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Age is time worn out

Now 62, I wrote this in my mid-thirties. I still find it to be true…

Photo by Denis Vdovin on Unsplash

Age is time worn out

by all the shifting winds

cutting into what is soft

leaving what is hard

Age is seeing the end

and knowing the life blood

will color the sand

before the heart is done

Age is the ache of all

that is unsaid and undone

beneath the weight

of regret’s heavy hand

Age is time spent.

© 2025 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate your support.

Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing at

Joyce Martin on Medium If you choose, you may tip my writing at:

Substack link to the Joyous Road newsletter: joyous461.substack.com

If we believe what we say we believe…

We attach a virtue to grief that perhaps is undeserved.

waves of body of water splashing on sand
Photo by Quino Al on Unsplash

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We can become mired in it: the sympathetic glances, the soft tones as people speak of those passed, the concern for our well-being, the gentle pats on the back.

I am so sad that Robert didn’t get to go with me on the trip to Normandy, that M— will never graduate from high school, that they will miss this Christmas with the family.

Who am I kidding?

I miss them! I miss the conversations, glances, jokes, and tears that build intimacy and memories. I need them with me day to day, in the flesh, to love me and validate my existence and purpose.

Anyone see a pattern here?

If I believe as I say I do, in eternal rest in the presence of a loving God, and if I love the departed as I claim, then why am I mourning that they are not here? If I really believe that they are “in a better place”, then why in the world do I keep wishing they were still in this physical world, with all its pain and imperfections?

Let’s face it. Because I am a selfish soul. My love for them has a needy root centered way down in my gut. I need them! I want them! Universe, this is not fair to me!

I admit that I do not love them unconditionally. If I did, and if I believed in a heavenly hereafter, then I would be at peace. I would wake up smiling at the sunrise, knowing they would never face darkness again. I would sleep at night knowing they would always find rest.

But I wallow in my selfishness and doubt. I cry and moan to an uncompromising universe. Part of the pain of grief is facing my own human frailty, and it is ugly. It’s not the specter of death I should worry about; it’s the darkness of my own nature that should frighten me.

Would I pull them back from death for a few more days, an hour, a moment? Even if it returned Robert to all his physical pain and mental worries? Even if it plunged M— back into her emotional torment?

Yes, in a heartbeat! I need them here with me!

We typically don’t acknowledge this side of grief. People are too caring and polite to point out the obvious: If we believe what we say we believe, then they are better off than we are.

If they are in the presence of an all-knowing God, then they know the whys and wherefores to all the questions that torment us. They can see all of time, unfolded and unfolding. They can understand the reason they left us. They can see the purpose in it all.

God knows I can’t.

Especially not for M—. Her death violated the natural order of things. Children should not die before their lives have a chance.

Yet here I am. Still selfish and wrestling with the reality of loss.

© 2025 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. 

Thank you for reading! I appreciate your support. 

Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on my Joyous Road newsletter on Substack: joyous461.substack.com & at

Joyce Martin on Medium

Please consider tipping my writing at: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Objects in Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

Photo by Jake Weirick on Unsplash

The final bell, for me the sound of retirement and freedom, waited to ring on the last day of school, out of reach and far away. 

Then it shrilled in my ears, and in spite of the scramble of finals, grading, and packing, caught me unprepared. 

The last student out the door, the last box in my car, the last key turned in…

Now I’m home, trying to digest how this is different from any other beginning of summer vacation. 

No more repetitive compliance videos, completed every summer to prove I hadn’t regressed mentally.

No more assigned professional development of little relevance to my content.

No more student apathy, disdain, or disrespect.

No more learning 150+ names every August, taking attendance, or marking tardies.

No more Eduphoria, Skyward, or teaching software, ad nauseum.

No more policing cell phones, or cheating, or bullying.

No more begging for late/missing assignments from the unmotivated.

No more redundant paperwork of no benefit to students.

No more fear of a lawsuit for protecting myself or stating the obvious and the truth.

No more documenting of differentiating instruction for IEP’s or 504’s–otherwise known as good teaching.

No more lesson prep which I may or may not follow, as my best lessons are dynamic and adjusted on the fly to meet students’ immediate needs.

No more battles with a copy machine with a personal grudge against me.

No more grading approximately 2,000 assignments every six weeks.

No more wearing a “harness”–lanyard with keys and ID, required at all times and most definitely during security drills, preparing for the random school shooter. 

