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Watching Grass Grow

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A side effect of not being constantly engaged in social media is the time to stare into my backyard. It may seem like a misuse of time to you, but I can assure you it is paramount to my overall well-being.

I have three favorite perches in my home: The glass and bamboo patio table right under the ceiling fan on the back porch; the Pier 1 wicker saucer chair we’ve had forever with the charmingly rusted foot stool (now table) beside it, also on the patio; and one corner of my exceptionally comfy sofa. All three of them face the back yard.

Can I tell you about it, again?

This yard will never be in a home and garden magazine, but that doesn’t seem to dissuade the squirrels, doves, cardinals or lizards from visiting frequently. The bees and butterflies are undeterred when the orange tree or flowers start blooming. And what I can only suspect is a citrus rat – (since squirrels are not nocturnal) scurrying up the fence when the light comes on and the dogs go out – seems perfectly at home scavenging for fallen oranges..

I have a rubber tree that has not had the benefit of nature’s hard freeze to help stunt its growth. It’s over 30 feet tall now. A bay tree that seemed to have died, proved us wrong when we cut it down by sprouting 5 baby trees. Now all over 15 feet tall. And many other overgrown, bright green hiding places for various Florida fauna.

There are a few palm trees in the yards behind mine and when it’s windy it sounds like it’s raining.

There are strategically placed wind chimes around the patio and a few naked, out in the weather, that add to the music of the raining palms.

There’s just enough space between the trees and the fence to provide a never ending play of light and shadow when the slightest breeze blows.

Doves often take to the exposed patio for a lover’s promenade.

And ferns play host to untold numbers of winged and multi-legged critters.

There’s a dish with water on the table that sits on the dove’s patio. Throughout the day any number of birds can be found sipping the water or taking a quick bath. Occasionally I’ll catch a squirrel taking a drink. And most recently I’ve spied a few lizards and even a yellow jacket quenching their thirst when it seemed it would never rain again.

But the enchantment doesn’t end with the back of the house. The front yard holds its own charms.

A towering live oak tree that serves as a condominium for no less than three squirrel families. A magnolia tree that blooms on and off all year, it seems, dropping leaves … always.

IMG_7620And Elma. Remember Elma? Our struggling winged elm tree that was transplanted from the back yard to the front? It was dire there for a while. No rain and searing heat took their toll. We were convinced she just wasn’t going to make it. Her leaves turned brown and eventually fell off, her tiniest branches eventually snapped with the gentlest breeze and even some of her sturdier branches yielded to pressure from water. The plan was to toss her into the yard recycling pile, we just didn’t get around to it. Thankfully!

I’m happy to report that the recent rains, lots and lots of watering, some encouraging words and a little petting have proved successful. Elma lives!

There’s a metaphor in there about being transplanted or transformation or rebirth, but I’ll let you create your own story about that.

It’s nearly dusk, it’s time to move to the saucer chair and catch the late show.

Purge Surge

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The hubs and I went on a little road trip. It was just on the other side of 24 hours and a little over two hours away. But it created space. Head space and physical distance.

It’s true that wherever you go there you are, but just a short jaunt away for an overnight can dramatically shift perspective. You take your issues, prejudices, preferences and attitude with you, but not all your stuff. And stuff is something we’ve been working on greatly reducing.

Well, I have.

My husband flirts with hoarding, he calls it collecting, but tomato, tomahto I say. I keep him and his accumulation of stuff contained to the dining room and most of the garage. I have put up curtains on the opening to the dining room so I can close them and pretend there’s something magical behind them rather than the glut of books and paper that actually are. I also insist on parking in the garage so that keeps the clutter somewhat in check there.

But lately these two spaces seem to be overwhelming him, swallowing him. What was once his safe haven has become the bane of his existence.

Somehow, some where between home, the west coast of Florida and back home again he began to see what I was seeing and everything shifted.

We have a few antique spaces between us. He deals mostly in paper, I lean toward dark, primitive wood and creamy white things. I have one shelf in the garage where I keep “back stock”, he has those other two rooms. And sometimes things slip into the living room or a box is placed in the guest room “just for now.”

