Lethologica and Me: Why Jeopardy is a Lost Cause

I don't know if you've ever watched an episode of Jeopardy.

If you haven't, well... you're missing out on intelligent people answering trivia in the form of a question. We're talking walking brains who can give you an answer about any random thing on almost any random subject.

If you have, then you know what I mean when I say Jeopardy is a show unlike most.

Jeopardy is one of my husband's favorite shows. We've been watching it together for years. Decades even. 

I think he loves it because it's a challenge. But the other reason he loves it is because he knows how to play it.

i.e. He's a genius.

Me, I am a literal imbecile who can barely remember the day's events let alone random trivia that I've accumulated in my brain over the years.

So for me to watch this show, it equals amusing frustration.

That above comment about accumulated trivia implies I've actually accumulated said knowledge. And while I'd like to believe I do have something filling in the lobes of my brain, I'm not so certain they like to show themselves.

They love playing hide and seek with me. Especially when I need their assistance.

Here's what I mean. When my husband watches Jeopardy, he responds with the (correct) answer probably 90% of the time.

When I watch Jeopardy, I answer with phrases like "It's that guy; it's that place; it's that thing!" 

That's not an exaggeration. I'm seriously not kidding. I know what I want to say, but cannot think of the word.

My recall is hideous. I know the stuff; I know the answer (albeit at a 10% accuracy rate) but I cannot - for the life of me - recall it in the appropriate amount of time.

And for the record, the appropriate amount of time is about five seconds before you're allowed to ring in with the answer.

After a couple decades of watching Jeopardy - my recall and right answers are still at a miserable 10% - but my husband has increased his useless trivia talent and now has even more correct answers to combat our television set with. 

Some folks are born with high IQs, others are great at recalling useless information, and some people just know a lot about a lot of things.

They're the folks on Jeopardy.

They're the people like my husband.

But, with my aging brain, I honestly find myself wanting to laugh at the entire purpose of Jeopardy.

Who can remember all of that useless stuff?

And why?

So what's a brain like mine supposed to do? I just sit there and try to absorb every answer and question and try not to groan at my husband's continually perfect answers.

(What is, "I married a genius, Ken.")

Some people aren't born with the highest IQ, others aren't so great at recalling useless information, and some people know a little about a few things.

They're the more "common brain" folks who will never ever get to be on Jeopardy.

They're the people like myself.

(What is, "A lethologica.")

When I saw the definition of what a lethologica was, it was like I had found the perfect description for myself: The inability to remember a particular word or name.

That is me. I have lethological tendencies. 

I have the recall of a sloth. 

The info is in the brain but there's a very slow filing system for recall.

When you live with a smart person, you learn to accept the fact that you'll never be like them. I'll never find my answers like he does; I'll never solve riddles or puzzles the way he can. And it's something one can choose to stay mad at. Or not. 

I haven't. I've accepted his and my brain's realities eons ago. He's a smarty pants.

I'm not.

And instead of cringing at his smartness, I've learned to stay mesmerized by his brain and use it to my advantage. Most often, if I'm trying to remember a name or place of something at any given moment, all I have to do is give a few very vague descriptions, and by golly, he knows exactly what I'm talking about.

That really is genius. 

So, all that to say: If you want to feel like a fool, watch Jeopardy. 

If you want to feel a greater fool, marry a genius.

But remember this: God gave us all different brains. Some retain better, some understand better, and some are better in other areas of the brain, like, empathy, and creativity.

I celebrate his brain with wonder. And instead, just wonder about mine.

I don't know if I'll even remember the word lethologica if this came in the form of a jeopardy answer despite me writing an entire post about it.

Jeopardy is a lost cause for me.

And my saving grace is I'm just smart enough to recognize it.

Dare to Dream and Then Do Something About it

I've written on and off for Guideposts for the last ten years. I've been in many of their compilation books and it's a joy to write for them.

But getting into their devotional books has been something of an unattainable goal... until a couple of years ago. I've always wanted to be a part of their devotional writing team, but I couldn't find a way in. It's on the competitive side.

But, I'd finally had enough of wishing for something and decided to do something.

I went out on a ledge and did what a writer is not supposed to do... I contacted an editor to audition to be a part of one of their devotionals after the deadline had passed, after the editor no longer worked in that department, and a year after the "call for submissions" went out.

It was risky. 

It meant I could get a nasty email in reply, or worse, no reply at all. 

That's not what happened though. The editor allowed me to submit for the following year's devotional. 

And I was rejected.

As is the work life of a writer, rejection is a part of the business. But, since I was on an edgy roll, since I knew now it couldn't hurt to take yet one more step further into the unknown, I contacted the editor a year later who had replaced the former editor (there are a lot of changes in the book world, all the time, constantly) and asked to audition. Again.

She let me, and this time, the editor accepted my work.

Two years later, this devotional is finally out and I just received my author copies two days ago.

I'm happy to report that dreams do come true... they just don't come true sitting around waiting for them. I had to make them happen.

I'm also writing for their 2026 devotion and hopefully for the foreseeable future.  

This beautiful 365-day devotional book is called All God's Creatures; Daily Devotions for Animal Lovers. Animal lovers? Hello, this is 100% me and so many other people too.

If I could, I think I would write about dogs in every single devotion. My love for dogs is a tad over the top. And I don't care. But, it might hurt the birds, deer, squirrels, and owl's feelings if I don't write about them too.

