Margo's Musings

When Silence Knows Better  

that little voice7 Comments

We make decisions all day long. Some are small, like what is for dinner. Others come with paperwork, shame, and a credit score, like whether to file for bankruptcy or leave town.

Most choices are not clean. They come with options, opinions, second guessing, and a lot of internal noise. We weigh them, talk about them, worry over them, cry about them, sometimes shout about them, and sometimes avoid them altogether, which is its own kind of decision.

Do I?
Don’t I?
Will I?
Won’t I?
How do I know what to do?

For me, the hardest part is telling my mind to be quiet long enough for something wiser to speak. I have to put a gag on my racing thoughts and turn up the volume on my soul.

That is not my natural setting.

I do not want to wait. I want to act. Quickly. I want to choose something, anything, and move on. Right or wrong, I will deal with the consequences later, preferably at high speed and without reflection.

Sometimes that works.

Other times I find myself tumbling downhill, gathering momentum, watching the wreckage pile up behind me. The damage gets recorded somewhere permanent, and there is no eraser in sight.

That is when I take a deep breath, invent an excuse no one believes, and mentally pack my bags for another street, town, country, or planet. Consequences are inconvenient that way.

But here is what I have learned, slowly and often the hard way. When I stop, really stop, and wait quietly, something steadier begins to surface. A nudge. A whisper. A direction that does not always make sense but feels strangely calm.

It is not always the answer I want. It is rarely the one that lets me save face. But it is usually the one that does the least damage.

At this age, I have walked through enough messes to know I will survive the next one. I have faced emotional train wrecks, awkward truths, and humiliating realities, and I am still here. A little dented, a lot wrinkled, but breathing.

I carry memories, regrets, victories, and gratitude in equal measure. I also carry the small miracle that some people still answer my phone calls.

That feels like luck to me.

When I look back, I would not trade the stumbles for a smoother road. The heartbreaks, the detours, and the improbable victories all made me who I am. This life, complicated and imperfect, has been mine to live.

And if I am lucky, I will keep listening just long enough to hear where to go next.

jusjojan daily prompt

Chewing or Chewy?

that little voice3 Comments

I’m so cheeky today; just indulge me while I get back into the blogging groove. Here is my response to today’s jusjojan’s prompt ‘chewy’. I’m not sure if this one is chewing or just finding that morsel chewy.

What say you?

https://lindaghill.com/2026/01/12/daily-prompt-jusjojan-the-12th-2026/

Cosmic Photo Challenge

Still Life?

that little voice2 Comments

So, I don’t know if this is still alive…that’s the reason I wonder: Still Life?

This is my response to this cosmic photo challenge. Your guess is as good as mine.

https://cosmicphotochallenge.photo.blog/2026/01/12/the-cosmic-photo-challenge-still-life/

being · Hazards of Being Old

Wanted: Dead or Elderly

that little voice7 Comments

I have been officially notified.
I am elderly.

This revelation arrived at the county jail, where I was being fingerprinted for a passport. No crimes were involved. Apparently, even law-abiding grandmothers must now surrender their fingers to the federal government.

Gone are the days of ink-smeared thumbs and blotchy cards. Now fingerprints are taken digitally, which requires spraying your hands with a mysterious blend of window cleaner and lotion. My fingers were slick, shiny, and feeling slightly violated.

Then came the problem.

Several of my fingers refused to cooperate. They would not give up their ridges and swirls. The computer just kept blinking at me like I was trying to log in with the wrong password.

The fingerprint technician pulled out a form letter that explained why my prints could not be captured. It was not subtle. It did not say “fine lines” or “minor wear.” It said, plainly and without mercy:
She is old.

Not “her fingers are old.”
Not “age-related degradation.”
Just… old.

As he read this to me, a man reclining in the jail cell behind us added, in a drunken slur, “Well, she looks old too.”

I did not realize aging erased parts of our identity. First the shine leaves our hair. Then the smoothness leaves our skin. And now, apparently, our fingerprints pack up and quietly disappear.

Still, there is an upside.

If I ever commit a crime, the authorities will have no way to track me. My permanent record is now blurry. All they will know is that the culprit was… elderly.

Which means somewhere out there, a wrinkled woman is free to roam, unidentifiable, and possibly dangerous.

It depends.

Margo's Musings

The Twelve-Accident Plan

that little voice2 Comments

Sharing can be a surprising and stressful sacrifice, especially when you live with four teenagers who have driver’s licenses but only three cars filling the driveway.

Sometimes sharing means reluctantly handing over the keys to your personal vehicle so a newly licensed driver can shuttle a sibling to band practice, football workouts, or the grocery store for mushrooms needed in the stew bubbling on the stove.

This simple act of transferring the start button should not cause one’s blood pressure to spike or reduce a grown adult to fearful tears. Obviously, if you don’t react this way, you have never been a step-parent to a houseful of raging, hormonal teenagers.

In our family dynamic, I was the one who received the phone calls when a driving “incident” occurred. I owned a business, which meant I could bolt out the door to a crash site without asking permission or getting my pay docked. This quick response was required so often I realized I needed a plan.

I gathered the three girls and one boy around the dining room table and presented a well-thought-out way forward, designed to preserve my sanity and emotional balance whenever the phone rang.

My proposal was simple. Each driver would be allotted three accidents, for a total of twelve emergency calls. These could include flat tires, crashes with city buses, gear-shifting failures, cars lodged in hedges after taking curves too fast, or ambulance rides ending at the hospital with one of my so-called bulletproof drivers.

The list was extensive, but twelve felt generous. Surely it would provide a cushion before my pending nervous breakdown became official.