By the time we got home he couldn’t wait to tear through the garage and box things up for Good Will, recycle cardboard that seems to be breeding and drop well-intentioned craft project supplies off at the nearby artist studio. So far he has filled our enormous recycle bin (you could easily fit three bodies in there), a good portion of the trash can and dispersed a car load of things to new and grateful recipients.

And suddenly I can breathe better, he has more energy and those rooms seem a tiny bit brighter.

The trick, of course, is maintenance. Not bringing more in, not holding onto things just in case. Part of his shift in perspective is due to yoga. Not so much the postures, although he does do those, but more the philosophy that I’ve been sharing with him – in particular the Yamas and Niyamas – kind of the ten commandments of yoga.

There are pages and pages and pages that could be filled with the wisdom of these 10 tenets, but for now, I’ll share just the one that seemed to cause his head to tilt in that dog-just-heard-a-whistle-no-one-else-can-hear kind of way.

Asteya – non-stealing. It means exactly what it sounds like, don’t take other people’s stuff, but it has more meat on it than that. We steal time from others by being perpetually late (it’s not just how you are, unless how you are is rude, and I bet you’re not really). We steal joy from others by complaining or casting aspersions on their happy news. We steal the spotlight or thunder from others by sharing their news to others before they have a chance. We steal peace from others by talking incessantly, gossiping or intentionally creating conflict. Read: drama.

You get the picture.

In addition, when we take things we don’t really need and when we hold onto things because we might need them one day, we are robbing others of the opportunity to use what we’re squirreling away. There is a saxophone sitting in my garage and it has been there for 17 years. It has been unplayed for over thirty. Surely some young kid could totally benefit from a used or donated instrument.

It may have been that last statement that pushed the purge into action. Hoarder, pack rat or squirrel, whatever he is, above all else he is kind and he cares about the joy and artistry of others. I’m sure the sax will find its way to a new appreciative owner.

It’s just day one of the big push, but it is impressive and it is inspiring me back into action.

 

 

White Space

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I have become a bit obsessed with stuff.

The mountain of papers, journals and other bits of detritus left behind by my mother has me wondering what compels people to keep what they do.

Both my husband and I have spaces in antique shops. His is full of books, lots and lots of books, as well as cool old ads and a few chatchkes. Mine is the result of some of my mother’s stuff. Nothing really of much value, but I couldn’t just toss it. In truth, most of her things ended up staying in her apartment for her neighbor or at a thrift store close to her home. What was left that didn’t occupy a sweet spot in my history went to the antique store.

To furnish these spaces we often attend estate sales and sometimes garage sales. I can tell a lot about the owners of these collections of things. What’s important to them, what fads they succumbed to, how old they likely are, where in the world they have been and of course their personal taste.

And I often wonder why they kept what they did. And why they bought it or how they got it.

What makes our stuff so important to us?

Every antique store I have been in has been stuffed to the rafters with memories left behind. Yet we are still manufacturing stuff at an alarming rate. Furniture is no longer meant to last longer than the trend that created it. Appliances and technology have built in obsolescence. There is no restaurant without a to-go option that usually requires materials that never bio-degrade. And everything needs accessories now.

It’s all just too much stuff.

Part of this year was to be about counting my things and releasing what I didn’t need or no longer used. I was hoping to get to a sort of baseline of things. X number of shirts and shoes, the perfect amount and blend of furniture, only books that are used for reference or are waiting to be read, nothing other than holiday decorations in storage. And even those are to be pared.

I don’t know that I’m truly up to the task. It all just makes me so tired.

My intentions are solid, but my resolve waivers from time to time. Part of the process I guess. I hope.

I don’t want to leave behind cryptic notes and journals filled with repetitive and never resolved thoughts, but I’m afraid I’ve already failed on the journal task.