Which is why I'm talking about this book. 

My Owlie, my resident owl, is in this devotional book. I wrote about finding him just like I wrote in my previous post.

I'm so proud of Owlie. Now, the whole world can read about him.

The book is available on Guidepost's website and should be available via Amazon soon.

I have plans to write for their other devotional books if they'll let me. I'm currently banging down that door.

For months, editorial personnel shifts have prevented me from contacting any editors about that. But, I won't give up. 

Here's what I've learned through this herculean task of trying to get published where I want to get published: If I really want to accomplish something, sometimes I have to take an indirect route. But the point is I TAKE the route regardless of how difficult and uncomfortable it is.

Dreams come true. They especially come true if you take the opportunity to do something about it.

As Mark Twain once said, "The secret of getting ahead is getting started."

If you're waiting on a dream, now's the time to get started; now's the time to do something about it.

Keep at it, and get creative, and you will find a way to come through the other side.

Our Resident Owl

We have an owl outside our bedroom window.

It began when my husband set out to remove the old cable dish and box from our roof two years ago that no longer served our television purposes.

Cable dishes - large or small - are not exactly the most attractive thing to look at. They look like a UFO attached to the home. After all, this dish transmits to and from space, with a saucer-looking shape. I mean, that's an Unidentified Ariel Phenomena (UAP) if I've ever seen any. 

Don't get me started on Skinwalker Ranch. If you've watched this show, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you don't, well... you might want to (if you're into UAPs and all that.) 

We innocently started watching this show a few months ago, binged all the episodes in a few weeks (like 6 seasons) and they got us... hook, line, and sinker. 

The show is hokey; it's absurd; and comical. There may be a little bit of phenomena happening, but probably not to the degree they're implying. But, now we're hooked. We can't not watch the show. 

I suppose it happens to the best of us...

Regardless, my husband set out to remove the UFO from our roof one day and as he got closer to the dish and paraphernalia that went with it, he noticed two large eyes looking at him.

Actually, the eyes weren't that large. Our resident screech owl is small, maybe about 8 inches tall, and weighs half a pound. But his eyes look impressive. One look from him, and you know he's zooming in on our face just like we zoom in on a photo from our phones.

The owl was tucked inside the box (that went with the dish), wondering why we were disturbing his sleep. "Um..." says my husband diplomatically, "I don't think I'm removing the dish or box today. If ever."

I stopped raking leaves and looked toward his direction, him on a ladder looking into the UFO. "What are you talking about?"

"We have an owl. An owl is living in the cable dish box thingy."

Sure enough, this sweet little guy took up residency in the shaded, shielded, part of the roof that had a bathroom, a living room and wouldn't you guess it, cable TV. From his perch, he has the best view of the entire yard. A room with a view.

We left him alone, my husband backed down the ladder, and he has his space all to himself now.

I ingeniously named our owl "Owlie." And for two years, he's been a fixture in our old cable dish and box. 

He killed all our rats, a feat worthy of his little stature. As soon as he did that, I viewed Owlie as a God-send. 

We were having a rat issue. The rats were outsmarting us, blindly ignoring the traps we'd laid out for them (the nerve). But Owlie swooped in (literally) and took care of them. We haven't had a problem since.

 A few months out of the year, we think he heads off to find the female persuasion, live with her, and make little Owlies. That's fine. Nature has to do its thing. But, I must admit, when he's not around, I miss him. I feel like our backyard, if it's not being watched, needs to be watched!

Just last week, after being gone from us for four months, Owlie returned. 

I was so excited you'd think I had just seen a real UAP. Owlie was back, ready to return to his patrol of our yard, and I couldn't think of a better way to start the summer. 

When it comes to living a full life, it's "slow living" things like this that make life wonderful. Nature meeting nurture: Owlie meeting our UFO ...and choosing it.

While our cable dish still hangs uselessly from our roof, looking like a UFO, we have an owl who wants it for himself. And as far as I'm concerned, that's fine by me.

Owlie will always be welcome in his little corner of our home.

My Gram

My grandmother Lulubelle and grandfather Ralph

Just today, I came across photos of my grandmother and grandfather (my dad’s parents) and it made me stop what I was doing (canvasing my boys' rooms for errant laundry) and sit down (on the floor), forgetting the world around me. 

The photos were probably from the 1940s. You’d think as a vintage clothing seller, I would be able to tell instantly what year it was, but I wasn’t sure. There was no date on the photos, nor the location, but if I had to guess, I’d say the photo was taken in the mid ‘40s

My grandmother was a beauty and I miss her. Seeing her instantly made me think about the first time she met my firstborn. I wasn’t sure if she knew she was holding her first great-grandson. But I wanted to believe that she did.

“Look,” I said, “He loves being with you, Gram.” 

My son was only a few months old, and he was the first great-grandchild of the family. The two of them meeting was a momentous occasion.

She stroked my son’s soft skin, comforting him with the occasional “Oh,” as he whimpered, while she held him in her lap. Gram seemed completely normal; as if she could say to me, “He’s just beautiful, honey.”

But she said nothing because she couldn’t.

Gram loved caring for anyone who needed it. Serving was her gift. But after the stroke, she wasn’t the same. I’m sure it was torture not being able to hold and kiss my baby the way she could’ve done it just a year ago when the ravages of a stroke hadn’t yet happened.

