The whole match thing must be on my mind even more than I realize.
Dreamed I got married. It was a small but beautiful ceremony held in a grand ballroom. All my favorite people were there and I was happy, happy. The man I married was younger than I and extremely handsome--dark, curly hair, great smile, kind eyes. We circulated separately through the crowd, talking and laughing with people, then sat together to have dinner.
Later I walked by a table of gifts and saw that someone had made a quilt for us. I cried and cried as I looked at it and recognized all the love that had gone into it.
I danced and celebrated with friends. In a conversation it became clear that I had not yet known my new husband (in the biblical sense), and then someone mentioned that he'd left the party and gone upstairs. Everyone encouraged me to join him in the honeymoon suite.
Thank God I woke up before I had to show that gorgeous guy my cellulite.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Saturday, August 04, 2007
No Match
I did it. I joined match.com. So far, the news is not good.
In my age range, widowed men are somewhat common and I thought this might be better than the typical had-a-mid-life-crisis-and-left-my-wife crowd.
Last Wednesday I met a college professor for a glass of wine. From his dead-fish handshake to his way of assuming my agreement with everything he said rather than asking, this man was not for me. A widower for 10 years, he expressed great anger over his wife's fate and his own. Raising two kids alone, pre-teen at the time of their mother's death, was not his idea of how life would go. No one imagines such a thing, but 10 years ought to be enough to start to get a grip on it, epecially if you're in the mental health field.
Warning: I'm about to be terribly petty. Stop reading now if you don't want to harsh your mellow.
I couldn't stop staring at this guy's head. He looks like AARP's version of Charlie Brown: a completely round head. Spherical. A beach ball with ears. Mostly bald, he keeps what little ginger-colored hair he has very closely cropped and dozens of liver-colored old age spots cover his scalp. If he carried a football, people would offer to hold it for him to kick.
Saturday I met an architect for lunch. I knew it would not go well but had already committed to it by the time I recognized just what a train wreck it would be. When we talked on the phone before meeting, he described his various cars in great detail but said he'd be driving his Mercedes (the big one, the biggest one they make) to lunch. At every juncture, he took pains to leave clues that he's very, very rich.
He also left clues that he's very, very angry. His wife died a year and a half ago, and he didn't have a kind word to say about her family or anyone else who tried to help during her protracted illness.
It only got worse in person. He spent most of the lunch talking smack about his wife's family and even his wife herself. Evidently, she was not a model patient. Just wouldn't do as she was told. Oh, dear.
It didn't matter because his personality was not the least bit appealing, but he had gained the equivalent of a 5th grader since his profile photos were taken and had passed the my-hair-desperately-needs-cut stage about many weeks ago. Even so, washing it might have helped.
Maybe it looks better in the mirror of his Mercedes.
Appearance is not everything, not even the main thing. It's my experience that when people are dear to me, they look dear. But it's got to start with some spark, some kind of mental or spiritual connection, and there were no sparks. None. Nada. Sparkless.
Critically dry forests were completely safe in our midsts. You could have pumped pure oxygen into the room without a moment's concern for our safety or your own. Children could have worn pajamas without flame-retardant chemicals and not even the Consumer Products Safety Commission would have objected.
The inimitable Jennifer Calliandro once told me that at my age, I had to expect guys to have baggage. She suggested I look for someone whose baggage is more carry-on than steamer trunk.
Lord knows (and so do I) that I've got my own issues but Geesh, this was ridiculous. It would take six Sherpas each to carry this kind of baggage.
(big sigh)
Okay, I'm back to my better nature now. Feel free to shake your head and cluck your tongue over what a judgmental witch I can be.
In my age range, widowed men are somewhat common and I thought this might be better than the typical had-a-mid-life-crisis-and-left-my-wife crowd.
Last Wednesday I met a college professor for a glass of wine. From his dead-fish handshake to his way of assuming my agreement with everything he said rather than asking, this man was not for me. A widower for 10 years, he expressed great anger over his wife's fate and his own. Raising two kids alone, pre-teen at the time of their mother's death, was not his idea of how life would go. No one imagines such a thing, but 10 years ought to be enough to start to get a grip on it, epecially if you're in the mental health field.
Warning: I'm about to be terribly petty. Stop reading now if you don't want to harsh your mellow.
