I made myself sit down last weekend and focus on the job of getting my taxes ready to give to the accountant. This, like Christmas, is something that comes around every year at the same time. And, just like Christmas, it sneaks up on me. Every year.
I’m not particularly proud that I tend toward procrastination. That’s a flaw that I keep meaning to work on, but then I get busy doing other things and I forget all about it. Until life sits up and smacks me upside the head to remind me, of course.
Before becoming a published author, before the myocardial infarction that ended my working outside the home days, I was an accounting clerk. Not an accountant—while I did take a couple of college level courses, I never got a degree in accounting. I worked primarily in accounts payable, payroll, and group benefits. When I worked for the candy company, I also worked on the order desk, and did some accounts receivable.
For the most part, I was a dedicated employee and pretty good with numbers. I made some mistakes, of course, but not many. I was fast and accurate, and for the most part, I enjoyed my work. I really did enjoy working with numbers. I have noticed recently, however, that the further away I get from those days of month ends, year ends, and balance sheets, the less fond I have become of the tasks involved in the processes. I was once told that it’s unusual for a person to be competent with numbers and to also be a wordsmith. I’m beginning to believe that, because these days, I don’t look forward to the “office work” like I used to.
I could just hand my files full of receipts to my accountant, but I don’t. I prepare an excel spreadsheet that has five pages to it. In my anal fashion, I list each receipt and then give it a “control number”. That allows the accountant to sort the data however she chooses, and still easily find the actual receipt to verify it. The prep work I do makes the accountant’s job easier for her and, in the long run, less expensive for me.
Yes, I can do that, and do a pretty good job of it, but I don’t enjoy it the way I used to. When it’s all ready, I email the spreadsheet and hand deliver the supporting documentation. As I came home from dropping the receipts off to the service I use, I once more told myself that if I was smart, I would begin working on my 2018 spreadsheet next week. At this moment, I intend to do that. But in all honesty, I don’t hold out much hope that it will actually happen.
As spring starts to make its appearance, my thoughts move ahead to the new season, and gardening. I love pansies. They have cute little faces, and they come in such a variety of colors. In the past, when I’ve waited until the traditional Victoria Day weekend to purchase my plants, I’ve been disappointed at the garden center. They’ve been “sold out” of pansies, because they are, apparently, not flowers for summer, but spring. Now, the Victoria Day holiday here is the Monday closest to the 24th of May and this year, it falls on May 21—a full 30 days before summer.
To avoid disappointment, I plan to go to the garden center within the next two weeks. We may not yet be able to put the pansies in their boxes that hang from the porch railing, but I can at least get them. And if they’re outside when I buy them, then they can be planted. My porch railing is about six feet off the ground, and therefore somewhat immune to early spring frost.
The shoots of my narcissi and crocuses and hyacinth have begun poking above the ground. The ice and snow are gone from my yard, but we’re still in danger of frost, and temperatures so cold that a glass of water left outside would likely freeze overnight. My perennials never seem to care that they might yet get some snow blanketing them. They’re only poking up, not completely vulnerable.
My husband has an accumulation of egg cartons that he plans to use to start some veggies. He keeps trying to come up with a method of having a garden without actually having a garden. I understand his dilemma; we’re both past the point where we can get down on our knees and work the soil. As well, for him, the act of raking is a challenge that his shoulders and hips don’t appear to like. This year he’s going to try and build a table-top garden. He told me so just last night. He’s certainly got the carpenter’s skills to do so, and he really enjoys gardening. But a new consideration has arisen this year that was never a factor before, and it’s hardly one I can argue against.
You see, I know he will get that project going. Provided, of course that he can leave his manuscript-in-progress long enough to do so.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Wednesday's Words for March 28, 2018
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Wednesday's Words for March 21, 2018
Yesterday, I celebrated my eleventh anniversary of becoming a published author. There are times when it feels like I’ve been living this dream of mine a whole lot longer than that; and times when it feels like I got that first miraculous acceptance just yesterday.
I received the email that my first manuscript was accepted just a month after we buried our son. While I was pleased by the email with the subject line, “Made for Each Other for publication”, I didn’t, understandably, feel excited. That sense, that emotion, was delayed for the better part of a year. Though I had mourned, I had not dealt. That took time.
Eventually, of course, my numbness faded. I was always grateful my publisher said yes, right from that first moment—and I still am—because becoming a published author really was the only dream I ever had. The ability to slip into a world of my own creation was a talent I discovered quite young, and one I both inherited from and developed because of my father.
In the years since that first book came out, I’ve been places and met people I never dreamed I would. I’ve made a lot of friends, people with whom, either through these essays, or through my books, I’ve made a connection. Over the course of my life, I have evolved, as we all evolve, tempered and formed by my life experiences, and aided by the emotions and intellect with which I was born. We don’t, any of us, walk the exact same paths for our entire lives. We don’t share every exact same experience. We do share some moments, experiences, rites of passage. We are, each of us, given opportunities to reach out and help others, and in so doing, we really help ourselves.