I wondered if she despised everything that came with the change. Did she yearn to tell us to stop fussing over her? Because overnight, things were suddenly all so different. Nothing was the same anymore. Not for us.

And definitely not for her.

She couldn’t move one entire side of her body, she couldn’t form words anymore, and she was no longer the grandma I had grown up with. And yet, she looked the same. I could see that she was the same strong woman I’d always known.

I wondered what she thought about on the days we didn’t see her. Was she lonely?

The nursing home was incessantly busy but I wondered if the constant noise bothered her. Did she ever want to turn off her neighbor’s television? It was loud enough for neighbors three doors down to hear.

Gram had a window to look through, but I wondered if it was enough to assuage her gardening longings. The flowering tree was beautiful and I hoped it sufficed now that she no longer had her yard to tend to. But, did it only serve to remind her how much she was missing in the world she once traversed?

I’m sure she had to think about her old home; the one with the garden she and Grandpa tended to for nearly twenty years. She had to dream about picking the zucchini, tomatoes, squash, and beans. Every summer the harvest was full and overflowing. She loved her garden. But she loved giving it away even more. 

My sisters and I would help her pick cherries from her cherry tree, water her plants, and feed her cat even when she didn’t need our assistance. She and grandpa let us "help" when surely, they had it all under control.

I wondered if she remembered all the breakfasts she cooked for us grandkids. The days we’d spend at her house playing hide and seek, pretend store, and board games. 

And what about us playing her marimba, the organ, the piano - all the instruments she and Grandpa had in their home? Could she still hear our disjointed melodies?

In all honesty, that was probably something she didn’t want to think about. The cacophony was intense.

I wondered if she thought about us helping her set the table for meals and watching her cook? Did she think about her son and daughter? The old days of raising them in Iowa?

She and Grandpa lived a slow life back when it wasn't a thing to aspire to. It was all they knew. And their slow living not only made them happy but it made everyone else around them happy.

Maybe that's why I desire the slow-living lifestyle so much. It takes me back to my grandparents... as if I'm living an extension of what they used to be and do.

I wondered what she would say if the stroke hadn’t taken her voice or where she would go if the stroke hadn’t atrophied her legs and arms. Did she think about her old days as a missionary, going by boat or plane worldwide and embarking on trips to Liberia or Indonesia? 

Though she must have had a lot of memories floating in and out of her mind, the way we floated in and out of her assisted-care room, I wished she could have known that I think of her now more than ever before.

My oldest son will never recall her. Only the things I tell him about her. My second son never had the chance to meet her. 

But it doesn’t matter. I have stories of her love locked in my heart; I have memories of her care etched in my soul. And the prayers she prayed for me resound strongly with the peace present in my life today. 

Gram lived a life separated from herself; one that was more in tune with painting the interior of her church -- when she was seventy-five years old -- than getting her hair done or going out to lunch. Her heart was dedicated to me as a granddaughter, and all of her family. It was also completely devoted to God.

I don’t know if Gram cares about any of that anymore. Being in the presence of God sort of puts things into a different perspective.

But her legacy surrounds me. The blessings she bestowed on all of us as the family matriarch were unprecedented and something I can only hope to aspire to when I become a grandmother one day.  

Thank you, Gram. For all of it.

Live Simply

I just received this beautiful cross-stitch from my friend for my birthday. She made it for me! And it sums up my life goal perfectly: Live simply.

Living a simple life is something I’ve had to work for. While I wish it came easy, choosing the simple life requires cutting things that take away from my goal of living a simple life.

Over the last seven years, I’ve slowly transformed my hectic, consumeristic, keeping-up-with-the-Joneses lifestyle into a peaceful, simple, and minimalistic one. And I’ve never been happier.

But getting there was not easy, and it required - and still requires - a constant willingness to say no to the world's calls. From getting rid of social media I don’t use, to not buying things I don’t need, learning to be content with what I have, and shifting from fast living to slow living, it was all a challenge to work through.

At times, it still is.

But now, I don’t want it any other way. I love my simple closet; I love my minimalist kitchen. I know where everything is and I love everything that surrounds me. The chaos has quieted and I don't want to return to that loud, busy, expensive way of living.

My goal of living a simple life isn’t to have as little as possible with a self-imposed poverty mindset. It’s about waking up my heart’s eyes to how good I already have it. I’m finding that the less I have, or desire to have, the more grateful I am for what I do have. It’s like learning to appreciate something you love while you still have it (which is an astounding skill to acquire.) It’s not taking my blessings for granted. It’s seeing how good I have it all the time.

Through my minimalism and simple living journey, I’ve found the Goldilocks of balance, and it's about living a minimalistic lifestyle. When I have the right amount - when I appreciate what I have and desire less stuff (and more of what I already have) - I find my whole world is balanced. I have it all. Satisfaction with what I own, have and use is like finding a treasure vault. I am rich beyond my wildest dreams.

My biggest takeaway since turning to a more minimalist mindset is this: We don’t need much to live fulfilled lives. Maya Angelou put it best when she said, “We need much less than we think we need.” Exactly.

If we shop our closets rather than head to the store for the latest trend, when we give away the items we don’t wear, when we pare down to what we love and only use what we love, our lives become simple and peaceful. 

Less becomes so much more. 