Also, no more student hugs, wholehearted and awkward, or clumsily worded notes of gratitude left on my desk.

No more camaraderie with fellow teachers, commiserating about yet another mandate from the state.

No more invigorating pep rallies with confetti and fan fervor.

No more moments when the lesson pops, and the kids get it.

No more returning to my language classroom, with vibrant curtains of Seville, my copy of Neruda’s sonnets, and an Aztec calendar on the wall.

No more meet-the-teacher evenings, with curious parents and apprehensive students, shy and eager. 

No more busy buzz of students returning after a break, eager to see friends and make a fresh start.

No more satisfying restocking of pens, pencils, journals, tape, glue sticks, post-it notes, and hand sanitizer.

No more finishing out a grading cycle with the satisfaction that comes with closure. 

No more classroom jokes gently binding my students and me together in an agreement of cooperation and good humor.

No more being among the young and feeling the energy of possibilities and dreams. 

I am tired. It’s been a good run. I am ready to let it go. 

But I still glance in the rear view mirror and remember.

© 2025 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. 

Thank you for reading! I appreciate your support. 

Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on Joyce Martin on Medium

If you choose, you may tip my writing at: 

Substack link: joyous461.substack.com

How do you sum up a human life? It’s impossible, especially when the human is Robert Glenn Eddings, and he impacted so many people in positive and different ways. This is my feeble attempt to describe more of who he was, not just a telling of where he lived or worked or what he did. Specific dates and names don’t matter in the greater scheme of things, but the journey of a heart does. 

I only knew Robert for 7 ½ years of his 65 year existence in this life, but what wonderful years they were! I treasure every day. I met him when he had lived through and learned all the hard lessons in life. If anybody was a graduate of the Hard Knocks of Life University, it was Robert. He held a PhD from that notorious institution!

He overcame childhood abuse and hardship. He often told me that when his grandfather died when he was eight, he lost his protector. Robert had to scramble to survive, and it haunted him that he was not able to protect the other children around him. So naturally, he entered young manhood angry and desperate. He went into the Marine Corps and wished that he had stayed in because it gave him the structure and discipline that he needed. But he was too restless, and went on from there to a tumultuous life. He worked various jobs to support his wife and young daughter Renee. He went through several other relationships, and could not settle into a stable life. 

One thing led to another, as often happens, and Robert’s life became even more chaotic. Known as Bulldog on the streets of Fort Worth, Robert existed on the outside of the law. When I asked him what that was really like, he told me that staying in perpetual motion kept the demons at bay, but just barely. Sure, it was thrilling and exciting here and there, but Death was always right behind him. He said it was truly no kind of life at all. He called them his lost years.

When he talked about those years with me, he expressed deep regret at what those choices cost him and those he loved. He could not go back in time and change those experiences, so he used them as cautionary tales, especially when counseling young men caught up in that lifestyle. He valued time highly because he felt he had lost so much of it. 

Robert expressed deep gratitude for those through the years who had helped him better himself. He worked as a mechanic and learned the trade well. Some of the men in the Lutheran Church in Springtown had influenced him greatly, extending trust and respect to him and setting him up in a mechanic shop of his own. His Uncle Anthony and Aunt Barbara never lost faith in him. Every good seed planted by others eventually bore fruit in Robert’s life. 

Robert described the moment when his mother told him she had cancer as the most dramatic turning point in his life. He threw away his book of contacts from his old life and dedicated himself to caring for her. Robert said he started to see another way to live. After her death, he felt adrift and almost lost himself again.

With time and struggle, Robert found stability within himself and in his life. He learned to value every life and treasure every moment. He demonstrated this as a fierce protector, a generous benefactor, and a loyal friend. HIs phone is full of names titled “Brother”, “Sister”,  “Bonus Son”, “Bonus Daughter”, “Adopted Grandson”, and so on. Everyone he knew he considered as family, not just as friends. He gave love easily and fully, and woe to anyone who threatened harm to his loved ones!

Robert had extra patience for children and animals. He nursed our little dogs when they were sick. They all adored him–he gave them extra treats!! He tried to act tough. He would bellow at them, “Get outta my chair,” right before scooping them up and putting them on his lap. He loved his boxer Stevie so very much, and he is probably roughhousing with him at this very moment! 

He loved time with young people, especially if he could teach them something useful, like how to air up a tire or tighten a bolt. The exchange students who spent time at our house ended up calling him Grandpa. He charmed the ladies, young and old. At Allsup’s they cooked his food just the way he liked. The nurses in the hospital would tolerate his teasing and bring him milk and peanut butter on command. His secret? He simply treated people the way he wanted to be treated. 

