded, whether temporarily or permanently, for your good deeds. At home, it was a different story, but at school I could be vindicated! I could be the one that people look up to and learn from. I could have an audience, people to laugh at my jokes and see the things I make and do weren't stupid. With this in mind, I took every opportunity to shine. My teachers thought I was cool; a prodigy of sorts. My poetry was awarded , my pictures graced the walls of my teachers, but still at home I was a Lemonhead. If I had only given up trying to please the very people that brought me into this earth, and work on shaping me into a gift that should be cherished instead of kicked around, would my life be different? All things happen for a reason, and I do feel that all that junk back then did shape me. My empathy for the underdog is unparalleled, as I knew that title well. <br />
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Fast forward to 40 years later. Sitting here pondering this next shift in my Life. I'm entering the vortex of something a bit exciting but raw, magical but seemingly risky... but I want it. I want the challenge like I was that little girl sneaking into the boys bathroom all over again. Will I be discovered? Found out to be this amazingly talented writer/collage artist that the Universe has been missing All.This.Time??! Or will that other part of me, that part that sees the devil-may-care attitude fall flat on my arse!<br />
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The risk to put myself out there, for all to see is Great. The adrenalin rush makes me feel like I'm standing in the middle of an intersection in my underwear. Everyone will see my flaws scrutinize me if I don't use correct grammar or I glue shit down that looks like a kindergartener did it. . Scary stuff. Brave stuff. Necessary stuff.<br />
This collage is done in moments of complete Bliss. Nope, not in kindergarten anymore. The collage was from a workshop given by Jonathon Adler . It was interesting as the male perspective led to different emphasis, shapes and placement instead of details. It's like that in real life too - men speak in generalities, using fewer word to describe things, to make things happen. Women use the language of Detail. Descriptive, mellifluous words that skip around the subject and flirty-flirt with the nuances, not nail it in the gut. Case in point: a couple in a paint store. The guy would look at the color, and in one caveman grunt, he would blurt "Blue. The color of the wall is blue". The women, on the other hand, would describe the color as having hints of azure, cobalt, robin's egg-such-and-such, with a tad bit of the ocean in July. Dude, it's not blue!<br />
<br />Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-56027441236190930002012-07-08T07:54:00.002-07:002013-08-17T07:11:45.845-07:00Eat your BroccoliI remember when I meditated for the first time. It reminded me of the first time I prayed back in my childhood. I was at this Youth function at some hotel. Yes, it took me That long to figure out what prayer was! My childhood was force fed Religion kinda like a vegetarian would be fed a cow; stuffed in my face, dismissing my stance as an individual and Made to look at my seemingly heathen ways as a person of only 9. How the heck could I be that bad at 12? Did I rob a bank or con a con in Paper Moon?? I'm pretty sure that was a movie, and I secretly hoped to god that the life I had was a movie too. But there I was, sitting amongst all these people staring at my heathen ways. tsk tsk.<br />
Fast forward to my meditative state in the confines of my living room. Thinking the right placement was East, to get the best exposure (or was it blessing?) from the Sun. Even though my form wasn't all that Zen, and maybe I was facing a little westerly from the correct Northern Exposure, I felt deep in my heart that all I needed to do was close my eyes and breathe deeply. In and out. In with wisdom, out goes the pain. In with enlightenment, out with the indecision. I kept this up for quite some time, and slowly focused on Not focusing. Slowly but surely the clarity and awareness came. Not like a thunderbolt, but just this Peace that said "Go There". "Do This". It was a gentle nudge to shift awareness to something that suited my character better, fed my passion more suitably. After sitting there with my focus only on the Nothing my soul needed in order to really see my true vision, slowly the background of stillness and light took over the jibber-jabber of my inner critic. What became of this first Sit was monumental. For in those 20 minutes of calm, I realized my path was to get back to my roots and teach people about beauty again. Show women how to recreate their wheel and feel good about themselves. My eyes opened, my feet moved, and I started to set the stage of my vision. I set out to become an Artist once again.<br />
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Now I sit here at my beloved blog, ready to recreate My wheel. Something has again shifted in me, and I'm ready to Learn more, Do more, Become more.<br />