When I travel abroad, I often stay in Airbnb apartments. Recently I rented a tiny two bedroom flat in Madrid. It was done entirely in Ikea with the exception of the rustic wood doors that covered the French doors. Everything was white with clean lines. There were maybe 8 “things” that served no real purpose, otherwise a small sofa, a tiny table and two chairs, a TV stand, a lamp. That was kind of it. It may sound more like a cell than an apartment but to me it was refreshing.

It was breathing space. Room to think. It helped tremendously that I was six time zones away from my stuff and the projects that await me, but it was also a glimmer into the way things could kinda-sorta be. To not have that tug that I should be doing something or something else other than what I’m doing. Just this. Just space.

Now whenever I am confronted by a box, or a pile of papers or even the garage (THE GARAGE!) I close my eyes and let my mind rest on all that clean, white, simple space.

It helps. The work continues.

No Sweat

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I was once ridiculed for admitting my favor and love of a particular gas station. “Why a gas station?” you may wonder as my finger-pointing friend did. What’s so great about a gas station that you openly admit you love it? A gas station?

If you must know, it is a brand of gas stations, not just one, and that brand is Racetrac. As an often lone female traveler I appreciate how their pumps are lit up like an operating theater at all hours. Their bathrooms are nearly always immaculate and they have a bank of fountain drink options – from the sickening sweet, unrealistic color variety to freshly brewed tea and coffee – to please the pickiest of fountain drink connoisseurs. Their employees are generally well trained and personable. Oh, and, the newest locations have self-serve frozen yogurt, so…

I am sharing this with you because I now find myself compelled to profess my ardor for yet another unsung hero: deodorant.

Let me explain. I, like many of my friends, have been searching for that perfect natural alternative to the paraben and aluminum based mega-brands. I don’t mind sweating, but I’m not too fond of stinking and nearly every natural brand has left me wilting like 10 day old kale within hours.

I have many friends who make their own everything, from soaps and lip balms to lotions and deodorant. And I’ve tried them all. I love supporting my friends and buying local and organic, but let’s be honest, not stinking by noon trumps being a virtuous friend.

Enter Native. While recently down the rabbit hole known as Facebook, I stumbled up on a blog (the likes of which I have not been able to find since) that rated 5 natural deodorants for women. I read the whole thing then went with their number one pick: Native.

I clicked the link to the Native site and selected the three pack for $30, free shipping.

I know this sounds like an ad, product endorsement, and I guess it is, but I am so happy with this stick of lavender rose joy that I can’t stop sharing it. As someone on the menopause spectrum living in middle Florida, the search and the struggle is real.

Try it or don’t, I felt it my civic duty to share. I think you’ll be very pleased. Let me know if you order it and how much you love it.

Marketing Madness

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Sometimes the most curious thoughts cross my mind.

Everything from philosophical probings like “Why are we really here?” to the more distracting ruminations on political theater and nefarious marketers.

We’ll leave the life purpose question for later. Right now I want to address marketing.

Not all marketers or advertisers are bad. Advertising has a long and conflicted history. On the surface, businesses just want someone to buy their product or use their service. They believe fervently that their product – above all others – is going to be good and necessary for you.

But within the past 100 years, maybe longer, advertising has become increasingly clever and insidious.

Advertisers, marketers and public relations all pull from the same spin manual. Make it look good, make it not only seem necessary, but vital. You need this, it will make you a better person and everyone will want to be you. Ergo: you’re not good enough the way you are.

  • Did you know there is really no such thing as medical halitosis? It was created by advertisers so they could sell the cure. Mouth wash.
  • Did you know you don’t need soap to clean your laundry? It’s the agitation of the washing machine that does the work.
  • Did you know that our current understanding of what Santa Claus looks like is due in large part to the advertising geniuses at Coca-Cola? They did not create the images of the jolly fellow, but rather advertised it so ubiquitously that it is now the standard Santa.

We are assaulted a million times a day by branding and advertising. There are the obvious: billboards, magazines ads and flashing online annoyances. There are placemats, the backs of receipts and gas pumps. But there is also product placements in your favorite TV shows or movies, sometimes obvious like the giant red Folgers can in most Hallmark movies and some more subtle like the brands of cars people are driving.