I couldn't stop staring at this guy's head. He looks like AARP's version of Charlie Brown: a completely round head. Spherical. A beach ball with ears. Mostly bald, he keeps what little ginger-colored hair he has very closely cropped and dozens of liver-colored old age spots cover his scalp. If he carried a football, people would offer to hold it for him to kick.
Saturday I met an architect for lunch. I knew it would not go well but had already committed to it by the time I recognized just what a train wreck it would be. When we talked on the phone before meeting, he described his various cars in great detail but said he'd be driving his Mercedes (the big one, the biggest one they make) to lunch. At every juncture, he took pains to leave clues that he's very, very rich.
He also left clues that he's very, very angry. His wife died a year and a half ago, and he didn't have a kind word to say about her family or anyone else who tried to help during her protracted illness.
It only got worse in person. He spent most of the lunch talking smack about his wife's family and even his wife herself. Evidently, she was not a model patient. Just wouldn't do as she was told. Oh, dear.
It didn't matter because his personality was not the least bit appealing, but he had gained the equivalent of a 5th grader since his profile photos were taken and had passed the my-hair-desperately-needs-cut stage about many weeks ago. Even so, washing it might have helped.
Maybe it looks better in the mirror of his Mercedes.
Appearance is not everything, not even the main thing. It's my experience that when people are dear to me, they look dear. But it's got to start with some spark, some kind of mental or spiritual connection, and there were no sparks. None. Nada. Sparkless.
Critically dry forests were completely safe in our midsts. You could have pumped pure oxygen into the room without a moment's concern for our safety or your own. Children could have worn pajamas without flame-retardant chemicals and not even the Consumer Products Safety Commission would have objected.
The inimitable Jennifer Calliandro once told me that at my age, I had to expect guys to have baggage. She suggested I look for someone whose baggage is more carry-on than steamer trunk.
Lord knows (and so do I) that I've got my own issues but Geesh, this was ridiculous. It would take six Sherpas each to carry this kind of baggage.
(big sigh)
Okay, I'm back to my better nature now. Feel free to shake your head and cluck your tongue over what a judgmental witch I can be.
Chasing My Tail
Read an interesting little novel by Fannie Flagg yesterday (Can't Wait to Get to Heaven) and thought I'd gotten something profound and helpful from it.
Then a former employee called and read me the riot act last night, and I can't shake the bad, sad feelings provoked by her screaming.
Flagg's book is a simple story, simply told. I think her point is that simple is not bad; complex is not better. In her vision of heaven, God says, "Just like two and two equal four, kindness and forgiveness is always right, hate and revenge is always wrong. It's a fail-proof system; if you stick to that one simple rule, why you couldn't make a mistake if you tried."
It might be exactly that simple. All the study and contemplation and convolution we seekers go through might be obscuring the fact that it's absolutely simple. We don't have to seek source--we are connected. All we have to do is accept that grace, allow ourselves to feel it. Kindness is always the right choice.
Flagg's God talks about free will and cause and effect, talks about how that system produces painful situations and unwanted results. He/She says that's regrettable, but unavoidable, there had to be cause and effect; free will is a necessary part of th whole.
So, back to this young woman. She wants to make me responsible for her problems, wants to blame us for events far out of our control. I understand her impulse--it's far easier and more attractive to be angry with someone else than to step up and be responsible for ourselves.
It's easy for me to choose kindness in this situation. What's not easy is knowing that I'm being hated and blamed for not doing more, for not having a magic wand. It's hard for me to accept that being kind does not equal being liked.
And, even though I suspect the fundamental principles of life might be exactly as simple as Flagg suggests, I have trouble doing what I know is right and accepting that she then gets to choose how to respond. Her response isn't mine to control. As Carrie says, What other people think of me is none of my damn business!
Well, I'm going to stop chasing my tail and go to the farmer's market. There's nothing quite as soothing and happy as walking among God's abundance for an hour.
Peace.
Then a former employee called and read me the riot act last night, and I can't shake the bad, sad feelings provoked by her screaming.
Flagg's book is a simple story, simply told. I think her point is that simple is not bad; complex is not better. In her vision of heaven, God says, "Just like two and two equal four, kindness and forgiveness is always right, hate and revenge is always wrong. It's a fail-proof system; if you stick to that one simple rule, why you couldn't make a mistake if you tried."