I am slowly learning that those wicked insults and condemnation of my art as a child was purely Sickness and jealousy. I'm done trying to fix a mother that was clearly broken and angry at the world for what became of her. God put me here to do beautiful things, to show people how beautiful they really are. That is my purpose. That is my Gift. Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-63694089225709019872012-04-21T22:05:00.004-07:002013-08-17T07:12:02.415-07:00Laughing out LoudThe wow-factor of seeing where I've come after all this time has me laughing out loud with glee as I think of my very first post of its kind that graced these pages. My heart was giddy with love and excitement, all twitterpated over someone that eventually lost his pizazz - or maybe I just gained some! I created this space as a means to figure out the Why of what I feel and connect it to the What Next. Though the relationship that brought all those endorphins to a head is long gone, I still feel grateful for the chance to ride the wave of emotional output to where I am right this very moment. After that relationship died a quiet death, I cried, reasoned, justified my way into all sorts of emotionally colorful places. I allowed myself to get angry enough at my words and feelings, wanting to jump into my computer, taking my blog by the jugular and shake out all the hurt so I could begin again. Just as quickly as the ebb and flow of anger also came the notion to give my words the biggest hug of Gratitude for being there Unconditionally for me when I couldn't be there for myself. <br />
My journal has been a stronghold and critic for my artwork, spokesperson for All.Things.Nancy..and even All.Things.Fancy.Nancy. My Rock. I've been so guided to write-and-feel-and-need-and-Thrive that it's so natural to me to have yet another volume of my life to turn a page through. I remember when the only thing that saved me through one of the most violent periods in my life was my Words. My journal held me like a blanket and soothed the beast inside that wanted to do due justice to the situation that made me so vacant. I could only write poems and songs and more poems because I just couldn't mouth the words. Writing is a common go-to for me when I experience Loss. It's like drinking that first sip of tea; you feel the decent down your throat, as it coats and soothes all the bubbling stress and anger, then splashes into that happy place where sadness and pain turn to a thirst for something better. <br />
I've turned to it when no person place or thing would suffice; my unconditional solace.<br />
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I found a heart<br />
a human heart<br />
so empty and alone.<br />
Its form was rather odd, you see<br />
as it was made of stone<br />
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I dusted off each ventricle <br />
as if it were a child<br />
that fell from flight and<br />
scuffed up knees<br />
one kiss - then pain was mild<br />
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I polished carefully the front<br />
revealing words unspoken<br />
doing right had swallowed life<br />
now bitter, pale and broken<br />
I wondered how<br />
so fragile<br />
a form like this could get <br />
away from beating, caring, <br />
thinking love could make it quit<br />
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I wanted to embrace it<br />
to kiss that knee again<br />
to reassure the will to live<br />
and somehow be a friend<br />
but knowing life<br />
like dreamers do<br />
to turn a stone into a rose<br />
could end in only death.<br />
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Can we say Morbid? Well, maybe, but when we were young kids, we didn't know any other way of living better or differently. Being in the midst of a childhood constantly mistaking pain for love, a slam into the wall may mean in a twisted, roundabout way that we mattered. Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-63048226732129738442011-11-03T11:56:00.000-07:002014-04-09T10:33:55.748-07:00Mental Cement<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I look back on the past 5 weeks, the landmark theme has always been Boundaries. I had been skipping in and out of a relationship that needed some firmer Bedrock to stand on. This blog and I have the perfect relationship; we connect when we need to and have an unconditional understanding of love, as long as the keyboard doesn't freeze -then things get ugly! My blog supports me, and though I'm not here to create a fan base, I appreciate each and everyone that takes a look. My biggest critic has always been me, and through the Brave Girl classes, I'm turning myself into a fan, and lay off the critical stuff. We can be sooo hard on ourselves can't we?! I came across this lovely place to vent; a rubber room where I can bounce Creatively and stay safe all at the same time. Safety has always been an issue for me. I discovered in the first part of my soul restoration, that it has come up too many times to remember. There was a time when I actually started to go to my creative space to relieve some of fear that was bottle up inside, when I felt like I couldn't talk to just anyone about what happened to me. Now I'm re-discovering that young girl, and hearing her words for the first time in a couple decades.<br />
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When I was younger, some 20-ish years ago, something unspeakable happened, something that just should not happen. To anyone. I was left there afterwards,cold and scared and determined not to show my fear. I Hurt and grieving, I turned to inward, like many of us do to heal wounds. I could Not bear to face what had happened to me. Did not open up about it., but instead turned the experience around and decided if I helped other rape victims. While I helped other women, at first I didn't know how to take my own advice I was giving to all these girls. I finally got to a point where I had to face my own pain in order to teach other women to see and face their pain. Pain is the best teacher, as if a part of ourselves will need to forgive that other part that is hurting, grieving, in order to move on. I did this by writing. I wrote scads of poems, journal entries, stories about what happened, until my fingers were numb. I wanted to write until I could turn into an innocent bystander, a third person party that just happen to read about my story instead of be part of that story.<br />