I asked the four young, inexperienced motorists to keep a tally of their incidents so they would know when their accidents were supposed to stop happening.

It was a brilliant plan—if you are naïve, optimistic, and unfamiliar with teenagers.

The system failed quickly. One child logged five accidents, another racked up four, and one counted two and a half. That left only half an accident for the fourth driver, which felt deeply unfair. How many people actually have half an accident?

That was the lesson. Step-parenting does not operate on plans, logic, or math. You simply suck it up and accept that sharing your ideas will not keep you from crying, sweating, or memorizing your cardiologist’s phone number.

Another slice of life—burnt edges and all.

Margo's Musings

Rock and Dream

that little voice1 Comment

Walking up a street I’ve traversed tens of times, I noticed this artwork on a door. It doesn’t appear to be newly painted, but it is the first time I saw it, and I had to take a picture.

I’m intrigued whether this is the home of a retired grandparent indicating it is a place to have a story read to a child while being lovingly rocked cuddled in a padded lap.

Or perhaps it is the story of someone who is wanting to slow down and their wish is to spend time reflecting and relaxing.

Whatever the message, this painting filled me with warm joy.

Uncategorized

Which Way with Vehicles

that little voice2 Comments

Recently, that means within the last year or two, Deb at https://gfpacificbeeintrospection.com/2025/02/21/2025-which-way-challenge-cwwc-february-week-3-any-which-way-with-roads-with-vehicles-and-or-traffic/ called for a Which Way prompt with roads, vehicles and or traffic. I do understand I am almost a year late in answering this prompt, but on a recent walk in San Miguel de Allende, MX I saw this walkway beneath a highway with this painting of a train barreling down the path.

Couldn’t resist this unique shot…so I am sharing it, and wishing you a Happy 2026!

Margo's Musings

Holiday Panic

that little voice4 Comments

December arrives like a sleigh with faulty brakes. You are instantly transported into the Great Countdown: twenty days before the Big Day and at least twenty before Release Day, when we collectively swear never again and mean it for almost eight minutes.

Holiday Overload begins the moment you walk into a store, turn on the TV, or open WhatsApp. One peppermint-scented advertisement, one last turkey weighing more than your car, and suddenly you are three cookies deep into crisis management.

Between locating ingredients for brown gravy, explaining to your family why the only turkey left was twenty-five pounds for three people, and trying to remember if wrapping paper counts as a deductible, you are now fluent in festive panic.

If you are experiencing any of the following symptoms, take comfort that you are not alone. You are simply an adult in December.

  • Mild panic or sharp desire to relocate
  • Sleep interrupted by to-do lists or fruitcakes
  • Restlessness followed by sudden cookie immobilization
  • Sweaty palms, cold feet, or tingling in areas best left undescribed
  • Breathing inconsistently, as though your lungs are also making lists
  • Heart palpitations, specifically near mall parking lots
  • Dry mouth from repeating “I’m fine” too often
  • Weakness caused by seeing the credit card total

You may be tempted to seek solutions. Experts recommend the following. Please note, I am not one of those experts.

  • Create a budget, assuming you still have finances
  • Remember perfection is a myth, especially in family gatherings
  • Meet with a counselor, mostly so you can point to someone when asked who agreed this was a good idea
  • Lower expectations. Your mother will still be your mother. Your father may still require supervision
  • Meditate by imagining yourself in a distant place free of ribbons, deadlines, and people who say “relax”
  • Then take a walk to locate transportation to said place

The good news? Holiday Overload only lasts another twenty-five days. After that, we return to our regularly scheduled anxieties. Some involving turkey leftovers.

Festival of Leaves

Festival of Leaves

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Some leaves for the final week of this challenge from Festival of Leaves. Hope you enjoy seeing them as I did photographing them.

Margo's Musings

Now What?

that little voice6 Comments

We spend a lot of energy planning what comes next—until suddenly, we’ve arrived. We step away from a project, survive a crisis, send the last child off with casserole recipes and a prayer, or retire from a job we’ve loved and resented in equal measure. Then the silence creeps in and the real question whispers, “Well? You wanted this… now what?”

That question shows up in every season of life. After high school. After the first marital disagreement over laundry protocol. After the final move-out, when the perfectly curated nest echoes with possibility and dust. Even after retirement, when getting out of bed no longer requires an ID badge or alarm clock. It doesn’t stop with age. From what I’ve seen, it trails us right up to the final chapter.

I can’t say I’ve stood quite at the edge of life’s cliff and asked that question directly. If I’ve been close, I must have been preoccupied,possibly looking away from the drama, likely missing the moment entirely. But aging has taught me this: the mystery isn’t what’s ahead, it’s how I choose to see today’s steps, missteps, stumbles and blunders.

Because the surprises don’t stop. Words slip out sideways. Faces show up at the wrong time. Thoughts wander into the conversation uninvited. Reality rarely knocks first. No day repeats itself, thank goodness.

These days, when my neighbor takes a jab at my brownies, I no longer argue with myself about whether they count as food. I’ve accepted that one bite could endanger dental work. Instead, I suggest we drive to the bakery, on her credit card. That’s what growth looks like in my kitchen.

My reaction is the one thing I get to rewrite. If I laughed last time, I’m allowed to take offense today. Or laugh harder. Or set a shorter timer. Or take a nap.

The mature version of me knows I have choices. I no longer hand the microphone to my spitball-throwing grade-school self, though she still auditions. Instead, I let truth sit beside me and remind me there’s a reason I failed home economics. Turns out, even when the cake caves or the plan collapses, it’s still possible to say, “Well… I asked for this. Now what?”
Sometimes the answer is a new recipe. Sometimes, it’s a shopping trip.