**Permission was granted for the postscript at the end**
I’m sitting here staring at a blank page and to my right a reminder keeps blinking that I haven’t written anything yet. With a (!) to drive it home in case I didn’t understand the gravity of it all.
I guess, given that my last blog post about eggs garnered more than a dozen new followers, the “blogasphere” is impatient to see what I can do to glean interest today. I’ll admit to some mild surprise about that surge. It was eggs for heavens sake. We like our yolk I guess. Who knew.
This morning I was sprayed in the chest by my motion sensor air freshener. I’ve had cinnamon french toast wafting into my nostrils ever since. It’s not bad actually; providing me the relaxing sensation of my grandma’s kitchen. It’s also much cheaper than my usual fragrance, so I think I might be onto something.
Erma Bombeck is my literary idol. Have I ever mentioned that before? Some might have believed that I poured over spiritual sonnets on my journey to here, but in truth, I chose to follow the real life adventures of a middle aged woman with a snappy sense of humor and a common sense approach to living.
“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left and could say “I used everything you gave me” Erma
My “eau du french toast” shower today reminded me that sometimes you can smell delicious for only 9.99. A big lesson for someone like me, prone to overthinking and over trying, over compensating and over achieving. And a damn sight less stressful than driving across a city congested with construction to purchase the aroma that I believe makes me happiest. Oddly that fragrance is aptly called Happy Heart. But to be truthful I am happier right now sharing the morning humor that is making my chest bone glow. There must be shellac in this.
I’ve been struggling lately with what else I can share with those looking for my “wise” words. I feel like I have shared it all, tried to comfort the masses with the usual vocabulary and what I call “psychic fluffy”. I felt like I hadn’t shared all of the talents that I possess. I reached out to the spirit side last night for some guidance. And this morning got sprayed by Grandma’s kitchen. It wasn’t profound at all but it certainly got my attention.
“Wake up and smell the cinnamon stupid”
Sometimes the simpler words smell better.
Real life will hurt. Death will hurt. Relationships will fail, good things will go, bad things will come. Balance is struck in every facet of the journey. Grieving is the most powerful reminder of all that we cannot control.
What we can control is how we choose to smell to others. Strong and musky and powerful or soft and gentle like a warm plate of french toast.
I am voting up french toast.
I’ll take that over sex any day.
The other day during a reading I was talking to a client about intimacy in the face of physical challenges. She apologized for her honesty and remarked that with her severe arthritis that even self pleasure was impossible because her fingers would freeze for hours in that position. I laughed harder than I have laughed in forever. And she laughed with me.
And that my friends…
Is pure Erma power.
Let’s get back to basics. We will die to be sure. But let’s live until we have to.
In love and light and truth.