When I’m focused on using what I have, wearing what I already have, and not looking to shop my way to satisfaction (which will never happen, by the way. We will always want more), it is suddenly so clear how much I have. And more often than not, I not only have what I already need but have more than I need.

So, how can I stay this way and keep my peace?

Get out of the consumeristic circus. Forget fast fashion. Don’t buy into the latest trend (literally). Get off social media. Be content with what I have, and then I can watch how God provides for every need. 

Less is so much more. And I write about it often to remind myself why I'm doing this and how to stay in this lifestyle.

For me, I've given up some social media, minimized the things in my home, let go of jobs that didn't work well with me; and said no to social commitment (and yes to others). This frees up valuable time and space - including mental space - so that I can instead do things I want to do: read, garden, thrift, help neighbors, exercise, and be with family.

The list goes on and on.

What can you let go of to live a life more simple?

Simple Living │ Pretty as a Picture

Sometimes, a blog post is best presented as a meme, a photo, or a piece of art.

As with today's post, a meme/ art/ whatever you want to call it, this is what caught my attention:

As the saying goes, "A picture is worth a thousand words." 

I'm not sure who created this image. If I knew, I'd credit the artist. This was another "mindless scrolling" image that popped up on my phone.

But what I love about this post is that every one of these "luxuries" makes me want to ensure I'm doing more of it.

With simple living - focusing on the things that mean something to you, that give you meaning and value - and focusing less on keeping up with the Joneses, if you want to do all of these things, you can.

But you have to get rid of the extraneous activities (i.e. keeping up the trends) to get there. You can't do both and expect peace. Something has to give.

If you want simple living, you must immerse yourself in what that entails.

Simple living doesn't mean living with less, it means living purely with what gives you life. This means (to me) doing the best things in the world; things that satisfy your body, mind, and soul.

What resonates with you most in this picture? I want - and mostly do - all of them. I might add "drinking a great cup of coffee" to the list, but that's just me.

Do you want to do all of these verbs? Do you already do all of them, or do you need to add more to your life?

These are the real luxuries. Not fancy houses or cars or designer clothes.

This it is. This is where your riches are. In peace, having less stuff, and instead gaining more experiences.

Now you know.

Sewing and Slow Living

I have trouble finding pants that fit me.

This sounds like the bane of every woman in America, but for me, it's because of the inseam.

I'm tall with petite measurements so finding pants long enough is a neverending chore. The waist will fit, but the length looks like I'm treading flood waters.

And choosing the "tall" option doesn't work either. I'm not tall enough for that. 

I'm right in the middle; I don't fit in. Sort of how I feel about all areas of my life, but that's for another post...

I came across a pair of pants that fit great last week. Linen pants: perfect for summer. The waist and hips fit great, but the inseam was a good inch too short. Like normal.

This time, instead of suffering in silence, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

At home with the trousers, I took out my sewing machine with the intent to fix my problem. I know. A sewing machine? Yes, me, who isn't a sewer was going to fix my hems.

I bought this basic beauty about 20 years ago and use it maybe once every five years. But by golly, I wasn't going to let my inexperience hinder me. I was tired of pants not fitting.

After rereading the instruction manual, it all came back to me: how to thread the needle, refill the bobbin, all the things a seamstress would know in Sewing 101. I took out the hem and re-hemmed them with a now more perfect inseam.

It only took about ten minutes (most of that was spent figuring out the sewing machine again) but let me tell you... I've never felt more proud of myself.

Sewing is slow living at its finest. Sewing, reusing clothing that I could've given away because it didn't fit, reworking fabric, taking my time ... it all encompasses the slow-living concept. 

The simple hemming of my pants made me feel like I could conquer the world.

I'm not a real seamstress. I can mend holes in wool sweaters and sew on new buttons. I can occasionally hem my trousers (as I just found out). But a sewer, I am not. 

My mother and mother-in-law know how to sew. They're the gifted ones who can make clothing out of a single piece of lifeless fabric into something that fits and looks incredible.

I also have many friends in the vintage clothing world - friends much younger than me -who know how to sew and sew well. So, the talent may have waned over the years, but it's still very much alive.

Is sewing in my future? Probably not. Though I would love for it to be.

But do I feel just a little bit more tied to my ancestors of yore, when buying cheap clothing on Amazon was not only "not a thing" but an unfathomable concept?

Yes. I feel 1000% percent better about myself. I'm living the slow living way, which goes along with me selling vintage clothing, and living a simple, minimalistic lifestyle.

I'm not a future designer, but I now feel capable of being able to hem pants to fit me better.

There's no perceptible value in that feeling. It's the priceless result of me learning how to work with my brain and hands and not let the monster of short inseams scare me forever.

Self-sufficiency does wonders for the soul. 

And apparently, hemming pants was all I needed to feel like I could take on the world. 

Highly recommend.

Flying Away │ How I'm Dealing with my Lastborn Graduating High School

My lastborn son is about to graduate high school in a couple of weeks.

So, I'm not crying at all these days. Not a bit... only when I breathe.

The truth is, I'm not thinking about how sad I am. It's a sadness in a good way, if that's actually a thing. And it has kept me from remaining in a perpetual puddle of tears.

I'm happy about who he's become over the last almost 18 years I've raised him. But also sad that my role as mom and child-raiser is shifting into something I know very little about (My older son has helped me transition into that role already, so I'm not totally inept... but close.) 