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I wrote this poem when I thought there would never be a color darker than the color of my heart. No place could every be as cold as the one inside me. Then slowly, over time, my heart began to thaw. <br />
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<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Will Pandora save her box for me</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>stark white with rubber walls.</i></span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Where all the problems I have faced</i></span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>would seem like none at all. </i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Tell her to find a golden lock</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>and throw away the key</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>For if I let my feelings out</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>I'm sure that she'd find me.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>I can't remember how to see</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>the evidence so clear</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>For all the reasons that my ♥</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>would be so full of tears</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Just tell Pandora, "Hurry"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>for I fear my time is soon</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Where all my past, my future</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>will be locked inside my room</i></span><br />
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Even though many years have passed, I truly feel I didn't address that cold place until now. I got into relationship after relationship, hitting the same wall when the situation got to a certain point, I would freeze, morphing into that cold, lonely place again. I went to tons of support groups, read gazillions of books but nothing could take that Victim title away from me. What would happen if I actually started living and loving life? I'm not used to that! Let's just stay in this dark place; even though I hated it, it was a familiar place to go -even though I thought my life basically sucked rocks, at least I knew the outcome.<br />
Fast forward to my 48th birthday. A day I decided it was time to have my life stop sucking. It was.Time. I found this odd little video of Facebook of this gal that like this crazy bohemian cowgirl that was stinking Spot On with what she was yakking about. She was full of unicorns, rainbows and the unadulterated truth that we were all knuckleheads, and we were worth living for! I looked around for a hidden camera over my shoulder, as this was too bizarre to just randomly happen. Right?!<br />
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I was sitting at my jewelery bench, my laptop in place of my soldering tools that hadn't been touched in years. Over the last few years, the times I tried to sit at my familiar spot and create beauty and art like I did onceuponatime was few and far between. I made excuses and justifications better than a thief on trial. This happened, that disappeared...always another reason to do everything But my artwork. It was a very neglected space over the last 8 years, when I sat repeatedly awaiting some jolt from above, some Di ine Intervention finding nothing but white noise and an itchy butt from sitting there waiting for response from the gods. Then It happened - I started to find Me again. I found these hippie chicks, these Brave Girls actually said things , lots of things I could relate to. Other women just like me felt Less Than and Stuck. I wasn't alone anymore. I'm sharing with likeminded women in acrossthe country, and together we're growing. Together we're learning to add color to our black and white worlds. I'm actually painting! Creating! Thinking about things other than medical this's and that's and actually using energy in different, more constructive ways. Yippee!<br />
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I started to play with the notion of using mediums that I was unfamiliar with. This was a very similar experience to feeling the emotions I wasn't familiar with. Gratitude, Honor, Love - things I felt for other people, but it never dawned on me to actually apply them to myself. I painted this picture to my left out of sheer pain. I honestly was amazed the paints didn't run from the tears mixed in! During this little crazy time, I realized that these hidden traits were keeping me from my very own process of creation in the literal sense, and also figuratively. For through this painting I realized that I had been hiding myself, my talents, my title I held onto since childhood just naturally took hold of me as an adult. I unknowingly grew into that undeserving Victim status as an adult,creating and re-creating a blob of mush. Now, the mush is starting to clear and I'm not only putting gesso over the darkness, I'm shining a new light of Happy. The inspiration for the painting I did to the left, was from Botticelli, with the face cut out, symbolic of what I felt like; blank and raw. The face on the left is the "good" side of me. I painted her freehand, as it is someone that I was not too familiar with, but I have to admit., she turned out beautifully. The new found Me that is bright, positive, skippy and playful. The darker me isn't entirely awful, like a secretive ax murderer, just a sad, tired droopy drawer girl with no where to go and no one to play with. boo.<br />