We travel life’s road together, you and I, for a time. I know this intellectually. Just as I understand with my whole being, that how we use that time, each of us, determines the value of the experience we share. It’s been true that, for most of my adult life, my relationships with others have been very important to me. I know I’m guilty, more than occasionally, of letting those relationships become too important.
You’ve all heard that old saw, I’m sure. That people enter your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. My problem is that I can’t tell the difference. When I meet someone, I open my heart and I expect we’re going to be friends for a lifetime.
Some people, when they make connections with others, have walls. They’re cautious, revealing themselves bit by bit, and usually only to a certain degree. That’s not me. There are reasons to wish it was so—selfish reasons that involve protection of the heart against the emotional pain of betrayal and abandonment.
But I’m not willing to become that person. I’m not willing to limit my openness, my ability to empathize, or the inclinations I get to reach out to others.
Yes, I’ve been deeply hurt, and more than once. I’ve had people I believed were going to be lifelong friends turn and walk away. I’ve had them do it telling lies and taking others with them. Each time it happens, I’m devastated. My beloved often asks me why I let that happen. Why do I always welcome people with open arms, and an open heart?
The answer really is that even the sure and certain knowledge that some people are going to hurt me isn’t as horrible a fate—in fact, it’s nowhere near as horrible a fate—as becoming jaded, closed of mind and heart, and cynical.
When I was a young mother, when life was so full of lemons for me there was no room to make lemonade, I let myself feel all those negative emotions. For a time, I was bitter. And what I learned from that experience was that negativity and bitterness was a black sticky morass that, once it took hold inside of me spread like a cancer: heavy, pervasive, and feeling like death.
I made a decision not to be that way. I wasn’t sure how to affect that change, except to pray and to simply tell myself, every single day until I felt that belief, that life was terrific, and so was I. If life was a decision, then I was deciding that it really was, to quote an old Leslie Gore song, sunshine, lollipops and rainbows.
Oh yes, and emoji hearts. Lots and lots of emoji hearts. And do you know what I discovered? It really is!
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
Wednesday's Words for March 14, 2018
It’s March Break week here in our neck of the woods. This used to be a time when I’d be hyperventilating, either looking for someone to watch my kids when they were younger, or worried about what was happening in my house when they were allegedly old enough to be left on their own. Those lovely day programs so many communities offer now were not available when my children were younger.
I often had to field phone calls from my two youngest at work. When I was employed in the city, about a 35-minute drive from home, it was in the office of a manufacturing company. There were about 10 of us in the main area of the office, and we all got along fairly well. I recall telling them about the way my two youngest children constantly fought. One time, in the midst of yet another phone call from home, I held the receiver in the air so that all of my coworkers could hear one of my children yelling about the other one to me.
I even once instructed them not to call unless there was blood.
Of course, those days are long behind me, and there are parts of them I miss, and parts I don’t. Now the only thing March Break means here is that for an entire week, there are no school kids lining up in front of our house, and therefore no kids and buses for Mr. Tuffy to bark at. Our dog is quite clever. He deduced early on that all those children gathered together in front of our house couldn’t possibly be a good thing. The other bonus for him during the break is he gets to go outside to his porch and his squirrels a bit earlier than usual. I don’t let him on the porch during on a school day until the buses have collected their cargo. The children don’t need to be barked at by Mr. Barky McBarksalot.
There’s snow on the ground again here, but in light of all the nor’easters my friends south of the border have been dealing with in the last few weeks, I won’t complain. We’re all, I’m sure, sick of winter and hungry for spring. It will arrive, by and by.
Our lives these days are marked by small improvements, here and there, to our quality of life. The latest was an item I’ve wanted to get to for awhile. The piece of memory foam we had as our “bed topper” started out three inches thick when we bought it about five or so years ago. It wasn’t a very high-quality item, but it worked fairly well and was very comfy. Our mattress itself is in excellent condition. That we did pay a great deal for about fifteen years ago. But it’s a bit firmer than we’ve liked and so, the memory foam. Lately, however, the foam wasn’t as comfortable as it had been, and it sure wasn’t three inches thick any longer.
Our new “bed topper” is a foam/gel combination, with a washable bamboo cover. It is also three inches thick, and we bought it online and had it delivered. That first night on our new topper was, for both of us, a case of not realizing how bad a thing was until we replaced it. In the couple of weeks since we’ve had it, we’ve both slept much better. The big bonus for me is not having a sore back when I wake up in the morning.
I’ve long maintained that I can deal with a lot of things during the day, as long as I can get a really good sleep at night. This new topper is yet another blessing for which I am grateful.
One thing, however, the new topper hasn’t helped with is something, frankly, it probably can’t. We’re just a few days now into Daylight Savings Time, and my body is having trouble adjusting. In previous years, I’ve only been tired or “off” for an extra day, and even that I know was more psychological than it was physical. This year, however, it’s a bit worse. Not only am I still missing that hour’s sleep. I feel just slightly out of step. I’ve awakened in the morning just a bit later than I like by the clock, but my body insists it’s too early to rise. I’ve had to talk myself into getting out of bed that early for the last two days.
Because it bugged me I did a little research. I discovered that yes, the older one becomes the more of a struggle coping with this “time change” is. But in thinking about the sensation I’m experiencing, I’ve decided it feels like jet lag.
