Feeding the Inner Child Can Be Dangerous

by Jackie King

In Julia Cameron’s book AN ARTIST’S WAY, she speaks of feeding your inner child. My problem is, I’m so busy taking care of my old-girl self, that there’s little time left for outings with some kid that lurks in my psyche. However, yesterday I had to return a purchase to the mall, and after struggling through the wildly blowing Tulsa wind into the sweetly scented department store, I decided that both me and my inner-child deserved a treat. (I’m super good at rationalization.) I picked up a shirt when this inner-brat spoke up, “Why don’t you get something different? I’m sick of beige.”

 Am I developing a split personality?

Somewhat unnerved, I put back the top and wandered on through the store. Maybe Inner-Child would prefer a nice navy blue? I strolled from sportswear into blouses and stepped within arm’s length of a dressy print top in shades of orange, yellow and brown. The effect was a bit like viewing an abstract painting and I made the mistake of pausing a minute.

That one, Brat said.

My civilized (beleaguered?) self, smiled and spoke in a (silent) faux-calm voice said, “Okay, we’ll try it on, but will make us look fat.” I looped the blouse over my arm and moved on. Four racks over I spotted a splashy flowered print. I reacted with one word:

“Yuck.”

“Try on that one, too,” Brat said.

 And I thought my child rearing days were over!

Grown-up-lady rolled her eyes. If anything would make us look ridiculous (an important fear to me, but Brat didn’t seem to care) this garment would. But the jacket was unlined, cotton and sported three-quarter sleeves. Very comfortable for summer, and we mature ladies love our comfort. What the heck, might as well try that one on too.

The two of us, brat and woman-of-a-certain age, (not sure who was leading whom), found a dressing room and tried on both items. SHOCKEROO: My older self decided to buy both! Grown up self loved the blouse; Brat insisted on the blazing blazer.

Feeling more than a little daring, I headed toward hats. I was getting into this. If child and grownup joined forces, what might happen next?

You guessed it! I now have a dozen! Perhaps my Inner Child morphed into an Inner Wild-Child?

ARGUING WITH MYSELF

or Do All Writers Have Split Personalities

by Jackie King

 

Jackie King

In Julia Cameron’s book AN ARTIST’S WAY, she speaks of feeding your inner child. My problem is, I’m so busy taking care of my old-girl self, that there’s little time left for outings with some brat that lurks in my psyche. However, some time in the past I had to return a purchase to the mall. I walked from the sizzling Tulsa  heat into life reviving air conditioning and decided that both me and my inner-child could something new. I had just picked up a shirt when this inner-brat whined,

“Why don’t you get something different? I’m sick of beige.”

What? Inner Brat didn’t like beige?

Somewhat unnerved, I put back the Tee and wandered on through the store. Maybe Inner-Child would prefer a nice navy blue? I strolled from sportswear into blouses and stepped within arm’s length of a dressy print top in shades of orange, yellow and brown. The effect was a bit like viewing an abstract painting and I paused a minute.

That one, Brat said.

My civilized (beleaguered?) self, smiled and spoke in a (silent) faux-calm voice said, “Okay, we’ll try it on, but will make us look like a buffalo.” (Brat isn’t the only alter ego who can be snippy.) I looped the blouse over my arm and moved on. Four racks over I spotted a splashy flowered print. I reacted with one word: “Yuck.”

“Try on that one, too,” Brat said.

I thought my child rearing days were over!

Grown-up-lady rolled her eyes. If anything would make us look ridiculous (an important fear to me, but Brat didn’t seem to care) this garment would. But the jacket was unlined, cotton and sported three-quarter sleeves. Very comfortable for summer, and we mature ladies love our comfort. What the heck, might as well try that one on too.

The two of us, brat and woman-of-a-certain age, (not sure who was leading whom), found a dressing room and tried on both items. SHOCKEROO: My older self decided to buy both! Grown up self loved the blouse; Brat insisted on the blazing blazer.

Feeling more than a little daring, I headed toward hats. I was getting into this. If child and grownup joined forces, what might happen next?

The above anecdote happened four summers earlier, and I’m growing more eccentric with each passing year. When I went to church yesterday, I wore what are called Pajama-Jeans (Purple ones) with a T-shirt  that read, “OLD IS COOL.” 

 

Two avid readers who agree that OLD IS COOL!

So my message to Julia Cameron is that my inner-child isn't just alive and well, she is thriving and corrupting senior readers along the way. Above I'm with Mary Ruth Whitman and Richard Baden. We are wearing different colored fedoras with twinkling lights.

Like my own children years earlier, my inner child has taken over my life.