My nephew simply described Robert as “a lot”, which sums him up well! Robert filled a room with his presence and his personality. He was impossible to ignore, and he insisted on connecting with everyone. He made you feel like the most important person around and devoted his full attention to you. He did not live by a schedule; he lived fully in the present. He said he believed in living each day as if it was his last, and he succeeded. 

If you went somewhere with Robert, you didn’t know when you would be back. We once set out to go to a garage sale or two, and returned about seven hours later with a pickup and flatbed trailer loaded down with a toolbox, a huge ladder, various household items, and a hulking, old SUV! He could not resist a good bargain, even if it was something he absolutely did not need. Robert loved to trade, mostly in cars, tools, and engines. He liked the challenge of taking something that was not working and making it like new again. He had a natural mechanical mind. He used this gift to benefit all around him.

If Robert did something, he often did it to excess. Go big or go home! If we needed a flashlight by the door, let’s have one by every door and in every vehicle. If one pizza will serve everyone, let’s get three, just in case. Someone needs to inform the corporate offices of Harbor Freight, Braum’s (he loved their whole milk) and Dr. Pepper that their profits may drop, since Robert is no longer buying from them! 

Robert knew his own faults, and could take teasing as well as dish it out. We laughed so often and so much. Robert would often joke about me being a mean old teacher. When he would brag about a chore he’d completed, I would tell him he had earned another sticker. Then he would complain that I owed him an awful lot of stickers! I hope he knows that he deserved all the gold stars. 

Robert’s love language was giving and fixing. Ask some of his friends how many times they were out at his shop and left with stuff they didn’t know they needed! Or when he insisted visitors leave with a Dr. Pepper in one hand and some gadget in the other. Once I saw him empty his wallet for an acquaintance he saw at the convenience store. The young man had lost his job and desperately needed help for his young family. If someone was cold, Robert would give them blankets and a heater. If a family was struggling, he would buy them groceries. If someone’s car broke down, he would drop everything to help. 

Robert loved us all big, and we loved him back. Robert valued his life here, but he also knew and longed to return to his eternal home. No more pain, no more sadness, no more struggles. HIs beautiful golden heart has finished its journey and rests in peace, harmony, and love in the arms of God.

We love you, now and forever, Robert Glenn Eddings (5-6-59).

                                                                                As remembered by Joyce Martin,

Robert’s life partner, lover, & friend    

© 2025 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. 

You may also find my writing on Joyce Martin on Medium

If you choose, you may tip my writing at: 

https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Substack link: joyous461.substack.com

Reality

The only constant in grief

Image of Robert by Author

If I pretend hard enough, this awful reality won’t be true.

Robert’s truck is in the driveway. He must be out in his shop working.

He isn’t in his chair. He must have gone to Braum’s to buy milk.

A delivery came to the door. No doubt more car parts he ordered!

He receives emails and text messages on his phone. He has to respond.

See? Proof he’s still with me.

All his medicine sits on the bathroom counter. I need to remind him to take it.

HIs rumpled, dirty clothes lie in the hamper. He had to be around to wear them.

Ads and bills arrive in the mailbox in his name. He has to be here to open them.

His wallet, keys, and glasses rest on the buffet. He will grab them up on his way out.

Then the stillness returns, dragging reality along. Robert is gone. Physically gone. Gone in all the tangible ways.

He died of a heart attack in the yard. Period.

Reality sticks his foot in the door and won’t budge.

Yet I hear Robert in my ear:

maintain the cars–tend to the oil changes and start them regularly;

be fully present and make the most of every day;

help someone and reach out if you need help;

change the filter in the heat pump when the season changes;

your students rely on you because teaching is your purpose;

check on our friends and welcome them into our home;

take care of our girls for me…

But the girls–daughters, granddaughters, sisters convulse into sobs, the primal moans and language of denial and grief ripping across the house.

I cannot shield them from this agony. We cling together until the wave subsides.

Reality invades.

Even the men–strong, protective, stalwart–cry, which leaves me totally undone.

Yet the memories bring laughter.

Remember when L surprised Papa, but he thought M had a boy in the house?

Did y’all know he and I nearly broke the recliner when we both sat on it?

Oh, yeah! And that night when you-know-who tried to get Robert to dance, and he retreated behind the car?