In addition, companies pay pretty people to wear their clothes and post “candid” shots on Instagram and other forms of social media. You might follow them because their lifestyle looks awesome or they’re beautiful.

Everything we wear has a label, usually on the outside, making us walking billboards for such companies. And also so we can readily identify our socioeconomic tribe.

And now Facebook has us marketing to each other. Only some of your friends’ comments and posts come up in your feed, the ones you engage with the most. To see them more often you must visit them more often and comment on or like their posts. Businesses that have Facebook pages can no longer be found easily, they must reach out with paid advertising and even then the user must visit that page often enough to see the posts in their feed. This makes sense if it’s an actual business, but many of the “pages” are individuals who are making jewelry or soap or trying to get you to come to their play or yoga class.

We are under assault and the enemy is us.

Take your power back. Choose what you see. We can’t unsee billboards but we can not pick up a magazine or newspaper. We can unsubscribe from services that are little more than selling algorithms. We can recognize we need or want something organically, then seek out a solution. We can allow the thought of someone we haven’t heard from in a while to float into our awareness then reach out to that person. Actually ask them how they’re doing rather than just checking in on Facebook or worse, trolling their feed to satisfy your own curiosity. We’ve all done it.

This may sound angry, but anger is really fear. And I will admit I am afraid that we are losing connection with each other. Real face-to-face and voice-to-voice connection.  The art of conversation has been diminished to characters, empathy and compassion are being co-opted by a barrage of violent images to which we are becoming desensitized.

And we are lazy. We are having parties online now. (My eyes are rolling so far back in my head I may detach something.)

I am grateful for the internet, it’s hard to remember life before it. I am grateful for the opportunity to reconnect with family and friends through social media. And maybe it’s not really social media’s fault. Could they have predicted how we use this tool? Perhaps.

Choose how you will spend the precious commodity of time. How will you use up your life force?

 

Habits

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It’s been a week since I put myself on restriction. I found myself scrolling endlessly through Facebook liking and reposting copious videos of adorable animals doing silly things and inspiring folks talking about consciousness.

It wasn’t the worst way to spend my time, but it felt like I was cheating myself somehow.

In just one week a lot of my tendencies and beliefs have been revealed to me. I notice when I want to check out. It’s often when I am thinking creatively, problem solving. I’ll reach for a distraction, my phone, a piece of chocolate, something to break up the knot of thought I can’t seem to get past.

I’ve also noticed my propensity toward multi-tasking. Women, I believe, are genetically predisposed to a certain level of activity with divided attention. What with the baby producing, cooking, cleaning and working and all.

Still, this isn’t permission to go overboard.

I cannot seem to just watch TV. (I realize this isn’t a “real” problem, but it has shone a light on an annoying habit.) If the TV is on I am inclined to do some sort of activity in tandem. Eating, ironing clothes, scrolling. It has to be mindless, which means it’s probably not necessary. It’s very Pavlovian. I do not have this tendency while engaged in conversation or reading. TV on, do something additional.

This bit about the TV had me wondering too, about how much I really like the shows I record. Or did we just see one once and think it looked pretty good so habit has us watch the rest? This will become apparent soon enough.

I made a few decisions based on the insight provided by engaging in social media less. And I have laid the ground rules that I hope will continue after the month-long diet.

Here’s the short list:

  • I have removed notifications from my phone for FB, Instagram and several other apps. No more seductive red circles.
  • I no longer scroll on FB. (I do have to go on periodically for specific groups and business.)
  • I respond only to direct messaging or queries in the groups I host or business related pages. Again, on Facebook.
  • I post only through WordPress and Instagram – usually one blog and one or two photos a day.
  • I am ditching cable completely. I have ordered an antennae and will be making that swtich this month.
  • I have been writing every day.
  • I am spending more time outside. (Unitl it’s a thousand degrees – coming soon.)
  • I no longer start sentences, “Did you see that article/video/post on Facebook…?”