Now if only I could claim world travels in my dreams at night to justify the annoyance.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
For the First Time Release Day!
http://www.bookstrand.com/book/for-the-first-time
Blurb:
[Siren Classic ManLove: Erotic Alternative Contemporary Consensual BDSM Romance, M/M, HEA]
Crown Prince Yousef Ahmed was a playboy, until he met his late husband, Zander. The foreign exchange student stole the Arab prince’s heart at an underground BDSM club. When the king learned of his son’s desire to marry Zander, he was enraged. In a desert country where marriage equality was not accepted, Yousef was banished with a price on his head. The fatwa also included Zander’s death.
Douglas Girard was not only Zander's father, but the head of Canadian Consular Affairs. In a midnight rescue, Douglas brought the couple to Canada. Zander's murder has changed Yousef and Douglas's relationship. Not only has Douglas buried a son, but he's now caring for a grieving husband.
Yousef and Douglas are faced with pain and hidden secrets. Both men learn how to open their hearts from past wounds and live in the present. In the process, love blossoms. Picking up the pieces isn’t always easy, but love is the greatest gift of all.
A Siren Erotic Romance
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
Wednesday's Words for March 7, 2018
Spring has sprung! And it sprang for me, as far as I’m concerned, on Tuesday, February 27th. The temperature when I awoke at seven a.m. that morning was a few degrees above freezing—but that wasn’t what told me it was spring time.
The sun was shining, and the sky was a pale blue, just a shade up from winter pale blue, but that wasn’t what told me it was spring. The ground was free of snow and ice, but no, that wasn’t it, either.
It was the bird song. Last Tuesday I heard those wonderful, welcome birds that greet each day with such joy, they must sing about it, making the most beautiful music in the world.
Here in Southern Ontario, many of our birds migrate over winter. Those birds who remain behind, it seems to me, don’t sing all that often from October to March. Fancifully, I imagine that to be because they don’t want to alert near-by predators of their presence, thus becoming dinner. Food is a bit scarce for nature’s creatures in the winter, after all. Just ask Mr. Ashbury. He is forever buying bird seed for the birds as well as sunflower seeds and peanuts for the squirrels. Mr. Tuffy, who loves nothing more than barking at the squirrels, is very happy that he does so.
But I digress.
On last Tuesday morning, the avian music sounded sweet and happy. A veritable symphony of feathered ones filled the air with their own particular celebration of the coming new season. I heard robins, wrens, a red-winged black bird and even a killdeer who joined in the chorus. I didn’t hear any chickadees, not yet. They, I suspect, will be back soon.
Yes, I know the calendar says spring doesn’t arrive until the 20th or 21st of March. Setting a date specific on paper? That’s just part of our puny efforts, us humans, to manage nature. Nature goes her own way. It doesn’t matter one whit that by Friday, three days after this wondrous concert, we received more snow. Received more snow? We experienced a blizzard! But, as I said, that doesn’t matter. It certainly doesn’t matter that it’s snowing hard right now. Nothing else matters. Many of the birds have arrived home, and they’ve returned to their happy task of welcoming each new dawn, and I felt the beginning of my favorite time of year, and that’s that.
I’ve always loved spring the most. I love the first sound of robins singing, and the first sight of those buds lending a shimmering aura of green to the barren tree branches, an aura made of hope and promise. I love the first sight of those perennial flowers poking their green shoots above ground, as if having a look around to see if the snow is gone, or not. And often apparently not caring in the end, because they poke their heads up anyway, and begin to grow.
I love the scent of the early blooming flowers, and the parade of blossoms that march across my yard—crocuses and hyacinths and narcissi; daffodils and tulips and finally, lilies-of-the-valley, lilacs and peonies. I love the anticipation of spring, and the reality of it. I love the smell of freshly mown grass, and as I drive in rural areas with my windows down, the amazing aroma of what we used to call sweet grasses—no, not the native plant by that name. In my neck of the woods, as a kid, it referred to the harvest of the winter wheat.
I’m already looking forward to those few precious days when I can breathe in the scent of lilacs and lily-of-the-valley together in one blissfully aromatic inhalation, as I did right here on my front porch for the first time in decades last year. That was first time I’d revisited that fragrance since my years out in the country. I’m hopeful it won’t be the last.
Despite having moments of doubt, worry and a wisp of pessimism now and again, I am at heart an optimist. I sometimes drive those in my family crazy because I refuse to surrender hope. I’ve had people tell me, from the depths of their misery that I have no idea how bad life can really be, how horrible it can get.
Friends, I do know how bad it can be and how horrible it can get. But I will never surrender to the darker emotions. I will never surrender hope. Because I did, for a time years ago, and it felt atrocious. Yes, life tests us, and it confounds us, and it slashes and singes our bodies as well as our spirits. But the dark times don’t come to stay, they truly come to pass.
Wise philosophers down through the ages have urged us to look to the natural world to behold the face of God. I’ve done that and found hope and resilience and renewal, the heart and soul of faith and optimism.
And it’s never so vibrant as it is, cradled within the reality of the perennial spring that greets us each and every year.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
