Today, I went to the funeral of a very special person. His name was George Bloor and he was our neighbour growing up here in Fruitvale. He lived across the street from my parents and he and his wife owned a very large piece of property with a barn, an indoor riding arena, and dozens of horses. Of course, to my young self the horses were the best part. I would feed the horses, watch the horses in their fields and dream wistfully about growing up to be a great rider one day.  It wasn't until years later when I was a teenager that I got to really know George. I started working there as an exercise rider for their many horses that needed to be ridden. Part of the deal was that they wanted the horses ridden properly and that was how I came to be one of their students. I spent years being coached by George and Fran.  He was a very kind, generous, patient man who was deeply involved with his community, his horses, his family and never in his 91 years did he stop teaching. Always teaching. There were many many stories from people who had been touched by George and Fran over the decades and as I sat there and listened to the mile long list of accomplishments I had a small moment of shame. Because I know I can do more. I can be kinder. I can work harder. I can do more. I can try harder.

The only limits on me are the ones I put on myself. Spending time on trivial things instead of focusing on the things I really care about truly is a waste. I've let a text message take the place of a real conversation with friends and let the computer or the TV replace being active in my own life and future.  I suppose I've had an epiphany. George lived his very best life, and in the end he is remembered by hundreds of people as being a truly good person. And that's what I want for myself. I want people to pore over the dozen books I've written, regale each other with stories about the million things I'd done in my life, and repeat each others sentiments of what a kind, hard working, enthusiastic and generous person I was. It's not too late.

Good-bye George, you'll be missed.

 A few months ago I joined a writing group. I was interested in meeting, hanging out with and talking to other like minded writers in my community. Bounce ideas, have a critique partner, and have the emotional support of people just like me who sometimes need encouragement to keep going and/or to sit down and actually write. Butt kickers if you will. It started out great. We all introduced ourselves, got very excited, discussed what days we would start meeting and then.......

Crickets. Well , one very lazy cricket who doesn't like to chirp at all. Nothing has happened since. Total silence in our little online writer's group. I even gave a big push to say hey what's up, when are we meeting, and no one even answered. Which leads me to the question: Why is writing so hard? Why don't we make time for it? We love it, it's in our blood, we think about it day and night, have plots spinning in every direction. It's free, and easy and we can do it anywhere anytime and yet it's so hard to just sit down and do. I personally hate showering. It's a thing. I find the whole process so tedious; getting wet, drying my hair, getting dressed and undressed. A total waste of 20 minutes every single day. But I still do it every single day. I do something I hate every day, but can't find 30 minutes a month to do something I love.  (Insert mind blown emoji here)

Are there psychologists who can explain to me what this phenomenon is?  Is there an adult coloring book that will help me get back on track? I've written, edited and published one book already so I know I'm capable, I just need to do it again.