I'm essentially being fired from a job to learn my "new" mom role.

While I'm ready to let him fly, I feel like I still have one hand on his shirt tails holding him back from floating away. I don't want to let him go.

I'm proud of my son, Caleb. He has turned into an amazing young man, is passionate about many things, and can't wait to begin college and start his career (This could be a career in EMS, or piloting, or Marine reserves, or ... he's very diverse. EMS seems to be the current love though.)

His heart is pure, he's following the path God has for him, he is honest and good, and he wants to do the right thing in all areas of his life. He also loves cars, video games, talking to girls, and waxing poetic about politics, his peers, and every subject under the sun. As a not-even-18-year-old, he's an old soul.

We call him "Old Man Caleb" in our household for this very reason.

I wrote about my flip-flopping happy/sad disposition in an article for Her View from Home. It goes into a little more depth about how crazy the end of the year for a graduating senior is - especially for the parents.

I am glad that my boy is graduating and succeeding in all of it. Because it is a lot. It's overwhelming; it's busy, insane, chaotic and crazy. And he's doing it all!  But this is it.

And it's the last time this situation happens for me, too. My baby is graduating high school.

And while letting go of him isn't easy, I know it's time. I'm thankful God let me be his mother. 

Happy or sad, I love this kid to pieces.

-Heather

Losing My Mind and Laughing About It

A couple months ago, when we were having our fence replaced (the one that blew over in the last storm), it came time to pay the invoice.

I answered the door, while I was in the middle of writing - my head in a complete jumble over words and sentences - and proceeded to sign the waiver confirming the fence people did a good job, finished the job, etc. 

I signed my name and proceeded to fill in the date. Only, I couldn't remember the date. We were in March, and it was early March... but what was the year?

I mentally jogged back to the last check I'd written, or the last calendar glance I'd made, but nothing came to mind. I looked past the guy holding the clipboard waiting for me, hoping my change of scenery would bring back the date. But it didn't.

For all I knew, it was 1985 with America deep into the Reagan administration.

Why can't I remember what year this is?

Now, remember, all of these thoughts are happening lightning fast and only a couple of seconds have passed. The guy with the clipboard hasn't a clue that my mind is in the middle of a meltdown. At least, not yet.

This is it, I thought.

This is the day when my mind officially has left the premises. Who would take care of the kids?

Would I even be able to remember my name by the end of the day?

"So, uh...," I said out loud, "What day is this?" Trying to play dumb as if I only didn't know the day. And then I mentally girded myself: I got ready to say it: I was about to ask him what year it was. "And we're in what year?" I asked with a slight chuckle.

He laughed and kindly told me 2024, and it all came tumbling back. Yes, yes... we are in the year 2024! 

I knew what he was thinking; I could read it on his face, "What is wrong with this lady?"

Pal, I'm wondering the same thing.

I laughed again, he laughed again, and he handed me the receipt. I thanked him, shut the door, and locked it, the smile now gone. What in the world just happened?

For the rest of the day, I wondered if indeed this was the beginning of Alzheimer's. Did it start with dates, I wondered? Maybe it was the second cup of coffee that had hijacked my brain? Or maybe it was that I hadn't had enough coffee?

Maybe it was that I lived in a vintage world. Because I really do. I sell vintage clothing and I'm constantly listing items in my Etsy shop. A vintage '60s dress here, an '80s jean jacket there. I love vintage everything. Maybe that was it? Maybe I was losing my grasp on time because I was living in the past?

I even told my oldest son what happened."Really?" he said, "And you asked him what year it was?" Oh, Lord... I did. I really had asked the guy what year it was.

I realize we all forget things from time to time, but not remembering the year was like not remembering that my eyes were blue or that I had two boys. It was a part of me that I'd always remembered and for once, it was obliterated from my mind.

Amnesia at its finest, I suppose.

I read somewhere that if you take a traumatic or embarrassing experience and turn that view of a horrific scene into one that is humorous, it changes the very essence of the experience; it releases the trauma and turns it into a positive experience. 

Because it was traumatic. Forgetting the year is like memorizing a speech that disappears the moment you're on stage. 

So then, what's funny about it? How can I keep this event from tormenting my mind and body?

It's funny because it shows I'm human; it shows no one's perfect; it shows we all have weak moments, and it really is humorous that my brain wouldn't work like I wanted it to.

I may be losing my mind, or maybe, it's that I didn't have enough coffee (I'm going to go with that one), but if I'm going to lose my mind, I'm going to do it laughing. After all, laughing is good for us. And I'm hoping the laughter will also help with the memory problems.

Here's to happy youthful minds and here's to 2024!

Reading in Bed │ A Librocubicularist

After coming across this image and description of what I do on the regular, I think I've finally (after saying it a dozen times) gotten the hang of the word.

Librocubicularist. A person who reads in bed.

I've never actually heard this descriptive word before, though I'm familiar with its action like I know the back of my hand. Have you used this word before?

And get this: the word had seven syllables. The same as if you said, "a person who reads in bed."

And if both have seven syllables, neither one is shorter to say. So, it’s your choice.

Both are what many do and love to do.

It's up to you to say what you want to say. Maybe it's just a fancy word - which it is. But, it's also a literal Latin translation for "reading in bed" in a more succinct form.