It might be exactly that simple. All the study and contemplation and convolution we seekers go through might be obscuring the fact that it's absolutely simple. We don't have to seek source--we are connected. All we have to do is accept that grace, allow ourselves to feel it. Kindness is always the right choice.
Flagg's God talks about free will and cause and effect, talks about how that system produces painful situations and unwanted results. He/She says that's regrettable, but unavoidable, there had to be cause and effect; free will is a necessary part of th whole.
So, back to this young woman. She wants to make me responsible for her problems, wants to blame us for events far out of our control. I understand her impulse--it's far easier and more attractive to be angry with someone else than to step up and be responsible for ourselves.
It's easy for me to choose kindness in this situation. What's not easy is knowing that I'm being hated and blamed for not doing more, for not having a magic wand. It's hard for me to accept that being kind does not equal being liked.
And, even though I suspect the fundamental principles of life might be exactly as simple as Flagg suggests, I have trouble doing what I know is right and accepting that she then gets to choose how to respond. Her response isn't mine to control. As Carrie says, What other people think of me is none of my damn business!
Well, I'm going to stop chasing my tail and go to the farmer's market. There's nothing quite as soothing and happy as walking among God's abundance for an hour.
Peace.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
A Bridge Too Far
35W is the main N/S artery through Minnesota. A bridge carrying 35W across the Mississippi River collapsed last night, tossing cars into the river and lives into disarray.
A friend here in KC called shortly after the collapse to ask if I knew about it and whether I'd heard from Katie. At first I couldn't find any news, not even on the web, but then coverage popped up on CNN. Katie answered her phone on the first ring, safe at her dad's cabin in northern Minnesota, thank God. Other friends called or sent notes to say that they, too, were safe.
Some families, some friends were not so fortunate. People died last night, on that bridge and elsewhere.
When I'd watched the news for a while, I went over and bugged my mother until she agreed to go over to my sister's pool. We whined until Deb stopped cleaning her house and came out to play with us. Reluctantly, my niece and nephew and brother-in-law joined us. We swam and splashed and paddled around in the gathering darkness, enjoying one another's company and the lovely evening. Every one of us was glad we'd stepped out of our routine to play together.
Anne Lamott says that on the day she dies, she wants to have had dessert. Me, too. But even more than chocolate, I want to have had time with those I love. And the thing is, you never know. The ground could fall from beneath your feet at any moment. Hold hands, say I love you, take time to play. Do it today. Do it tomorrow. Just do it.
Odds are you'll never be on a bridge when it falls from the sky, but you will live a life rich with love and laughter. And chocolate.
A friend here in KC called shortly after the collapse to ask if I knew about it and whether I'd heard from Katie. At first I couldn't find any news, not even on the web, but then coverage popped up on CNN. Katie answered her phone on the first ring, safe at her dad's cabin in northern Minnesota, thank God. Other friends called or sent notes to say that they, too, were safe.
Some families, some friends were not so fortunate. People died last night, on that bridge and elsewhere.
When I'd watched the news for a while, I went over and bugged my mother until she agreed to go over to my sister's pool. We whined until Deb stopped cleaning her house and came out to play with us. Reluctantly, my niece and nephew and brother-in-law joined us. We swam and splashed and paddled around in the gathering darkness, enjoying one another's company and the lovely evening. Every one of us was glad we'd stepped out of our routine to play together.
Anne Lamott says that on the day she dies, she wants to have had dessert. Me, too. But even more than chocolate, I want to have had time with those I love. And the thing is, you never know. The ground could fall from beneath your feet at any moment. Hold hands, say I love you, take time to play. Do it today. Do it tomorrow. Just do it.
Odds are you'll never be on a bridge when it falls from the sky, but you will live a life rich with love and laughter. And chocolate.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Character
My dad got to telling stories about hill people over dinner last night, and it was fascinating.
He started out telling me about a guy who jumped a wild turkey, subdued, and killed the thing. Broke its neck, used his pocket knife to bleed it out, and threw it in the back of his pick-up to take home for supper.
This guy worked for Dad at one of the charcoal kilns he leased out in the timber. When I asked, Dad took off on stories about the man who owned those kilns. Seems a drought in Texas drove this guy and his 20,000 goats north to the Missouri countryside, where there was enough pasture to keep the goats alive. He bought 1200 acres for about $10 an acre, probably from a timber company that had logged it off and abandoned it.