Book 1 - Grace Cassidy Series

FEEDING MY INNER CHILD

By Jackie King

 

In Julia Cameron’s book AN ARTIST’S WAY, she speaks of feeding your inner child. My problem is, I’m so busy taking care of my old-girl self, that there’s little time left for outings with some brat that lurks in my psyche. However, yesterday I had to return a purchase to the mall, and after I walked in the sizzling Tulsa heat into life reviving air conditioning, I decided that both me and my inner-child could use a respite. I had just picked up a shirt when this inner-brat whined,

“Why don’t you get something different? I’m sick of beige.”

What? Inner Brat didn’t like beige?

Somewhat unnerved, I put back the Tee and wandered on through the store. Maybe Inner-Child would prefer a nice navy blue? I strolled from sportswear into blouses and stepped within arm’s length of a dressy print top in shades of orange, yellow and brown. The effect was a bit like viewing an abstract painting and I paused a minute.

That one, Brat said.

My civilized (beleaguered?) self, smiled and spoke in a (silent) faux-calm voice said, “Okay, we’ll try it on, but will make us look like a buffalo.” (Brat isn’t the only alter ego who can be snippy.) I looped the blouse over my arm and moved on. Four racks over I spotted a splashy flowered print. I reacted with one word: “Yuck.”

“Try on that one, too,” Brat said.

I thought my child rearing days were over!

Grown-up-lady rolled her eyes. If anything would make us look ridiculous (an important fear to me, but Brat didn’t seem to care) this garment would. But the jacket was unlined, cotton and sported three-quarter sleeves. Very comfortable for summer, and we mature ladies love our comfort. What the heck, might as well try that one on too.

The two of us, brat and woman-of-a-certain age, (not sure who was leading whom), found a dressing room and tried on both items. SHOCKEROO: My older self decided to buy both! Grown up self loved the blouse; Brat insisted on the blazing blazer.

Feeling more than a little daring, I headed toward hats. I was getting into this. If child and grownup joined forces, what might happen next?



 



My first Hat

 

Footnote: The above anecdote happened two summers earlier. Whether for better or for worse, I’ve changed my style of clothes. This picture was me wearing my first hat. I now have a dozen!

 

Has my Inner Child morphed into an Inner Wild-Child?

Thanks for stopping by.

Hugs,

Jackie

Water, Water Everywhere

By Beth Terrell

Last Wednesday, my husband, Mike, awoke at 5 A.M. with a blinding headache. As he stumbled blearily toward the bathroom, he heard a sound like running water coming from the kitchen. His first thought was that the air conditioning unit was malfunctioning. He went to investigate, rounded the corner, and found the water spewing from beneath our kitchen sink and the floor covered by an inch of water. A fitting under the sink had broken sometime during the night, and water had been gushing out of our pipes ever since.

Yikes.

I finally heard the commotion and hurried in to see what was happening. My first thought was, "Thank God it was water and not fire." My second was, "Wow. What are we going to do with all this?"

Finally, Mike managed to get the water turned off, and we took stock of the damage. Half of our living room carpet was soaked. Worse, water had drained down into our basement, where boxes full of books and games were stacked. Our hearts sank as we noted the wet stains on the boxes that held Mike's extensive comic book collection.

We both stayed home from work and spent the rest of the day sucking water out of the carpet with a Shop-Vac and filling our trash bins with soggy cardboard, magazines, and paperbacks. Then came the hardbacks, first editions some of them, their covers warped and their pages stuck together and beginning to crinkle. It soon became clear that, even with our neighbor's borrowed bins, they would not be enough.

On Saturday, we rented a 20-yard dumpster and spent the weekend filling it up. Some of what we dumped were things we'd been meaning to throw away for ages (in 23 years, you can amass a lot of junk), but every time I had to pitch a book onto the pile, I felt a little twinge in my heart.

Still, it was nice spending the weekend working so closely with Mike, neither of us having to rush off to do something else. We took pictures of the titles, so we could claim some of the losses; the basement feels a lot roomier these days; and we're getting new linoleum for the kitchen, courtesy of our insurance company. It could have been much, much worse. As it was, it felt a bit like God had tapped us on the shoulder and said, "Hey, you. It's about time you cleaned out this basement."

Sometimes my mind is a lot like our basement. It gets crowded with minutiae, insubstantial ideas, and outdated perceptions. As a writer, I sometimes need to sift through the soggy boxes in my brain, file away the useful scraps, polish up the tarnished ideas that still have merit, and sweep out the junk to make room for fresh, new stories. If you've ever read The Artist's Way, by Julia Cameron, you know about Morning Pages.
Morning Pages are a little bit like a Shop-Vac for the writer's mind. These are pages you write each morning about anything that strikes you. (Okay, I usually write mine at night, but still...) Morning pages get rid of the white noise in the brain and help tame the "monkey mind" by getting all the little distractions out of your head and onto paper. I do them whenever my writing feels unfocused, scattered, or stalled. After a few days, I find the ideas flowing smoothly again.

How about you? What do you do to clean out your metaphorical basement?