Most notably I feel a lot less urgency. Sometimes this feels good, sometimes I wonder what I should be doing with myself. I always find something. I have time to read the books on the teetering stacks surround me. I am sorting through old family photos – tons of them – to create books and remember stories. The house is clean.

So far there is no downside to less phone. But then it’s only been a week.

 

Bad Grandpa, Good Grandpa

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Someone, one of my second, third or some number removed cousins, accused my great grandfather of inappropriate touching. I don’t remember which one, but she would be hovering around 70 at this point.

I don’t know the details. None of them, simply that it allegedly happened. She was the only one of dozens of girl cousins who made such accusations.

When something like this comes up there are any number of appropriate or expected responses: disbelief, denial, entertain the possibility, shut down and talk about the weather. I chose the third response. Anything is possible.

I leaned toward curiosity more than repulsion or embarrassment. He was long gone by the time I heard this bit of family gossip and I knew so little about him, that I couldn’t piece together an argument either way, but I could wonder.

I suppose it’s natural to sweep something like this under the rug, why would I bring it up? But humans as a species, and my family in particular, fascinate me. I get excited at the idea that I have dissidents or deviants in my bloodline, that we’re interesting, even in the worst way.

My great grandfather was born in 1896. He met the love of his life just before The Great War wherever it was she was singing. (I like to imagine a smoke-filled USO hall with a great deal of drinking and patriotism, but truthfully a church would probably be closer to the mark.) Once betrothed he gave her the false option of marrying him or continuing on with this singing silliness. The fact that I am writing this is evidence of a passion thwarted. It came back later in the form of stage mom, but that’s another story.

After the war he worked at the post office and advanced in pay grade despite the obstacles of The Great Depression. (So much greatness back then.) He and his beloved silent song bird would produce six children. The accuser belongs to one of them.

Perhaps he was too old and tired by the time I met him, but he was nothing but a really old funny man to me.

When we rode around in his 1960-something metallic aqua Ford Galaxie with the front and back windows that rolled all the way down, he would throw the question into the back seat, “Hey there Allison, is that back wheel going around?” To which I would reply, “If we’re moving, they’re all going around.” This would elicit a grand guffaw. Too smart for old grandpa.

I remember standing in the front yard of his Florida home kicking the dirt, bored while adults made small talk about food and directions. Noticing my impatience and wrapping up the conversation my great grandfather would ask me if he could pick me up by my ears. I ran to him to experience such a feat of strength. Both his and that of my ears.

He would make a great show of gathering my ears into his fists, then he would carefully place his palms over my ears and lift me off the ground. He was of course picking me up by my whole head and I wonder just now how wise that really was. There doesn’t seem to be any permanent damage so, no harm I suppose.

Somewhere between those memories and going off to college his wife died, after a rousing bout of dementia – including stories that shouldn’t be funny, but are – and he aged dramatically. “Just sitting around waiting to die,” he would say daily to anyone who asked how he was.

But that didn’t stop him from cocktails in his driveway at 3:00 pm with his two cohorts, Jim and Frank. The youngest was 78, the oldest 86.

This was near the beginning of his day. After drive way happy hour there would be early bird dinners out and waitress flirtation and sometimes pinching or grabbing (aha!), more cocktails, driving home after many cocktails, cocktails at home, nodding off in front of Johnny Carson, waking up to a test pattern but in time to take medication, then bed. Up at 8 in the morning for more medication, back to bed until noon, local news, put the lawn chairs back in the driveway and so it continued.

Until it didn’t.

All in the Family

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One of the side effects of minimizing social media was to be time to work on THE BOOK. In truth there are a few books battling it out in my brain, but the one I have made the most progress on was my intended.

The India Book.

A lot of it has been written. Well, a lot has been written, whether it makes it into the mythic book or not will depend largely on my friends who honestly read and comment, a paid editor and my mood.

This was the plan until yesterday when I made the decision to pick up a memoir I had started reading some time ago – before I realized my world was not under my control – and now I am questioning where to put those writing hours.