When I finished this exercise, the world truly became My Oyster. I looked at the things I truly wanted and thought that they could finally be attainable. The dark droopy, Debbie-Downer girl was a facade. The real me is full of all things bright and lovely. I help zillions of women so that I can help me find that force that won't take on that role anymore. I found Me.Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-80216204789412453282011-08-29T08:16:00.000-07:002015-04-28T05:49:39.597-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ok, so I'm still on the "doing it anyway" week, on my Brave Girl Journey; a class that I think shows the true colors of my black and white world. The premise of the class is to work on these big hairy issues that have basically held you by the neck and thrown your life into a Tizzy. I'm behind, which is just fine, as I don't care too much about the time line, as I know these are big chunky monster-things that can't be tamed in just one week. I actually didn't get it at first, then when I was taming my 13 year old daughters Freak-Out , I caught myself saying "ya know Georgie, it doesn't matter if I know the right thing to do is hard or embarrassing. In your heart of hearts, if you believe it will be right...just do it AnYwaY! I think I stopped in the midst of this teen age debacle and said a lil' hand-to mouth "...oh!"<br />
Sooo I started to think hard about this lesson, and decided to... you know what I'm gonna say, (altogether now!)...Just Do it Anyway regarding my health issues. I need to be healthy in order to fight these battles that I had to have with my 13 year old - over and over again. The wish for me to be this incredible woman and mother only happens if I'm alive, so I'd better get over it. The Universe complied with my wish, and after a torturous couple days at work, I landed in the hospital with a mini-stroke. It's called a T.I.A or Transient Ischemic Attack, My blood disorder is all about keeping the protein levels low so my blood runs nice and thin, doing all that it's supposed to do.<br />
When I drove myself to the hospital, it took every ounce of me to sit in my car, for one thing. Having never met the creator of this class I'm taking, but seeing her face and hearing her little cheerleader voice on the videos, I just heard it blaring Just Do It Anyway in my ear, her voice, though loving and honest, was something that I didn't want to hear -like fingernails on a chalkboard, I've gotta tell you! Four hours later, the docs gathered that's what it was. The beginning of Beet Juice, and leafy greens, the end of chocolate bars and lattes. sigh.<br />
I know, as somewhere up there, I am here for a reason, so I'm trying not to deal with the fact that my insurance did not cover this nice E.R visit. I am just holding myself, hugging myself and knowing that my body took over when I, myself could not utter those Just Do It Anyway words. <br />
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<br />Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-35618861674865201502011-08-17T08:27:00.000-07:002011-11-01T16:47:01.750-07:00Aha moments<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been spending this week on the roller coaster I have constructed for myself out of pain, guilt, loss and glued it together with bad country songs. I let it guide me up and down these emotions, going from pain and heartache to actual Bliss. Yes, I said Bliss. I'm continuing with my Brave Girl course, and though it's daunting to sit at my very lonely jewelry table and say hello to all the tools that haven't been touched in forever. I'm starting to take baby steps, sitting longer, actually starting to sketch again, pick up my wire again. The longer I let myself make something without harsh criticism, the more I want to sit here. I am starting to give myself permission to say I am enough! The kids are off on holiday with their father, so instead of stew about that, I can churn and burn out some stuff. I think I can, I think I...<br />
I've had these bittersweet moments before, where I recite my positive mantra when my girls leave on vacation with their dad. Then I get out that familiar 2 x 4 and whack myself in the head for not being able to take them anywhere tropical or amazing. The most colorful place they've gone with me is a white sale at Target! I say those familiar words "I'm a great mom" and "in 20 years they won't remember the material stuff". I know in my heart of hearts in 20 years they won't care about that like I do right now. I'm nuts about them and they are nuts about me. So why all this crap I throw on myself about this material chit? Isn't this the very thing I ran from in my marriage? Then why the hells bells am I craving that for them? Silly Girl.<br />
So...this big shift of process is happening from sheer Connection. Connection to my little girl that I lock deep inside, letting her come up for air now and again, but that same girl that was locked away when was a Real little girl needs to come out of the closet. I used to hide in a closet and draw and draw and write poetry. Now I'm envisioning myself slowly open that yellow door, crawling out of my hidden art space, and color and paint and create until my eyes pop out! <br />
<br />Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-1758084989577302442011-07-27T10:49:00.000-07:002011-10-17T11:47:01.917-07:00soul house<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I completely and fully appreciate all the deities that I let myself look to for clarity in my life. They each represent God to me, but show me in different ways, different forms. Whether its Quan Yin or buddha, God or my peaceful girlfriends I seek out when I need answers, they all represent the god in my that I seek; the god in me that is my power, my light source.<br />
As I was knee-deep in negotiations to move from this apartment, facts and figures, reasons and justifications, clouded my brain, keeping me from the real reason I want to go. Yes, it's like the ghetto of this area, housing vagrants and sketchy characters. But it also houses many people that have lost everything and have no better place to go. There are very kind souls in this mix, so I can't generalize everyone as Ghetto. Only the smoky, yucky trashy ones that gives us the unpleasant gift of second-hand smoke will I call ghetto. Is that personal enough!?<br />