I like the sound of librocubicularist. It's slow living in its ultimate form.

Happy reading.

-Heather

Bookshelf Wealth │ What is Bookshelf Wealth?

Powell's Bookstore.

This regurgitation of everything around us is more apparent than ever. Particularly in the media, from what we wear, to television, and movies.

As the rather morose but truthful verse from Ecclesiastes says, "What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again;  there is nothing new under the sun (Ecc 1:9).

The thing about living in this world, particularly with trends and styles, is this: it all comes back around.

The '80s and '90s, which I lived through as a young girl are back today (and have been for a few years, judging by the vintage fashion I'm selling and the television ads I'm seeing). 

From high-waisted denim for fashion to remade television shows of Magnum P.I. and Quantum Leap, it's as though entertainment and fashion can't seem to find something new to make, so they rework the old.

It's the same for interior design. My sister, as an interior designer, can attest to vintage trends coming back in style from the mid-century modern furniture design craze to brass bathroom fixtures of the 1980s.

It's all back in again - a cycle that has been with us for thousands of years. The high-waisted fashion of the '80s was loosely based on the high-waisted fashion of the '40s or before. It wasn't new in the '80s, even if we thought it was.

This recycling of ideas may be because folks are less creative (which I doubt) or because successful past creations incentivize directors, writers, and designers, to do it again. I mean, if it worked in the past, why not bring it back? 

It's not a bad idea to bring back the past, especially if we learn from it. But, some ideas - like some fashion concepts - just need to stay in the past (think stirrup pants and '80s bangs.)

Regardless of why life is so cyclical, have you heard about the latest fad word "Bookshelf Wealth?" What is this crazy two-word description and why should we care?

It's quite easy to explain. It's about showing off your books; literally, it's about making you "appear" wealthy all from your books and the plethora of knickknacks that go with it. I love picture frames and knickknacks picked up from around the world but faux "well-traveled" interiors reek of inauthenticity. 

You won't get beautifully curated bookshelves just by spending thirty minutes at Pier One Imports and picking up garage sale books. It takes time. Quality takes time. 

So, why do we need trendy word descriptions to do what many of us have been doing for hundreds of years? Why does the media keep renaming things? (i.e. fanny packs, now called sling bags, belt bags, and waist bags.)

With Bookshelf Wealth, whether you've read said books on your shelves or not is irrelevant. What is relevant is making sure people think you are well-read and well-to-do all because of your vast collection of books... and stuff.

There's an air of inauthenticity about all of this. As well as consumerism. Both of which I'm not a fan of. What I do love is true good books, true art pieces picked up from travels, pottery and statues from counties visited, and bazaars and estate sales perused for pieces that define you. 

That's authentic.

If you read and love books, you should have books. Hundreds of them (or in my case, a lot of my books on your Kindle.) If you don't read but have rows of bookshelves filled with volumes of things you've never read - or have no plan to read - what are they doing in your home?

And when this fad dies away with a new one in its place, where do those books go? Probably to the landfill. Or the overrun book section at the Goodwill.

Designer, Kailee Blalock from San Diego, who helped to trend this concept, said in an interview (an article that accentuates exactly how I feel) "I think to really achieve the look and the lifestyle, someone has to be an avid reader and has to appreciate the act of collecting things, especially art and sculpture." 

Exactly. That is the whole concept. True bookshelf wealth takes time; it isn't a trend, but a slowly collected treasure trove of books read and details carefully curated.

I'm not against books, shelves, or wealth, for that matter. But is this the only reason to own books? Is the goal to be well-read or look well-read? Pretend enthusiasm isn't attractive. And as a reader and writer, it rubs me the wrong way.

Again, my interior designer sister uses books with much of her interior decor design. And she has clients who want bookshelves. Great! I'm glad people out there love books and read them. (It's probably because they're bibliophiles though, not trendy hipsters.)

As with most things in my life, I'm trying to keep them simple. So here's the simple: If you like books, keep them, love them, and read them. Be the educated, cultured, inspirational, and creative person you are because of them. Books are worlds of exploration. 

As a minimalist, I've pared down my books to two categories: books I love and books I'd want to read again. They're essentially the same thing but with two different actions behind them.

If you're not a book lover, don't waste your time on bookshelf wealth. It'll be a faded memory of a trend a few months from now. 

But, if you are a book lover, forget about the term Bookshelf Wealth and carry on doing what you've always done: read because you love to and keep books because you can't live without them.

Happy reading.

Making Time for the Important Things

How Letting Go of What I Didn't Love Directed Me to Do What I Truly Love

I'm not sure where I went wrong, but for a while, I worked two jobs that I shouldn't have been working. These are two jobs extra besides my other two jobs of freelance writing and vintage clothing. 

I was working four different jobs alongside being a mom, wife, housekeeper, cook, and whatever else I missed here.

This isn't to say the jobs were bad. They weren't. In fact, they were very far from bad and actually improved my writing by leaps and bounds.

They helped me so much that I would recommend writers take these jobs if they want to be better writers.

So why was it both helpful and unhelpful?

Because I gave up my true love to do something I thought I should be doing rather than what I wanted to be doing. 

Turns out, there's a big difference between the two.

A few years ago, after feeling a little stuck in my writing, I picked up a magazine editorial position. Then a little bit after that, I picked up a social media writing position with a boutique social media marketing company.