The guy trucked all those goats and his family and his braceros (unskilled laborers) to southern Missouri and then found out he wasn't going to make enough money there to do more than barely survive. So, he looked around to see what he could do with what he had: scrub timber and brush and rocks. Lots and lots of rocks.
As it turned out, there was quite a market for scrub timber and brush in the 50s. It was used to make charcoal briquettes to fuel the new bbq craze. It also turned out that the rocky hillsides were perfect for constructing charcoal kilns.
So, this guy and his braceros dug eight kilns into the hillsides, tunnels 10 ft. high and 20 feet long. Then they cut wood and hauled it into the kilns to burn. Every 20 days, they filled each of those eight kilns with about 340,000 pounds of oak and hickory. Since the big trees were all gone—sold off for timber long ago—they cut small trees and brush too scrubby for any commercial purpose. They hauled the lump charcoal out and sold it to a briquette manufacturing operation about 50 miles away. Is it any wonder they packed up and went home when the drought broke in Texas?
I'm going to remember this guy any time I get to feeling put upon or overworked.
He started out telling me about a guy who jumped a wild turkey, subdued, and killed the thing. Broke its neck, used his pocket knife to bleed it out, and threw it in the back of his pick-up to take home for supper.
This guy worked for Dad at one of the charcoal kilns he leased out in the timber. When I asked, Dad took off on stories about the man who owned those kilns. Seems a drought in Texas drove this guy and his 20,000 goats north to the Missouri countryside, where there was enough pasture to keep the goats alive. He bought 1200 acres for about $10 an acre, probably from a timber company that had logged it off and abandoned it.
The guy trucked all those goats and his family and his braceros (unskilled laborers) to southern Missouri and then found out he wasn't going to make enough money there to do more than barely survive. So, he looked around to see what he could do with what he had: scrub timber and brush and rocks. Lots and lots of rocks.
As it turned out, there was quite a market for scrub timber and brush in the 50s. It was used to make charcoal briquettes to fuel the new bbq craze. It also turned out that the rocky hillsides were perfect for constructing charcoal kilns.
So, this guy and his braceros dug eight kilns into the hillsides, tunnels 10 ft. high and 20 feet long. Then they cut wood and hauled it into the kilns to burn. Every 20 days, they filled each of those eight kilns with about 340,000 pounds of oak and hickory. Since the big trees were all gone—sold off for timber long ago—they cut small trees and brush too scrubby for any commercial purpose. They hauled the lump charcoal out and sold it to a briquette manufacturing operation about 50 miles away. Is it any wonder they packed up and went home when the drought broke in Texas?
I'm going to remember this guy any time I get to feeling put upon or overworked.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Mysteries
Feels like the world's gone mad today.
I saw news of a beautiful young woman who's missing in Colorado, I think. The last her (first) husband heard of her, she was on her way to meet one of her clients. Seems she supported herself through an old, old profession.
Lindsey Lohan, that darling girl from The Parent Trap, has grown into a confused young woman caught in the web of drugs and alcohol.
I'm rereading Four Seasons in Rome and find myself even more in awe of the rhythm and the language this time around.
Evan, who's living with me right now, is terribly unhappy but unable to take steps to make things better for himself.
We got word last night that my favorite aunt has breast cancer. She's being asked to make enormous treatment decisions based on teeny, tiny bits of information.
So many of us spend our lives chasing wealth, beauty, love, knowledge. And even those who seem to have everything never have enough.
Whatever the holes in our souls, nothing we can earn, learn, grab, or buy will fill them. I am reminded that the only thing that works is to sit still and remember who we are. So simple, but so difficult.
Life's just one mystery after another.
I saw news of a beautiful young woman who's missing in Colorado, I think. The last her (first) husband heard of her, she was on her way to meet one of her clients. Seems she supported herself through an old, old profession.
Lindsey Lohan, that darling girl from The Parent Trap, has grown into a confused young woman caught in the web of drugs and alcohol.
I'm rereading Four Seasons in Rome and find myself even more in awe of the rhythm and the language this time around.
Evan, who's living with me right now, is terribly unhappy but unable to take steps to make things better for himself.
We got word last night that my favorite aunt has breast cancer. She's being asked to make enormous treatment decisions based on teeny, tiny bits of information.
So many of us spend our lives chasing wealth, beauty, love, knowledge. And even those who seem to have everything never have enough.
