Sunday Scribblings: Fuzzy


On Sundays, I participate in Sunday Scribblings, a weekly writing prompt challenge. There are no rules within the challenge, however I am imposing the same rules that I follow for Five Minute Friday: Write for five minutes (or so). No editing, revising, or over thinking. Just write.

Today’s Topic: Fuzzy

It makes me sad that my memory has become so fuzzy over the past few years. People keep telling me that it’s just the way age is but I’m really not convinced. My best friend from childhood, Liberty, has an amazing memory. While my memory has not failed me on the big events in life, her memory can summon even the smaller moments. Maybe that’s why God has brought her back into my life; to trigger those happy days again and not dwell on the loss of my own memory.

I talked to my mom yesterday, and she had been to a party with one of my dad’s brothers, who has early stage of Alzheimer’s Disease. He’s maybe 10ish years older than my dad. My dad also has an older sister and another older brother whose memories have started failing pretty badly. It hit me last night that this could not only be my father’s near future but also my own, as Alzheimer’s and dementia are strongly related to genetics.

So if my memory is already so fuzzy at 36, what will it be like when I’m 66 like my father? Will it hit me sooner? Is there anything that I can do now to help keep it from happening?

This is why I write. This is why I blog. This is why I need to get back into the habit of writing on a regular basis again. Winter is gone, so hopefully my Seasonal Affective Disorder will soon take a vacation, as well.

Read other Sunday Scribblings posts on the topic of ‘Fuzzy’.

 

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Sunday Scribblings: Mud


On Sundays, I participate in Sunday Scribblings, a weekly writing prompt challenge. There are no rules within the challenge, however I am imposing the same rules that I follow for Five Minute Friday: Write for five minutes. No editing, revising, or over thinking. Just write.

Today’s Topic: Mud

START

I was a fairly normal child, I suppose, when it came to playing in the sand, the dirt, the mud. My dad built me a sandbox just outside my play house, and I loved to play in there. I’d sit on the squared edges and build roads for my cars, including tunnels and hills. It took a little bit of water and mud to form them, and I didn’t mind getting dirty. In fact, I could get downright filthy playing outside.

My mom’s friend has a daughter a few years younger than me, and she had a sandbox built underneath her raised play house that we would play in, as well. My mom would often point out that Katy could play in the sandbox and come out clean as if she had never been playing in it, and that the dirt and sand must have all stuck to me instead of her. It would even be in my shoes and hair.

Want to know something? I liked the feeling of it in my hair. Weird, huh? I like scratching it out of my scalp later on. I’m sure my mom didn’t think so highly of it in my hair when she was washing it out, but what did I know as a kid, other than the fact that it brought me simple joy?

“There is an eagle in me that wants to soar, and there is a hippopotamus in me that wants to wallow in the mud.” – Carl Sandburg 

STOP

Read other Sunday Scribblings posts on the topic of ‘Mud’.

During the month of November, I am participating in the National Blog Posting Month, also known as NaBloPoMo, hosted by BlogHer. Most likely I am following these suggested prompts, but I might just get crazy and change things up every once in a while. I‘m one wild and crazy gal! 

NaBloPoMo November 2012