While I was so busy praying for answers, the real truth popped up right in my face. I'm Not Finished Here Yet. The irony of my new cleansing project I bought myself for my birthday is this wonderful journey to fix whats broken in my life. I have no idea what all will come of it, but its freakishly exciting, as I'm told by the owner of the quest, that at times, I will feel like throwing in the towel, then I will reach Nirvana. If I Let Myself go there. I'm a toad when it comes to facing things, people, circumstances, and usually will take the exit-stage-right point of view as opposed to getting it done.<br />
My guess is, I need to look at this like a break-up. I really want to look at the reasons why I got into the relationship, or this house, and change the wrong ones so I don't do them again. I have to fix whats broken here, and that is figuratively, people!! Much is literally broken, and hopefully, by our final Days End here, we will not have collapsed on top of the 3 poor floors . I truly think the unsavory work ethic the builders had who created this, chose to take a lunch break when they turned to the Lesson they were reading in their Acme 'How to Build a Complex on the Cheap'. They must have gotten mustard on the page that talked all about Solid Foundation and Fighting Decay. This place may be going in the shooter, but I guess I'm just not done here with the lessons I'm to learn.Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-82815417359271004292010-09-26T07:13:00.000-07:002015-04-28T05:45:53.700-07:00Get it NowAfter a week of simulating My Life as a Pin Cushion, I come to my blog half-cheeked, but ready to heal. I spent a few days at MD Anderson Cancer Center, a highly acclaimed research mecca, where I went to find answers to one puzzle, but solved another. It was like going to the grocery store because you ran out of bread, but came back with everything <i>but</i>.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgo0fX5fE48pxEGbH77E6r2otL4uAmA-JpIxOUoTZIIN5xJM7C95ORFpo-6dA1UwgcXeR5iCQbiuE3L_uHR4qU6YAHridykErcx-ACPwksE7_-EgkqbFqtIDyk809xxDs8w17NHT38DA4/s1600/crazy-sexy-cancer-survivor3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgo0fX5fE48pxEGbH77E6r2otL4uAmA-JpIxOUoTZIIN5xJM7C95ORFpo-6dA1UwgcXeR5iCQbiuE3L_uHR4qU6YAHridykErcx-ACPwksE7_-EgkqbFqtIDyk809xxDs8w17NHT38DA4/s1600/crazy-sexy-cancer-survivor3.jpg" /></a>At the suggestion of a dear friend, I made the quest to Houston in search of finding out why I tick with Waldenstrom's Macroglobulinemia. This is a funky B-cell Lymphoma that entered my life some 8 years ago, which started a challenging and life-altering chapter I have yet to finish. I have since discovered how<i> to </i>tick; how to act with cancer in a world that can hardly say the words <i>toilet paper</i> or <i>tampons</i> without getting ruffled. Fighting cancer is a huge elephant in a room only meant for pigeons. It doesn't belong there. Nobody is entirely ready to invite that big elephant in their space, as it is big, stinky, and threatens to mess up their spotless sitting room. We live in a society that yearns for perfection, running from reality while sporting fake tans and maxed out Visa bills. Generally, people are more comfortable hearing about the weather or the results of a college football game than how you <i>really</i> feel. I've learned there is a time and place for full disclosure; you can't tell just anybody you've got cancer. If you do, you are the ever present oil to their vinegar. <br />
This disease is slowly teaching me what I need to live honestly. I have thrown out the identity I had while I was married. I tossed out that victim nonsense, as no one wants to be around weakness for too long. This new found power, though, this Free to Be Me stuff, is hard to tame at times. I've reeled this big fish out of water, and sometimes I can/t control my new truth, and that fish , is flailing all over the damn beach I'm finding when I assert myself in one situation, that doesn't necessarily give me grounds to be omnipotent in all situations. I just have to learn to be careful what I wish for, because, as the chorus can now join in,<i> I just might get it. </i><br />
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I asked for a life where I didn't have to hide who I was. I asked for a way to live without being forced to jump when someone told me to.I can't get what I want it; it doesn't work that way. Like Mick Jagger said, <i>You cant always get what you want/ You get what you need. </i>In living with cancer, that is my mantra. Life with cancer has taught me that if you want something, you must be patient. If you need something, well, you must be more patient. If I want answers to this cancer puzzles, I have to be patient and diligent enough to research and question until I have the answers. In needing true, undiluted, unadulterated love, I must also be patient and hone the love I find, treating it like a treasure instead of a trophy. A loving relationship is not this incredibly perfect seashell you find on the beach. Love is like a dirty shell; that cool little treasure you found that has so much potential. If this part moved here, that part moved there...perfection in the making. You have to understand that it will take time be that perfect shell. You have to understand that it will take time to allow the glue to dry and the pieces fit. <br />