Whatever the holes in our souls, nothing we can earn, learn, grab, or buy will fill them. I am reminded that the only thing that works is to sit still and remember who we are. So simple, but so difficult.
Life's just one mystery after another.
Friday, July 20, 2007
See for Yourself
To see why I'm so crazy about Anthony Doerr's work, check out this short non-fiction piece.
Narrative Distance
Last night my dreams were full of another concept we discussed at length in the workshop: narrative distance. Anthony Doerr's explanation of this made SO much sense to me: the writer is the lens through which the reader sees the story.
In film, a director makes a series of decisions about what the audience will see and from what angle they will see it. When we're writing, we do the same, except we build and dress both the situation and the story with words alone. If we tell a story from a constant position, as though we're always inside one character's head or as though we're always in the same corner of the room, say, we miss the opportunity to frame our stories, to bring life and rhythm to them. Now closer, now further, now detailed vision, now a broad view: we can lead readers through the intricate steps of the dance we're doing together.
Last night, my dreams were filled with a strange kind of tunnel vision that I've only just now realized were the view through the lens. I don't remember a thing about what happened in those dreams, only an odd kind of telescoping that kept happening as I saw them playing out.
Anthony brought these lessons to life so vividly they've taken root in my subconscious. Yikes! More later. Got to go try out this narrative distance thing right now. I seem to have learned this stuff, now I've got to get my butt in the chair and USE it.
A long shot from the top of Chimney Rock, Abiquiu, NM
A close up of a spider hole, taken from the same spot.
In film, a director makes a series of decisions about what the audience will see and from what angle they will see it. When we're writing, we do the same, except we build and dress both the situation and the story with words alone. If we tell a story from a constant position, as though we're always inside one character's head or as though we're always in the same corner of the room, say, we miss the opportunity to frame our stories, to bring life and rhythm to them. Now closer, now further, now detailed vision, now a broad view: we can lead readers through the intricate steps of the dance we're doing together.
Last night, my dreams were filled with a strange kind of tunnel vision that I've only just now realized were the view through the lens. I don't remember a thing about what happened in those dreams, only an odd kind of telescoping that kept happening as I saw them playing out.
Anthony brought these lessons to life so vividly they've taken root in my subconscious. Yikes! More later. Got to go try out this narrative distance thing right now. I seem to have learned this stuff, now I've got to get my butt in the chair and USE it.
A long shot from the top of Chimney Rock, Abiquiu, NM
A close up of a spider hole, taken from the same spot.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
De-familiarization
Doing laundry from the trip yesterday, I had plenty of time to review and consider some of the concepts we discussed in the workshop last week.
One of my favorites was "de-familiarization," the practice of taking a well-known image or feeling and describing it with a combination of words no one's heard before. For me, getting to the 'de-familiar" is always a matter of loosening my grip on realism long enough to let new ideas in. The most fun I ever have writing is when I relax and let that happen.
Here's the interesting thing: Anthony reminded us that even these new and unfamiliar descriptions need to evoke what he calls a "stab of actuality." In other words, as writers, we're searching for fresh, vivid descriptions put together in unfamiliar phrases, but to be successful these have to be spot on, they have to elicit the intake of breath that accompanies being stabbed with the sharp stick of utter reality.
Quite a trick, don't you think?
Check out Anthony Doerr's novel About Grace or his collection of short stories, The Shell Collector. I haven't read his new book (non-fiction) yet, but expect to love Four Seasons in Rome, too.
Let me tell you, the man is almost as amazing a teacher as he is a writer. And a damn nice guy.
One of my favorites was "de-familiarization," the practice of taking a well-known image or feeling and describing it with a combination of words no one's heard before. For me, getting to the 'de-familiar" is always a matter of loosening my grip on realism long enough to let new ideas in. The most fun I ever have writing is when I relax and let that happen.
Here's the interesting thing: Anthony reminded us that even these new and unfamiliar descriptions need to evoke what he calls a "stab of actuality." In other words, as writers, we're searching for fresh, vivid descriptions put together in unfamiliar phrases, but to be successful these have to be spot on, they have to elicit the intake of breath that accompanies being stabbed with the sharp stick of utter reality.
Quite a trick, don't you think?
Check out Anthony Doerr's novel About Grace or his collection of short stories, The Shell Collector. I haven't read his new book (non-fiction) yet, but expect to love Four Seasons in Rome, too.