Or the day he lost the tool he needed, bought another one, and found the original immediately after he finished fixing the car.

So we all laughed and cried and remembered, over and over, until the sharpest pain eased.

But then reality roars back in.

Now it’s harder to hear Robert in my heart’s ear. What would he want me to do? How can I honor him? Will I have the strength to push through?

Reality has nothing to say.

Silence remains.

****************************************************************************

We are trudging up a long, steep incline, but this is the Joyous Road, and we will find memories and experiences that restore us.

Please share with me how you traveled through grief and found your way back to joy.

We need each other to lean on sometimes, and a faith in better days ahead.

Thank you all for your sympathy, love, and kindness. It helps.

© 2025 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate your support.

Please subscribe!

You may also find my writing on Joyce Martin on Medium

If you choose, you may tip my writing at: 

https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Substack link: joyous461.substack.com

Stepping out in freedom

You have to fly to be free!

Life has a way of happening. 

Remember the bumper sticker from Forrest Gump? Shit happens.

So does life, and almost always not the way we planned. 

The limits of opportunity, and the currents of expectations often sweep us away when we’re young. Our elders urge us to be practical. So I became a teacher of language and raised a family. Then I had so many years invested in teaching, it wasn’t practical to change careers. 

We have obligations, responsibilities, restrictions. Our loved ones depend on us. We have to make that mortgage payment and pay the electric bill. Stability gives us security, and we and our families need that.

By the time we are in our 50’s or 60’s, it’s even more difficult to change course. We may be nearing the end of a full career but want something more.

So now what?

I’m likely in the last year of my teaching career, and retirement looks like a precipice. I am headed right for it, and I don’t know what awaits me.

Keep in mind I am speaking from a place of fragile self-esteem. I crumble under criticism, sensitive to scrutiny of any kind. It’s much easier to hide under the fear of failure than to brave success. 

But those dreams from our younger years still live. Is it too late? 

Is it ever too late? 

I had dreams of being a published writer. I’ve written poetry, short stories, fragments of books, and have journalled for years.I even wrote a few pieces for print newspapers when they still had a paying audience–a tiny taste of what might be possible.

As I begin writing again, I expect to feel some satisfaction and to encounter some challenges. I’ve already encountered both. In the coming months, I hope to find fulfillment and a modest income to supplement my retirement.

I am stepping off the cliff, and I still don’t know if I will soar or fall flat on my face. 

How do I direct my course? A tip of the wing here, a slight adjustment there… 

What I didn’t expect? Others flying with me, to curb the turbulence. Look at the view!

I feel light and free!

Can anyone relate? Are you struggling with a turning point in your life, a pivotal moment in which you might change the trajectory of your future? It’s terrifying, but exhilarating! 

Give yourself permission to go for it, to take the chance, to put yourself out there. 

In the smallest and largest of ways, step out and fly! 

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on Joyce Martin on Medium & http://joyous461.substack.com

You may tip my writing at: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Oh, You’re a Teacher?

Then do you have the right skills for the “real world”?

Note & disclaimer: These are my opinions and observations, based on anecdotal research, but please give them some consideration. I am a teacher approaching retirement from education, looking to transition to other employment.

With teachers leaving education in droves (due to unsustainable work loads, low pay, student behaviors, etc.), they obviously are seeking employment elsewhere. 

Though many are older, they are not necessarily ready for full retirement. They must transition into other career paths. While willing to take a pay cut temporarily, they need jobs with opportunities to advance on the pay scale. 

If the many posts on groups for transitioning teachers provide any indication, former educators face a particular kind of bias in the corporate world. 

They are told to revamp their resumes to downplay language related to education: don’t say “students”, say “clients”; don’t say “teacher”, say “manager”; don’t say “lesson plans”, say “project plans”, and so on.

This advice sounds disingenuous to me. If we have been teachers, how can we represent ourselves otherwise? That’s dishonest. 

However, some say that teachers have to, or corporate America (and the bots they use to screen applicants) will eliminate an application before a human even looks at it.

Then if the application and resume even makes it past that hurdle, those hiring still have a patronizing and inaccurate impression of educators and their skill sets. 

Interestingly, those employers who have given previous teachers positions as project managers, trainers, and so on, seem quite pleased with their performance. 

So where is the disconnect? 

Perhaps many recruiters simply do not realize what educators bring with them.