Both jobs were amazing. I learned copious amounts of writing and editing skills that I thought I already had but didn't actually have. It empowered me to be a better writer.

But, a funny thing began to happen: the more I wrote for these other jobs, the more I felt horrible about the writing.

At the social media job, I wrote for other people. I was a ghostwriter essentially - which meant my name went on none of the material. 

In the writing world, that's called "going backward." The whole goal of a writer is to tell a story, but it helps to have their name alongside it. My name was nowhere alongside any of it. 

I felt like I was becoming even more invisible as the months dragged on with this job. This is the opposite of what I wanted and unrest began to percolate throughout my insides.

At the editorial job, I was writing and my name was on the material! Yes, I was progressing. But, if I'm being honest, the articles were mind-numbingly routine and boring. It was taking all the love of writing out of my writing.

Not a good place to be for a writer.

I was already a freelance writer, writing articles that I wanted, when I wanted, and to whom I wanted. So, this was my big question: Why did I feel like I needed to do more writing - writing I didn't love -  to be a better writer?

What's worse, as if writing I hated and invisible writing wasn't bad enough, it left me no time - or inclination - to write for myself. My freelance writing all but stopped.

I didn't want to blog and I didn't want to freelance because my creativity was shot by the end of those days. I would fill my writing quota with those two other jobs and there was nothing left for me to work with on my own projects.

Instead of adding those two jobs, I should've kicked myself in the pants, and gone full force into my blog writing and freelance writing like I've always wanted and loved doing. 

I love freelance and I love my blog. Why didn't I think I could just focus on those and plug away to get more published work?

Discouragement, I suppose, is the short of it. Rejection is a part of the writing business. Rejection is a part of most business, really. But it's very "in your face" apparent with writing. It's either yes or no and there is no maybe. (Okay, there are sometimes, but those are rare exceptions).

I should've hunkered down and wrote - wrote my heart out and wrote what I wanted. However, rejection from my freelance world made me wonder if I was missing out on different routes to get published. That's what pushed me to add those two jobs.

Just because you think something is right, doesn't mean it is. 

Just because things line up and doors open doesn't necessarily mean you're supposed to walk through those doors. One job came to me because I pursued it. The other job came because I happened to meet the owner and she was looking for a writer.

Turns out,  neither job was for me.

But, it took making a mistake like that to learn what I really wanted in my life and I know what it is: I want to write for myself, with my words, and for the work I choose. Oh, and of course, with my name in the byline. 

There's a quote by Courtney Carver, a minimalist and minimalism author of books like Project 333, a great book that I've written about here, that gives a perfect description of what I'm talking about and it's this: 

    "If you don't  have time to do what matters, stop doing things that don't."

I learned much from these two other jobs, and they were in no way a waste of time. As I said, I learned things at those two jobs I could implement in my own freelance writing. Most of all, it gave me confidence and courage. It made me say to myself, "I do know how to write! I know what I'm doing after all!"

After a few years, I bowed out of the two extraneous jobs, "restarted" blogging again, and added a few more blogs to the mix. My freelance writing has shot up (along with publication) and I love what I do.

 It doesn't even feel like work.

Have you found this to be true in your life? You think you're doing things that help you, but in reality, it's hindering your work/life situations?

If you want to do what matters to you, you're going to have to give up some things that get in the way of pursuing that goal.

What seems right isn't always right. And it's okay to change your mind. I thought I was "right" for adding two writing jobs to my already full queue. In my defense, in all obvious appearances, it should've been right.

But it wasn't. And I didn't feel peace about either of them from the start. That was the biggest clue I ignored.

Peace. If you don't have it, don't move a muscle. In any situation, stay put if peace is absent.

Moral of the story? Do what you want but don't take side roads to get there. Sometimes, things take longer than we think to get where we want. And if you don't have the time to pursue what you love and live the life you love (kind of important, you know) then let something - or many somethings - go by the wayside to get what you love.

Take the direct road, stay in your lane, work hard, and work long - longer than you think - and you will arrive. And remember, less is more. Always. Minimize the excess and maximize your quality of life.

I'm where I want to be doing exactly what I want to do. Both of my jobs - the jobs I love - don't even feel like work they're that enjoyable. That is the very essence of slow living. Loving what you do and doing what you love.

And that, really, is where we all want to be.

-Heather

What I'm Reading │ Historical Gold Rush Books

My dad gave me a book to read called The Age of Gold.  

It's a fascinating book about the California gold rush and the new American dream. It follows many people from various backgrounds who traveled West chronicling their harrowing journeys. 

While I'm only halfway through the book, it's enlightening. Particularly how arduous the journey was getting to California whether they traveled by land or by sea, whether they were married or single, with or without children, born in America, or emigrated.

Many feel the gold rush ruined aspects of the states, particularly the region, destroying the natural habitats, and endangering native Indians and their land along with myriad other issues. And for the most part, there were issues.  

But without this event, the West wouldn't be what it is today. It was a rush to stake claims, and of course, there was a whole lot of greed involved. But whether I agree with the past or not is irrelevant. It happened. 

While it doesn't make it right, greed has propelled the human race from the beginning of time. Learning from our mistakes is part of the human process.

Living in a part of California that is directly involved with the gold rush (I live in Gold River on the American River) and getting to know my history has been illuminating. I'm getting to see how this area was established and why. And while the gold rush ruined many lives, it also catapulted a few into growth, wealth, and progress. 

