Not a bedtime story

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I'm not sure how the book In Cold Blood ended up on my reading list, but it had been there for years. I heard about the murders a long time ago, and I have vague memories of seeing the movie. When I ran across the paperback at the library, I checked it out in a hurry. Funny though, as I was reading it, I mentioned the title to two friends, and neither one had ever heard of it.

        A true murder is not exactly sweet dreams material for someone like me who settles down to read at night before going to sleep. This book is different from the ones I typically reach for, but I was curious enough about what happened to this family, that I gave in to the urge, and I prepared myself for a tough read. 

Time runs faster than I do

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My dear friend from high school and I reconnected after almost forty years, and we decided that for our birthdays, which are two weeks apart, we would celebrate with lunch at a restaurant. With that event in motion, we kicked it up a notch and invited other classmates to join us. We reserved a room, ordered a cake from a bakery, and spread the word. On a Saturday at noon, about twenty of us showed up for fried fish and hush puppies and remembering our teenage years. 

    The lunch idea took off and continues monthly to this day, but because I live in another state, I rarely attend. When I see the announcement of the next gathering, I sigh.

    I especially sighed when I heard that Mrs. Loggins, my tenth grade English teacher, popped in at one of the luncheons. Mrs. Loggins stands out in front of all my other teachers, and I would have given anything to see her.

    Considering that I would never have the chance to meet up with Mrs. Loggins, I settled on writing a letter, to tell her about such things as me sitting on the edge of my seat when she carried us through MacBeth, and that by picking my short story as the best one and reading it to the class, she gave me confidence in my writing. 

    Penning a letter to Mrs. Loggins was always the next thing to do. 

Minding my mindfulness in the New Year

 

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Mindfulness seems to be the buzzword of the day. It had been calling out to me here and there, when coincidentally, a mindful friend gave me a book about the art of watching birds, mindfully. Reading the book has been pleasant so far. Turning the pages makes me feel relaxed and calm, because the author's tone and the subject matter are relaxing and calming. It is also making me want to be more mindful, not only in bird watching, but in other aspects of my life. 

        The dictionary compares mindfulness to awareness. I already consider myself to be aware, or mindful, especially of my surroundings when out and about, but there are times when I am not mindful enough. 

    So, at the beginning of January and the start of a New Year, I resolved to be more mindful, partly because of the book given to me, and partly because being consciously mindful seems like an excellent idea. If I am more mindful, maybe I will not make as many mistakes, at least, that is a partial intent in seeking to be more mindful. 

        Only two days into January, despite my mission of mindfulness, I made my first big flub, because I was not mindful enough. I baked a chocolate pie for a friend's birthday, and when I sliced it, syrupy chocolate filling ran onto the plate. I should have baked it longer. If I had inspected it more carefully when taking it out of the oven, I would have known. Instead, I trusted a note from long ago that I had baked it for thirty-five minutes, failing to take into account that a new oven had been installed since then, and that different ovens deliver different results. Next time, I will be more mindful.

        Mindfulness is a two-way street. There are times when our mindfulness is overridden by someone else's mindlessness. No matter how mindful we are, mindfulness and mindlessness sometimes collide.