In the mid-sized high school where I teach, these are examples of skills implemented by educators on a routine basis:

1.The teacher of higher-level math classes also acts as the liaison between the local community college and students in dual-credit classes, organizes academic meets involving dozens of staff members and hundreds of students, and plans and submits budgets for those programs.

2.The coach teaches history and geography classes and handles his athletic coaching responsibilities while also coaching extemporaneous speakers, and still maintains a high teaching standard in his classroom.

3. The theater teacher raises money for, directs, and brings to fruition two large productions (one for competition) every academic year, while also teaching theater classes and mentoring the junior high program.

4. The special-ed teacher plans (and finds funds for) hands-on activities that help students learn life skills and interact with regular-ed students and the public, all while following detailed educational plans to satisfy the requirements of state and federal law.

5. The regular-ed classroom teacher leads her science department, mentors other teachers in her field, and wins student respect and trust through her excellent and consistent teaching style, preparing her students for success in post-secondary education and careers. 

I could go on and on, just thinking of individual educators in my small circle. Keep in mind all these folks have bachelor’s degrees, and many advanced degrees as well, and years of experience communicating, prioritizing, managing, and implementing their assigned responsibilities. 

Yet, these same educators would likely encounter bias and skepticism in the “real world”. I would challenge corporate employers to step into our “real world” and see how they do! 

Believe me, nothing is more realistic than teaching in the current cultural and political climate!

Give us a chance, y’all!

If you would like to see more articles on education, culture, and personal well-being, please connect to and support my writing. 

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on Joyce Martin on Medium

You may tip my writing at: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Substack link: joyous461.substack.com

Welcome to my Pep Talk!

I come from a long line of………………………….wait for it……………………………………….procrastinators!

You may have seen the joke: 

I’m such a good crastinator… that I went pro!

Sorry, I had to do it! Anyway, the point is, (if I ever get to it) I often put off until tomorrow what I could do today, which is not the way it’s supposed to go.

Can anyone relate? Am I a lone voice shouting in the wilderness, or are there others?

I have battled this tendency all my life, with some success. I have managed to raise a family, teach for 30 years, and keep body and soul together. Yet I have postponed pursuing some of my deepest ambitions. Frankly, I’m running out of time.

Causes of procrastination–

Why do I procrastinate? Lately, I have scrutinized the root causes of what may be slowing me down and found ways to get past them, at least some of the time. Maybe some of this applies to you as well.

Feeling overwhelmed:

So much to do and so little time! Life is hectic for most of us. I’m still a full-time teacher, and I work two side hustles. Add onto that trying to launch my writing online and manage a household and personal life, and I have a recipe for exhaustion and discouragement. I suspect you face similar challenges. 

Some of us do not multitask well. I have tried to skip from one thing to another; sometimes my jobs demand that. Then I end up highly distracted and frustrated, starting various tasks and completing none. Not a recipe for success.

Fear of failure:

Most of us know this insidious feeling of possible failure. It can be quite subtle and vague, taking form in excuses like, “I need to wait until I know more,” or, “My work isn’t polished enough yet.” We practice and we dawdle, we meander and chase wild geese. We fantasize and romanticize future possible success, but do nothing to achieve it.

Perfectionism plays into this. Those of us who want our work to be absolutely the best will overthink, tweak, and edit until the cows come home. Sometimes we have to give ourselves permission to just get it done. Nothing will ever be absolutely perfect, so let it go!

Let’s face it. We are afraid of falling flat on our face. Once our creative content or work is out there, it’s out there! Conversely, we are sometimes afraid of success! What if we can’t handle it? As long as we stall, no one knows how good or bad our work is. We can escape scrutiny and criticism. We also cheat ourselves out of growth and progress. 

Low self-esteem:

This one is painful and hard to admit. Sometimes I just don’t believe in myself, or don’t value myself enough to think I am worth the effort. Why try if no one cares, or if they will ridicule my efforts? If I’m so–insert negative adjectives here–why bother? How ridiculous to think that I could ever–insert positive accomplishments here. How dare I think I’m like other people! I’ve always been less…

This kind of negative self-talk often comes from trauma in childhood or early relationships. I don’t know about you, but once it starts going around in my mind, it’s tough to squelch. This leads to “imposter syndrome” and a sense of not belonging. Combine that with a timid, self-reflective nature, and you have an effective roadblock to self-worth and motivation. 

