I Can’t Go Back. I Really Can’t.

Towards the end of 2017, I felt nostalgic. Maybe it’s all the expected and unexpected, happy and dissappointing life changes that are happening to me and my little family. Change is good. Moving forward is liberating but it still feels trudgy.

I keep recalling how happy the homeschool years were, how good busy the Love2Bloom handmade business years were, how the past at home being a sahm/wahm was really good. And now they are gone or almost gone.

So the never say die me, set to recreate those happy days by reopening Love2Bloom. I went through tons of pics, set to writing a new biz plan, created media plans, dreamt those bigger than life dreams all set to the musical backdrop of Journey’s “Don’t stop believin..”

But like the presidential legacy that song ushered in back in the 1990’s, what I was trying to recreate hahad its time. No going back. Time to say goodbye.

The past was a good time but it needed to stay down. There was a reason why I stepped away from my Etsy biz, closed shop and moved on.

Tell that to my Type “A” heart, why don’t I.

While all this Bloom madness was going on I also brewed up the idea of launching once and for all an urban farmer venture with my homegrown lettuces, microgreens, and cut flowers. Boy did I get to work, hauling dirt, covering beds, measuring land, early December.

And did I mention that at the same time I was donning overalls and pitching hay I was designing a new launch of planner clips for my recent online business and there was also the house line of crochet goods and toy line I wanted to launch in Spring 2018.

Boy. I am just too much.

Fast forward to the day after Christmas and a screeching halt due to a visit to my personal homestead by That horrible houseguest, the flu.

I sat wondering what happened? I was doing well. But I wasn’t . I was driving myself harder than a red lipped whip cracking dominatrix in some underground LA entertainment dungeon. It wasn’t good. None of it.

And so from the 26th of December onward, I sat or rather slumped down under mounds of crochet blankets feeling like trodded over shit.

I managed to slunk my way with my family to our yearly get-a-away to Coronado Island and between the soaks in the Japanese style tub and the copious cups of Tazo Passion tea, I realized that the past needs to stay behind me.

No matter how good it was. That door of homeschool, home based business, homesteading is creaking towards closure.

That doesn’t mean I can’t make things or garden anymore. It just means that the outcome and the goal is not for sustenance and survival. Rather it will be for enjoyment. Fancy that. Enjoyment.

And that means a less frenzied, hard pressed all or nothing approach.

I can’t go back again but I see now that I really don’t care to.

On towards new doors opening wide.

(Note: Written in the midst of a migraine at home in San Pedro, California and the ensuing clarity produced by this painful lifelong companion that I’ve grown rather bored and tired of. I hate migraines.)

The Typewriter

This typewriter, a Royal, used to belong to my mom who was born in Venice, California in 1935. She used it when she was a student at Leuzinger High School in Lawndale, California. She wanted to be a secretary but somehow that never happened. Instead, after she graduated from high school, she took a job at Max Factor factory in Los Angeles labeling lipstick tubes.

While I was growing up she would sometimes take her typewriter out and practice her typing speed. Taptaptapratatatattaptattap. So fast. I thought my mom was awesome because she could make words appear on a sheet of paper so fast, like lightening.

When I was in middle school and high school, I used this typewriter to write my school papers on and I used it to fill out my college applications. Eventually, my mom let me borrow it and I took it with me to the university.

I only used it for one school quarter to write my college essays. The next school quarter the student computer center opened and I returned the typewriter back to my mom. She put it away, way back in her closet, behind the red lace party dress of 1955 she still kept, my grandmother’s fur trimmed wool coat and the orange tweed coat she wore on her drive in the early morning to mass at church.

And there this old Royal typewriter stayed, until a year ago, when she called me and said she was throwing out some old stuff and would I like the typewriter. I asked her why she wanted to toss it and she said it reminded her of all the things she had wanted to do and never could do. She wanted it gone so she could go on.

I rescued my mom’s typewriter from the junk pile, brought it back home with me and now I think this old Royal will be a reminder to me, not the albatross it was for my mom, but a reminder to rescue myself, to write and to write and to write some more.

Rat a tat tat tap tap tap.

– Mona