To expect love be exactly like you want when you want it is like asking for the sun to be the moon. It won't happen. If you want love like you want it when you want it, you might as well just date your cell phone or your dvr. I'm not some show you can program to love you when you want it. I can't be re-booted due to technical difficulties. The advancements in technology have taught us to <i>Want it Now</i>. Society is being driven to want it all <i>Now. </i>Technology has groomed us for wanting things quicker, faster, when we want to, we can click the button or enter the code and It will happen..From what I can see, I don't have a<i> send</i> or <i>delete</i> button on my person anywhere, so can you please stop trying to click me into what you want??<br />
Just because someone feels like sick and doesn't act all peppy on a first date shouldn't be grounds to terminate If two people truly want to build a foundation, one should be understanding if the other has gone through hell, doesn't feel good, is emotional over a trying day and doesn't feel like jumping into the arms of someone they just basically met, and get carried off into the sunset. Even in the movies nowadays, a movie that jumps into the happy ending before the plot develops is surely to end up on the editors floor. You've got to build the bridge before you can walk on it. <br />
<br />Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-59159934865925622442010-08-12T08:06:00.000-07:002011-10-19T05:47:48.284-07:00treading water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I was a young girl, I had this aversion to water. I even flunked swimming lessons for pretending to tread water, while linking my surely invisible leg to the very visible ladder. Fail! I lived in the Midwest, where I spent years and years landlocked and naive about the true power and calling of the ocean. I knew astrologically, I was a water sign, and read water was to feed and calm me; the ebb and flow of the waves parallel tothe up-and-downness of my emotional state. What did I know about Water? I mean, I was surrounded by corn, cows and land in a color palette so small, you only needed one crayon in your pencil box. How did I know that this natural element could take me from All Things Brown to The Land of Technicolor?<br />
In my late twenties, I convinced my girlfriend to drive from Nebraska to California to be with my true love. We drove through the night, giggling like school girls, as we stayed awake with coffee, cigarettes and bad country music. The moment we rounded that corner on Hwy 101 and saw this beautifullimitlessnourishingomnipotent ocean, I was speechless. I was home. <br />
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This liquid meditation continued to nudge me through life. As I began my life as a wife and mother, the water was always a subtle reminder to calm down. Amidst conditions and hardships in my marriage, I often sought comfort by seeing myself atop a mountain overlooking water. My back was strong and straight with a long white blonde braid down my back. Surely it was a metaphor for me to stay steadfast; sitting on top of strife instead of wallowing in it. There may be a lot to conquer, but the clear, cerulean waters would tap me on the shoulder and remind me that I'm going to be okay. I'm a survivor, for goodness sake, and these healing waters will rock away anything that ails me.Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-63028002088918076522010-08-03T05:56:00.000-07:002011-12-19T11:23:01.861-08:00SurrenderRemember that song 'I've Gotta be Me'? Well, here I sit, plain (or fancy) as day, and feel I'm still looking. Looking for that clear skinned beautiful face, exuding kindness that would surely rival Snow White and all of her dwarfy friends. What lengths will I go to, today, to be Me, to find Me?? These last 6 years, my door may have been open to opportunity and change, but I've also kept the window open too; letting in every raindrop, thunderstorm, hurricane in, so I can stomp on it, tear it down, being the Unsinkable Molly Brown and fight those problems and foibles to their death. When will it end?<br />
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As I look ahead at another year coming, I see my choices:<span style="color: blue;"> Do I tell God about the storm again, or talk to the storm about God?</span> My knees need to be deeply implanted in the soil, appreciating all that I have been given And all that has been taken away from me. If I'm a fighter in the true sense, I should see my image, in canine form, holding on to this pretty lil' thing called life in my teeth, while the big ol' hairy curmudgeon is trying to wrestle it away from me. Hair or none, today will I sink my teeth deeper and take what is rightly mine or begrudgingly give it up, whimpering with my tail between my legs?<br />
Today I see part of the surrender as looking at the Fight not the Fighter. What part do we as the fighters play? Victim, Successor or audience throwing tomatoes, toast, whatever the wind blows in, as ammunition to make these fighter instincts in us shut the hell up?Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-85177089646762374502010-04-15T10:04:00.000-07:002010-04-16T09:20:29.331-07:00GratefulnessI'm so glad I have this place to post my innermost thoughts.My blog is my Lay-z-boy recliner and my words are my blanket, keeping me cozy and warm. I draw great strength in writing, as it empowers me to be a better person, and obsess about context and useless grammatical errors instead of things like Global Warming and World Peace.