The book is Confessions of a Sociopath by M.E. Thomas. The cover promises a chilling, gripping, and thoughtful read and it does not disappoint. I am fascinated with Ms. Thomas’ self- assessment (and later professional diagnosis) of sociopath and what that means. Her stories of childhood, adulthood, her professional career as an attorney and volunteer Sunday school teacher and her dispassionate, yet raw and honest depiction of these things has me rapt. But more than the actual details of her life and her postulation that sociopathy is a cocktail of genetics and environment, I am deeply in love with her command of language and writing ability.

So much so, that I’m leaning away from India and closer to the “memoir” I accidentally started a few year ago.

By the way, I now understand why it takes some writers 10 years to complete a book. It’s not that they get up every morning and work from 9-5 pounding out prose and researching characters and methods of murder; it’s that they can’t stop editing and complaining and changing their minds. I’m guessing.

Perhaps writing a new chapter for the memoir will lead me back to India.

Telling the stories no one wants told. This single sentence keeps showing up in the front of my mind like a wall street ticker on an Apple product release day. Telling the stories no one wants told…Telling the stories no one wants told…

Sleeping with cousins, inappropriate touching, being slapped down the stairs into labor at nearly nine months pregnant, affairs, illegitimate children, alcoholism, murder, serial marriages, deceit, war, strength, undying love, suffering, living on a boat, living out of a car, killed in the line of duty. It’s all in my family.

It’s all part of my story.

 

Saving Elma

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I had a dream last night about my yard. It was scruffy and scrubby and for some reason I was surprised to be ashamed of it.

In truth, my own yard has, how shall we say… a natural look to it. It is in fact made up of mostly drought-tolerant, native plants. The front yard came with a towering live oak and preening magnolia, both of which shed leaves all year long. The back yard has an orange tree and out-of-control rubber tree as squatters from the beginning. Everything else we planted.

In the beginning of our occupation we added loads of native wild flowers: galardia, dune sun flower, porter weed, blue curl and our front yard was an explosion of healthy color. We just sort of let the plants take over. We let nature be nature.

Our landscaping philosophy prompted a new, now gone, neighbor across the street to stand with arms folded, one hand aloft to alternately rest on her chin and point to our yard while sharing with another new neighbor (also gone) that “they actually intend for their yard to look like that.”

Nature is messy, and like a child, it should be given certain liberties to explore. But also like a child it needs some discipline. Especially if you’re living in a deed restricted neighborhood. We did receive a lovely letter from our HOA in those early days citing us for our misuse of visible property. We fired back with an environmental manifesto and have been left alone since.

A few years after we were shamed by the HOA, the city encouraged native planting and less grass. We felt vindicated, but our yard was still messy. Again, in the natural sense.

I am compelled to design my yard, like I would an interior space, with a space plan and recommendations. I have, in fact, done this. Even to scale, but I lack the enthusiasm to implement or enforce it. Instead the yard upkeep is the domain of my husband. If I want to change it, I have to change it.

It remains largely unchanged.

Our back yard has been given more consideration. Probably because it is where I spend my time. We planted a winged elm, bay tree, a couple of privets and some other small trees. When I say we, I mean I supported the choices and effort while my husband did the actual work of planting.

We added a stone patio that I actually did work on and design and there’s a hint of a wall we lost interest in around one of the trees.

Our yard is small. If I stood in the middle of it and extended my arms toward our house (the screened enclosure) and the fence that proves this space is ours, I can practically touch both. I would love to have an open patio, with simple columns holding up a simple roof or even a vine covered pergola, but mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds hover just on the other side of the screen like desperate paparazzi, and they’re all looking at me. So the screen stays.

Aside the from the intoxicating fragrance of the orange tree in early spring, the winged elm has captured my heart. In fifteen years he has grown to over 30 feet from just a spindly little sapling. He drops his leaves sometime around December, stands stoic for a month or so then shimmers back to life with tiny green buds in March. Perhaps it is his timely deciduous nature that reminds me of trees from home that tugs at my inner nostalgia. Maybe it’s his happiness to return in the spring that makes me swoon.