Simultaneous to this book, I also read a book called Levi Strauss: The Man Who Gave Blue Jeans to the World written by Lynn Downey.

As a Levi's fan times a million (eight of the ten pairs of jeans I wear regularly are Levi's), this book was beyond fascinating. I'm still in awe as to how a young man from Bavaria helped to create something we're still wearing - which still looks similar to the original Levi's jeans.

From how the jeans were created (and who really created them) to how the patents were acquired and how marketing them - and being at the right place at the right time - made Levi Strauss a worldwide phenomenon, this book delves into all aspects of his creations. 

One of the biggest ideas he brought forth was reimagining a fabric - typically worn as workwear - to the masses as clothing that could be worn anywhere (with the gold miners being his first steady customers.)

If you're looking for two books to read that actually go together, might I suggest these two.

Both are very well-written and detail the men and women who worked hard and risked everything to create a prospering future.

These two books are a great introduction to knowing more about why so many flocked to California... and stayed. 

California is a beautiful state. With weather to yearn for, and the prospect of creating a future that no one had yet made (think Hollywood as well as Silicon Valley), it's a state that created - and still creates - an avenue for the American dream.

Let me know if you've read these books. Comment below or if you get my blog via email, you can hit the reply button and the message will go straight to me.

Happy reading!

Simple Loving is Simple Living

There are tons of memes and beautifully quoted “slow living” posts out there all over social media from Facebook to Instagram. 

I follow several minimal and simple lifestyle accounts on Facebook from No Sidebar to Becoming Minimalist that post beautiful and poignant quotes and phrases.

They’re all helpful and validating but this one got to me.  

This quote is the essence of my life, these days. And thankfully for me, I’m blessed to have a cozy home, plenty of nice books, and my husband knows exactly how I drink my coffee. 

I can’t ask for anything more than this. I don’t need anything more than this.

Have a wonderful Easter weekend and may your Good Friday be very good. 

-Heather

Complementary Compliments │ If You Like Something, Say Something

The older I get, the more I feel like I wake up on the “wrong side of the bed” more often.

It’s not because my life is bad. It’s quite the opposite. My life is wonderful. My life is busy, fulfilling, and overloaded with good things.

But as I age, my life “experiences” taint my objectivity. This is normal. Life is hard. Adults understand this notion as age reminds us that nothing is easy and we're constantly fighting aging. Wrinkles and creaking joints are now a normal part of my daily life.

So I thoroughly annoyed myself one recent morning with this whole groaning scenario as I got out of bed, with sleep wrinkles on my forehead. I not only felt old but was acting like a grouch. Why was I so ungrateful?

I decided for the day, I was going to compliment people and say hello to everyone I saw. I would be the anit-grouch I wanted to see in other people. I was going to have a positive attitude about everything around me and see what happened.

Anger and pessimism weren't going to be the outfit of the day. No sirree. Just a happy-go-lucky me with only positivity in my mind. “Just because there are mean people out there doesn’t mean I have to be one of them!” I said to myself.

A couple of hours later, I’m in Target to get the basics, and I see a cute lady approaching me. She is adorable, petite, and reminds me of my mother. She had a kind face. But what stood out to me the most was her dress. She was wearing a vintage dress. Probably from the late ‘70s to early ‘80s. Because I sell vintage clothing (and wear it), I was drawn to it. And it fit her perfectly.

I knew I had to say something. This was my chance to be that anti-grouch I always yearned to be, albeit with creaking ankles and forehead wrinkles.

As I’m about to pass her, I say, “Your dress!” We both stopped in the middle of the aisle, with bath and bed items to our left and teen girls' clothing to our right. “It looks great on you.” Because it did. Because even if I hadn’t told myself to compliment someone that day, I still would’ve said something.

It’s rare to see someone wearing vintage clothing other than myself.

She beamed and said something to the effect of “This old thing?” But, you know what she did once I complimented her? She complimented me! It’s like she was doing what I was doing. Maybe she had the same pep talk with herself that morning. Maybe she was tired of loud joints and wrinkles.

“I love what you’re wearing,” she said. “You look fantastic and I thought you looked great in your outfit.”

 

This moment was becoming surreal.

We spent a few more seconds being kind to each other, then off we went on our way, doing our own thing. Just two ladies complimenting each other, that's all.

Can I tell you how good it felt that I said something to her? Of course, I wonder if she would’ve said something to me if I hadn’t said something. I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that I felt great saying something positive to her. But here’s the kicker: I wasn’t looking for anything from her. The dress looked amazing for its age; I told her how grateful I was to see her wearing it. 

Her complimenting me was a bonus. 

In the end, that compliment made her day, and it sure made mine. It was like we were destined to meet, complement each other, and be on our merry way.

It doesn’t take much to be thankful for what's around me which is what helped change my attitude. It’s also got me thinking… what kinds of goodness am I missing out on by not saying the good things I’m thinking to friends, family, and random strangers? 

Compliments and kindness help the recipient as much as it helps me because being kind never comes back to me void. It’s a free way to give something of value to someone. It’s life-giving, honest, and authentic. And it cost me nothing but the breath in my lungs. 

If you ever have good words to say to someone, say them. You never know what those words will do for the both of you.

Sometimes, the best way to make your day is to make someone else's day.