The Not So “Gag Me With a Spoon” Pieces of Me…

My IPhone has been auto-correcting the word “stairs” with “Atari.”

Yes, Atari.

The XBOX of the 1980’s.

This is odd to me.  I mean if, I had accomplished the dreams of “1984 Jami” the use of the word Atari might frequent the touch screen of my IPhone. As would tennis shoe roller skates, world champion roller derby, Space Invaders, Q-Bert, Tears for Fears, and Trans AM.

 

Alas, I moved on. Still, it is odd. A device that has only swept the nation like its predecessor the Atari within the last 6 or so years, the IPhone thinks it knows me so well? If it does believe it is the 80’s, it will continue to replace words like “Similac Formula” with “Bonnie Bell Cherry Lip gloss” and “Federal Student Aid Application” with “Giorgio Armani Designer Imposter Perfume.”

 

Furthermore, if my IPhone is time traveling back 1980-something, “OMG” will auto correct to “totally” and “Awesome” with “righteous” and “LOL” with “Gnarly.”  When I send my grocery list to dear hubby, it will auto correct “diapers” with “AquaNET” and “Sprouted whole grain bread” with “Watermelon Hubba-Bubba.”

 

And I have no interest in going back to those places. Although, I was pretty righteous on wheels and my hair style made more sense back then.

But like I said, I have moved on.

However, I find myself pondering the who I am with the who I was.

I have two humans in my “out of my pajamas life” that have inspired me as of late.

 

One, Katie M. Reid of Tightly Wound Woman phenomenon. Katie has me looking closely at that which my inner dialogue has previously considered a flaw.  Wait, I just totally lied to you.  I am usually in my pajamas when I talk to Katie.  Actually, I “VOX” with Katie, because she is in another state.  And, soon my IPhone will replace “VOX” with “CB Radio.” But, I digress.

 

Katie’s blog offers lots of the ebb and flow of the tightly wound wonder woman, which is how God designed me, and that which I haven’t known what to do with. As I wander our new/old home, I hang pictures while tripping over boxes. Curtains are pressed and hung on fancy rods, yet there is hardly a dish unpacked. I want the order of a decorated house more than I want the silverware out of its wadding.

 

And as the wrapping comes off this and that, there are things I don’t want to let go of, and other things I never want to see again.  This is where the second person comes in. My yoga instructor, Camie. As I inhaled deeply at her command, my lungs burned with the agony of newfound elasticity.

 

Apparently, it had been a month of Sundays since they were filled so efficiently.

Greater at her command was the prompting to let go. Just breath. Auto correct the negative. Insert instead, the positive.

As if a piece of Laffy-taffy, I let Camie move me about and instruct my thoughts to stop being so hard on me… and try and just relax.

 

Stop saying the “if only’s” and replacing them with the “I will’s.”

A painting in her studio burned on my retina. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see it in a cheery yellow tint.  When my session was over, I asked her where she got it and when. Then I boldly professed that I would be painting it for my home this weekend.

 

Camie inquired, “You paint?”

“Uh. No.” I responded. But in my head, with the high levels of oxygen saturating every one of my cells and Katie M. Reid’s words fueling my brain and my perfected downward facing dog cheering on an inflated sense of self, I was primed to paint.  I am as sure of myself painting that painting as I was to wear purple leg warmers and Jordache jeans to the 6^th grade Sadie Hawkins.

 

Oddly enough, the IPhone didn’t recognize the word “Jordache.” I was going to change it to Gloria Vanderbilt, but I didn’t want to lie again.

Which brings me to another confession, I sometimes sleep in my yoga pants, so I talk to Katie in my jammies, and Camie isn’t an out of pajama persona either.  Basically, 90% of me is made for comfort wear.

 

Balance.

In my next 44 years I will add to my resume: published author with Harvest House Publishers, a nomad who never moved from her current address, EVER AGAIN, painter, yogi, tightly wound, unwound wife and mom. And as I wandered about my house and the yard snapping photos of this and that for this blog post there was only so much my IPhone could capture or convey.

 

 

The pool house and pool remind me of the summer before we adopted Sam, I couldn’t wait to share our lives with the stranger… being knit together in someone else’s womb.  The kitchen cabinets have changed colors, again, and Justin still loves me in spite of that.  The keys go in the same place as before – but the drivers have moved on to new residences. A whole new Motley crew will have to be taught how to drive.

 

Lately, what I love about these pieces is that they make up the whole.  And the whole is a mess of things that shape the bizarre grand design. The girl who loved to skate, rocked out top scores on Q-bert, barely graduate high school and went on to get a Master’s degree, shares a birthday with Olivia Newton-John, puts “911” on a grocery list that has chocolate and wine on it, and was and still is so tightly wound, someone else has to remind her to breathe.

 

So thanks Katie for your blog. I haven’t thought of myself like that before. And thanks, Camie, I think I can breathe again and also… paint.  And thanks, readers and writers and time warped Foo-fighters.  Your bangs look great, and I would gladly take a wager on that game of Space Invaders.

 

Just for today, try and love who you are, embrace where you’ve been, take a deep breath, and try not to fall down the Atari (Stairs.)  As Picasso once said, “I begin with an idea and then it becomes something else.”

May your floors be totally sticky and your calling totally ordained.  Love, Jami

You can totally like the righteous Katie M. Reid by following this rad link.

 

1 Peter 5:6-7 (NASB) “Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you.” 

You might also like: Silencing the Jerk that Lives in My Head and The Cliff from Whence I Tumble…