Over the years, he has produced offspring, tiny shoots and saplings. They have started grow. Most are about a foot tall, many we have removed, but one has reached about 6 feet. It is a single sinewy stalk with thin, but strong little branches. She can’t stay where she is. There’s no room.

Next to our driveway we removed a diseased some-kind-of-myrtle tree a couple of years ago and that space feels naked. We decide to move the young tree here.

Her roots are long and we lose a few inches on them here or there but otherwise the earth released her easily. A deep hole has been dug and is awaiting her arrival.

It’s been a particularly hot and dry spring and we’re concerned for her survival. We water her daily, usually three times a day.

It has finally rained. And against the vibrant colors of wet nature, she is brown. All her leaves have turned brown. I touch her leaves gently, they’re still very soft, not brittle. I bend her tiniest branches and they still have life, they do not snap.

There is still hope.

I have named her Elma. She deserves a name.

This morning as I am getting ready for my day, Larry (that’s my husband) comes in looking bright, “Don’t give up!”

“On Elma?”

“Yes, two little green shoots around the base.”

“Her base.” I correct.

As he was tending to her and reconstructing the little moat around her tender roots he spied signs of new life. She’s strong. She wants to live out her dharma in our front yard and provide shade during the brutal summer months.

And when she gets bigger and stronger she will be able to see her dad over the house. I’m pretty sure he can see her.

And I’m certain he’s been encouraging her.

 

On Restriction

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I am putting myself on restriction, just short of a social media fast. I have promised myself I would take the month of May off from social media. Realizing I use certain streams for my business, I adjusted the terms and conditions of my imaginary contract to grant me limited access to Facebook only for the purposes of promoting events for the yoga studio.

My name is Allison and I am a Facebook video addict. I mean, come on: sloths, otters, motivational up-and-comers, forward thinkers, Ted talks?! And what about all those baby pictures, alpacas, silly chickens and people who need me?

But it has to stop. For now. I find myself losing up to 3 hours a day.

What I could do with those 3 hours! What could I do?

The time wasted in the morning could be spent on my yoga mat or wandering the early morning streets of my neighborhood hunting critters big and small. My mid-morning/early afternoon stretch could be spent writing and my evening hour could be spent in actual conversation or reading something inspirational. Or honestly watching recorded shows with my full attention. Do I even like these shows enough to watch them without distraction? I’ll let you know.

So, May is Blog-a-Day month for me. WordPress is a form of social media, it’s true, but it somehow seems more noble. And I can’t seem to stop myself from snapping photos of magical Florida nature or, full disclosure, my cat (oh my, I’ve become such a cliché) so I will still utilize Instagram.

But neither of these platforms seem to demand as much of my time as the book of face. I will post my blogs to FB in some of the groups I belong to and even my feed on occasion, and I will share my Instagram captures with FB as well. But I will not be drawn in by that tiny red circle glaring at me from the corner of the F square on my phone, declaring how many people love me and are anxiously awaiting my attention and reply.

We’ll see how it goes.

I really, I mean honestly, want to finish writing my book on India. So, some of my found time will be spent jittery and disheveled in the corners of coffee shops nearby. And on days under 90 degrees, perhaps on my back patio, where I will no doubt be distracted by the fauna flitting and skittering about in my back yard.

I also have two houses stuffed into one right now and would love to continue purging and organizing that back to one manageable space. This is the year of the purge for me.

It is day one, but I am hopeful I can create this shift and come June, if I’ve behaved, I may just allow myself access to the wonders of Facebook again.

For now, you can find me on Instagram @allisonswanderland. Or at one of my two blogs: www.allisonswanderland.com – for stories of nature, travel and talking animals or this one, www.enchantedlife.blog for musings on all things that make life magical like: minimalism, zero waste, food stuffs and philosophy.

I know I’m assuming you care, it’s okay if you don’t. But I’d love to hear from you in the comments on the blogs or Instagram. Or even Facebook, just don’t expect a response until June 1.