Laziness:

Okay. This one is embarrassing, and you don’t often see it recognized as a cause for procrastination. It applies to me, though, if I’m honest. I am basically a lazy person! Would I rather read, watch movies, doze, and snack on the couch rather than tackle that next article or pile of papers to grade? Duh! I think I could benefit from a lazy support group, set up like AA, where I have to openly say, “I am a lazy person.” 

My excuse? I’m tired. All the time. So it’s hard to push on and do one more thing. But everyone has the same 24 hours each day. Successful people don’t quit until they are done. I want to quit when I get tired and discouraged. Where can I find the drive to break through that languor?

Strategies to overcome procrastination–

Ironically, the best way to overcome all these roadblocks is to successfully meet some of the very goals that I believe I can’t do. But how, exactly? I need specific strategies!

Prioritize and schedule:

The need to succeed is not immediate. Necessity is the mother of invention. Why? Because if you have to get it done or you will not have food, clothing, or shelter, will lose your job or the house, or something equally dire, that’s enough of a kick in the pants to get us going. So we have to find ways to trick ourselves into a feeling of urgency, but everything cannot be considered urgent at once. 

First, list your goals. Under each goal, list the specific tasks needed to achieve those goals. Then, under each goal, prioritize those tasks that must be done first. If each task still feels overwhelming, break it down into smaller chunks, so it isn’t as intimidating. 

Some people love online time management tools. I’m old-school and still prefer paper planners and calendars. It doesn’t matter, as long as you can see and organize all the tasks you have to do. Prioritizing is essential, though, to establish and fulfill a plan and get it done!

Require Accountability:

This is a tough one. To establish accountability, set some deadlines for yourself. Ask a friend, or even your creative community, to hold you accountable, if that helps. These deadlines might coincide with what others expect of you, or they may be totally up to you. 

We have to make accomplishing these tasks worthwhile in order to achieve them. How do we do this? One way is to withhold from ourselves small rewards, such as going out for a movie, buying that coffee, or reading a favorite book, until after we mark off a task from our list. Control your work and  leisure time. Work before play, as the old saying goes

Self-discipline is tough! Try to visualize the smaller, specific accomplishments along the way, and not just the larger goal. For example, imagine the day when you will have your first 50 subscribers on Substack, and not just the vague day when you will have a successful newsletter.

Empower yourself:

It’s easier to play the victim. Then we can blame someone else if we don’t succeed. But we are better than that! We are capable. If we are lacking skills, we have the power to learn, practice, and improve. Life will happen, whether we are passive or active. Obviously, we cannot control everything, but we can control our actions and reactions.

The more we accomplish, the more motivated we will be. Momentum is a real thing. Success is empowering!

It’s a journey. Let’s go!

Please understand. I am writing this to clarify for myself what I need to do. I hope it helps you as well.

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on Joyce Martin on Medium

You may tip my writing at: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Substack link: Joyous Road on Substack

“Sunday Scaries”

And the end of winter break pajama days…

Monday has no mercy. It’s coming toward me like a freight train, and I’m tied to the tracks! As a teacher, I always have this feeling of impending doom, especially after a long break. Hence the term “Sunday Scaries.” 

It’s not that I dislike teaching. Quite the contrary. It’s not the nature of teaching I dread; it’s the pace of it. Mondays are like jumping on a treadmill that is already going full tilt, without getting thrown off into last week.

In contrast, pajama days are the best! I make what I call my “Nest” on the couch, with reading material, my journal, my planner, my laptop, and phone all within reach. Snug in my pajamas and under a soft blanket, I can drift from doing a little work online, to reading an intriguing book, to doing a snippet of writing… 

But until I figure out how to make a living from my “nest”, I have to return to work on Mondays. I admit that during extended pajama days, I let myself go a bit. Just small things–dribbles of coffee down my front, hair sticking up, and garish pairings of stretched-out T-shirts and pajama pants.

I don’t realize how far I’ve fallen until, after four or five days, I have to put on regular clothing and a bit of makeup to go to the store, and my significant other doesn’t immediately recognize me. For a second, he looks startled–even a little frightened, thinking a strange woman is in the house. 

I am beyond middle age and have faced the fact that I am basically a lazy person. Given a choice, I would rather cuddle up with hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls, or tea, chips, and guac, than venture out each day to save the world. 

I want the biggest result for the least effort. There, I said it. Did I mention that I am also an introvert? As long as I can communicate with a few humans via the internet (I love the layer of physical separation provided), and have my books and writing, I’m content. 