<br />I wanted to add a little blurb to the part in my last entry about blog hunters. I love the fact that someone took the time to drop everything and read me for a couple of minutes. I hope they came to find that under all this grandiosity (i.e. the hell no-ishness of my soapbox sermon) is a very subtle ThankYou. The problem I face, however, is that my pride instantly puts me in a different category than a typical person. I'm certainly not a typical suburban mom that I'm surrounded by. I'm not an apron clad, PTA, 5 food group fanatic, given identity by what my children do and force them to be involved in so I can feel purposeful. Hmm...so how do I <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> feel?! For every block party and perfectly cohesive wardrobe that the stereotypical Super Mom in this communityI live in, has on their resume, I have equal parts of Shock Value and nonconformity to add to mine. Wait...look down. Do your socks match right now?! <br />I adore my girls with a capital L-for-Love, but my many -isms have created this safe haven in which I willfully hide from everything screaming. Is my opinionated mindset keeping me from life? No, it just keeps me living true to myself instead of putting on a sweater set of All Things Fake. I know there are better places for me to live - I go into the city every chance I can. The urban grit, the culture, the real people all welcome me with an ever Open Door policy to let me know I'm not an angry person. I'm actually quite nice (remember, I'm Snow White of the 21st century!) I'm just angry I'm stuck in Suburbia. And although I'm touched and flattered that someone saw my blog and thought my angle may be great to add to their group, I'm just not a joiner. I'm not a joiner for the obvious reasons (see above!) but also, my cancer has come back to not subtly tug at my shirt sleeve, but to slap me in the face and yell from the rafters, "I'm Heere!" I can easily keep on rationalizing my suburban inmates have helped me hate living here, but to be honest, cancer just makes me hate Living sometimes. No, don't call 911. I'm stuck for now, not STupid! Who would water my plants?! I've slowly sequestered myself in my safe haven, not because my clothes don't match, but because people don't/can't deal with cancer. My having this reminds them that it can happen to them. I'm not imagining this - I've had friends-turned-uncomfortable-acquaintances actually <span style="font-style: italic;">say</span> this to me. Can you believe it? I'm oil to their vinegar, parting the waters with every step I take in The Sea of All Things Fake. Shame On Them.<br />So...when these nice traveling women asked me to get on board their Happy Bus of Blogging, I was touched, yes, but my trips involve a lot of imagination and no frequent flyer miles. I can't comment on the best places to go, the best rates with children in tow, the best crab cakes down the Shore. My journey takes place in the sterile comfort of a place that smells like everything<span style="font-style: italic;"> but</span> the sandy seashore. Once those lovely nurses start me on that Magic Potion, my traveling mind helps me escape to places tropical, warm and sunny. I plan my destination to be far enough away and last long enough to escape all pain and discomfort; long enough to enjoy this incredibly reddish-orange sunset in my mind.Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-82045369225341316322010-03-28T10:26:00.000-07:002013-09-08T08:17:42.366-07:00Irony is IronicMy blog is titled in such a redundantly redundant way to pay homage to my first born. She and her bestest friend have spent many an hour coming up with these little obviousisms, and together, they second and third the notion of life being pen ready and in our faces at all times. <br />
My latest light bulb of Irony turned on a couple of months ago. I was having quite the great week; won a parking space for a month at work, celebrated 6 months of sobriety, and was stumbled upon by a group of bloggers that not only enjoyed my present state of writing, but wanted me to jump onto their virtual boat of Bloggers Extraordinaire and submit my musings for My Chosen People to read.<br />
My first thought was...Whaat?! My second thought was, of course, a channeling of my inner New Jersey Skeptic. Of course they want to sell me something, put me on a massive spamasstical mailing list and drag me into a world of corruption and mass hysteria. (Do you think I've watched too many episodes of CSI? Maybe.) I thanked them from the bottom of my heart, felt my cheeks redden like an emerging sunrise, then instantly scoffed.. My inner skeptic immediately took over, taunting me with thoughts like "surely they want something" and "do I Look like a sympathy quota to you".?!<br />
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I had been turned down a couple of months ago by a blogging network, so my skepticism held a bit of history and merit. Once upon a time, I recall entering a contest measuring my writing ability. I thought everyone would jump on my Blogging Bandwagon because I had confidence that I was a good writer. I was so busy feeling overly confident that I didn't see the Semi Truck of Discontent heading for me. I was hyped up from secretly thinking my writing was an easy shoo-in; a mixture of incredible wit and imagination only shared by those, like myself, lucky enough to realize our enormous potential. As fast as my hand-picked-for-the-Second-Coming (of Oprah, not Jesus) began, it was just as quickly thrown in the shooter. My writing was judged, thwarted and dismissed as road kill, for dropping the occasional, but often necessary, F bomb. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutmkZSt6qjmbazdDbx_D3jJB9y86wNuW4bbWGnsXvYxTj4PDsMDEejCQK6AWKSbRM9f6yWI8_HvPb-GEiMblOHeppWtyrjf2PWcuMtfhppgolQ8QmfuHM4M3PpOr6B3hMGU1JD0yW8oA/s1600/Cappuccino-Heart.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutmkZSt6qjmbazdDbx_D3jJB9y86wNuW4bbWGnsXvYxTj4PDsMDEejCQK6AWKSbRM9f6yWI8_HvPb-GEiMblOHeppWtyrjf2PWcuMtfhppgolQ8QmfuHM4M3PpOr6B3hMGU1JD0yW8oA/s200/Cappuccino-Heart.jpeg" width="200" /></a>Since my protective shield of skepticism was in place, it didn't take long to recover and basically Get Back on the Horse. This entry marks my coming out of the Blogging Cave of Shame and admitting complete surrender. Knowing myself as well as I do, though I've gotten over the initial disappointment and erased the neon "Fail" stamped on my forehead, I still keep my lil' piece of comfort, my token of my true humanity, with me at all times. Even though I was judged for my flippant use of the f word, I will hold it near and dear to my heart and use it whenever I see fit, as I hold its' importance to be up there with God, Mother Teresa and Juan Valdez.Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-24228882170662272392009-09-04T06:29:00.000-07:002011-12-19T11:17:42.161-08:00because it's warmI have been working through the whole letting go-ness of life; the defective traits I've assumed over the years need to be gone. Doing this, though, is almost more painful than the acts themselves. My grandma coined a phrase, or at least I think she did, about keeping in your pain. "You stay in your shit because it's warm", she would say. In layman terms that means we keep doing the same crap, because we at least know, beyond reasonable doubt, the outcome would be familiar. That is why our unreasonable selves succumb to our same ol' irrational responses and defense mechanisms - who wants to process something new when we're in pain already?<br />
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When I stand back from a situation that I helped create a couple weeks ago, I see that my side of the story was partially to blame. As stories go, there are 3 sides; his, hers and the real one. If I let my inner moron conjure up reasons to blame the other person, citing examples of their behavior via a Large book, or a bad B-movie, I'm searching for the definition of 'fucked' in Websters Dictionary. It's not going to happened. Blaming another person for the exact nature of our wrongs is not taking responsibility for your part in the play, and <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> inner moron just became<span style="font-style: italic;"> your</span> reality.<br />
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Knowing and doing are two different things, and which comes first, anyway? The chicken or the egg - and who's the chicken?! I know in my heart of hearts that this feeling, this overwhelming sense of loss and sadness...this too shall pass. I have learned I have the capacity to love and be loved. It's just that I came to realize love as an <span style="font-style: italic;">action</span> has to replace love as a<span style="font-style: italic;"> feeling</span>. Love as an action takes endurance and time management - how can I live within the boundaries of loving this person? Now that my mind is made up to commit my head, heart, body and soul to another person, what is the timeline? How patient can and will I have to be? Can I stand and wait for him to hold me and love me as I want? When will this fleeting feeling, that sets off all of those damnedable endorphins, stop and be absorbed by my will to take action?<br />
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The philosophizing and questions will soon settle and be answered. I've got to just drag that patience out and let it fester and bloom into the most beautiful virtue I can. Control is not an option - once I give up the control, if it comes back to me I give myself the permission to execute the strangle hold. Mantra of the day: This too Shall Pass.Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277775380061133760.post-91486695619465812632009-09-03T05:17:00.000-07:002011-12-19T11:22:37.823-08:00Save the Last DanceOkay...enough of the Dark Side. All of the work we do to mold our new lil' psyches should be rewarded. I was invited to go out dancing yesterday - release this damn current of angst and sweat it off on the dance floor! One of my girlfriends likes to go out and dance - not the dancing of my former 80's-spandex-self, but a cleaner, healthier way to trip the Light fantastic. I will let my lone follower know how this ends up - if all my parts work afterward!<br />
Music is my one release that I can safely say I will never have to give up. It soothes the savage beast and ignites passion when I feel like crap on the inside or want to share my happier self with the World. It's been a good bonding agent with people, as talking about tunes is much lighter and more socially acceptable than mooning about the woe-is-me-ness of life.<br />
I've been succumbing to the throws of iTunes lately, swallowing the fact that someone elses greedy revenue stream is about the only way we can enjoy and share music. Ok, don't think about that - just sink into our earbuds and escape. The fact that Jimi Hendrix and Chopin can share equal space in my head is astounding. I would love to research Jimis' music history more and see if he ever did anything remotely Classical. His lyrics are soooo beautiful - he wasn't just some dude on acid. He was Genius. This excerpt is from a great website that deciphers the meaning and derivation of epic songs.<br />
<a href="http://http//www.inthe70s.com/generated/lyricsmeaning.shtml">http://http//www.inthe70s.com/generated/lyricsmeaning.shtml</a><br />
<i>At the time Jimi wrote the song he had had a huge fight with his girlfriend. When it says "Somewhere a queen is weeping, somewhere a king has no wife." he means his girlfriend is crying and he is loveless. Also, he talkes about clowns and jack-in- the-boxes that have gone away, which means there is no more happiness.</i><br />
Well, boo-hoo. For all the sappy blokes that think Hendrix was just living in a drug-induced fog, that may be right, but he was an incredibly deep and soulful artist that fed his equally mournful audience a whole lotta Good Grief!<br />
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><i><br /></i>Nancy Resnickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017911963898761093noreply@blogger.com0