I am who I am. So, I’m going with it. I will face the “Sunday Scaries”, make myself venture back to the classroom, then retreat back to my “Nest” on the very next pajama day. 

Here’s to more pajama days!

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

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Christmas Shopping Perils

Heaving and Lurching to the Holidays (but not in the way you think)!

With Christmas only days away, I made a dashing trip to the store to get a head start on all the holiday shopping and preparations. I had my list and my good humor. All was well as I wheeled into the parking lot, found a parking space a moderate distance from the door, and strolled past the bell-ringers, with the good intention of giving something on my way out, of course. (Hint to bell-ringers:  people have a higher proclivity for giving on their way in the store than on their way out). 

I pulled a cart from the line and plopped my purse in the child seat. I smiled at the cheery Christmas music playing over the loudspeaker system and the colorful sales displays. As this was the large discount store that I routinely frequent, I took my habitual route, covering the pharmacy area first. It was there that I discovered that when I turned a corner, my buggy did not necessarily turn with me. Oh well, a little heave and lurch and I was at the cough drops. (Hint to shoppers:  check the mobility of your cart before leaving the cart area). 

Now I faced the first of many bewildering choices, which is not a problem except for those who are indecisive, which I am. Did I want cherry, lemon, or herbal; or natural, soothing, or effective, or brand-name or generic, or with vitamin C, E, or zinc? I closed my eyes and grabbed a bag. 

Another heave and lurch, and I rounded the corner and the glorious Christmas display came in view: stockings and gift tins, bright wrapping and tinsel, trees and even a Santa. As I approached, I could see that Santa looked a little depressed and a lot bored, as there were no kids about and a long day ahead. I gave him a sympathetic smile as I heaved and lurched past him to the gift-wrapping supplies. (Hint to shoppers:  don’t get too friendly with Santa, as he can be desperate for adult conversation and detain you for hours). 

I emerged from the Christmas area some time later after determining, with difficulty, that I needed the assortment of gift boxes, the assortment of gift tags, the assortment of tissue paper, and the assortment of gift wrap. Whoever thought of the assortment packaging was a marketing genius. 

While passing the paint station, I decided to take the plunge and choose just the right shade for the back bathroom, as I planned to quickly paint it during my spare time on Christmas break. (Hint to homeowners:  do not plan home improvement projects during the holidays). After scrutinizing the 63 different shades of beige, rose, and peach for half an hour, I couldn’t decide. I furtively pocketed the entire selection of color cards and made a beeline for house wares.

Safe territory at last!  I could quickly pick up some gifts and finally make some progress. Blankets make great gifts, and I had noticed an earlier display of reasonably priced plush blankets in an array of colors and sizes. I was not the only one. The lady at the other end of the aisle had noticed them too. We had a stare down and fought a wordless battle for the last queen-sized blue blanket. Let’s just say I emerged from the fray with a full-sized brown blanket, and was happy to get it.

A few heaves and lurches later, and I arrived at the electronics department. Great gifts to be had all around, but they could wait. I might even skip the store-bought gifts this year. Who wants DVDs, cell phones, or cameras when they can have something homemade to treasure always? Never mind, don’t answer that question. 

On the grocery side, I lurched along fairly efficiently, only because I’ve done it a thousand times: eggs and milk, chips and detergent, and so on. I even remembered to pick up a fly swatter in the cleaning aisle. I was increasingly hungry, so I grabbed a few dozen tempting items from the frozen food cases. (Hint to shoppers:  do not shop for food while famished). One more pass through the deli, and I was on my way!

The aroma of the lemon pepper chicken ambushed me. I balanced one on top of the paper towels and headed for the checkout. It was time to be brave, so I heaved and lurched into the self-checkout line. With the help of the entire store management and divine intervention, it only took thirty minutes to scan and pay for my purchases. 

The disorientation set in on the way out the door. Mental exhaustion and physical hunger had taken their toll. The sickening realization that I had forgotten the toilet paper and where I had parked overtook me. I purposely headed toward the parking lot anyway.

Witnesses later reported seeing a distraught woman, with disheveled hair and haggard eyes, doing the heave and lurch with her shopping buggy in circles around the parking lot. Most kindly averted their eyes and went on their way. They knew that next time, it could be them. 

Disclaimer:  All products, persons, and places alluded to in this writing bear little actual resemblance to anything, anybody, or any place anywhere that had any real part in this most unfortunate experience.

 © 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved 

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

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