Let me tell you, the man is almost as amazing a teacher as he is a writer. And a damn nice guy.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Home Again, Home Again, Clippety Clop
My house smells funny, like dirty laundry and dirty dishes and boy.
Evan picked me up at the airport last night and we got home about midnight. After 12 days, away, walking into the house was like walking onto the set of a favorite movie, a place I know well but am not exactly involved with.
Lord God, I've got a lot to do. Payroll this morning, of course, but more than the literal things like that, I've got to get my figurative house in order.
Updates soon.
Evan picked me up at the airport last night and we got home about midnight. After 12 days, away, walking into the house was like walking onto the set of a favorite movie, a place I know well but am not exactly involved with.
Lord God, I've got a lot to do. Payroll this morning, of course, but more than the literal things like that, I've got to get my figurative house in order.
Updates soon.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Albuquerque Airport
I met Monica at the Albuquerque airport Saturday at noon and we've been hiking and wandering the desert since. Now we're back at the airport, at separate gates, waiting for the planes that will carry us back to our respective worlds.
Monica halfway up the trail to Chimney Rock.
Monica at the top of Chimney Rock, tempting fate.
So much to think about. I'm anxious to go home and yet can't imagine fitting back into my everyday life. So much has changed inside me. After living under such vast skies and taking part in such important conversations and mind-opening classes, will I fold in upon myself to accommodate my usual place in the world? I just don't know.
Muddy water runs through NM like blood through its veins, bringing life and nourishment and energy. The landscape doesn’t just sing to my soul, it sets up a tent revival and shouts Amazing Grace to the heavens. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind but now I see.
Having coffee on the porch in Ojo Caliente on Sunday morning, beneath a cloudless sky, I found pictures in everything: rocks in the garden, the whirl of bark on logs supporting the ceiling. Messages everywhere, from the divine to my soul: See beyond the surface, dig out the stories lurking everywhere. Excavate. The workshop handed me a shovel. The class shouted to me, "Get to the damn digging."
One of the pictures from the ceiling. Can you see the snake's face?
I think of all the times, all the many, many times I longed to find that world. I read Anne LaMott's essays about writer's workshops and dreamed of being the kind of person who attends them. And now I am. I stepped into that place, tilled up a tiny patch of garden and planted a handful of seeds that now have to survive hungry birds and high temperatures and poor soil.
Life may be short, but it's wide. Thank God and all the angels, it's so damn wide.
Monica halfway up the trail to Chimney Rock.
Monica at the top of Chimney Rock, tempting fate.
So much to think about. I'm anxious to go home and yet can't imagine fitting back into my everyday life. So much has changed inside me. After living under such vast skies and taking part in such important conversations and mind-opening classes, will I fold in upon myself to accommodate my usual place in the world? I just don't know.
Muddy water runs through NM like blood through its veins, bringing life and nourishment and energy. The landscape doesn’t just sing to my soul, it sets up a tent revival and shouts Amazing Grace to the heavens. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind but now I see.
Having coffee on the porch in Ojo Caliente on Sunday morning, beneath a cloudless sky, I found pictures in everything: rocks in the garden, the whirl of bark on logs supporting the ceiling. Messages everywhere, from the divine to my soul: See beyond the surface, dig out the stories lurking everywhere. Excavate. The workshop handed me a shovel. The class shouted to me, "Get to the damn digging."
One of the pictures from the ceiling. Can you see the snake's face?
I think of all the times, all the many, many times I longed to find that world. I read Anne LaMott's essays about writer's workshops and dreamed of being the kind of person who attends them. And now I am. I stepped into that place, tilled up a tiny patch of garden and planted a handful of seeds that now have to survive hungry birds and high temperatures and poor soil.
Life may be short, but it's wide. Thank God and all the angels, it's so damn wide.
Overload
I did my reading yesterday. The audience was remarkable: leaning forward in their chairs, listening carefully and laughing in all the right places. Energy of the very highest order, which facing my fears always turns out to be. SO glad I did it.
It's going to take some time to process all that has happened here and the incredible beauty of it. I'll write more when I can. For now, I have to get packed up and off to Albuquerque, where I'm meeting Monica at the airport. We're heading to the mountains for a few days of R&R. We're going to soak our bones and hike and hang out in this powerful place. Every moment, grace.
I'm leaving here filled with energy and enthusiasm and joy. Thursday and Friday nights, most of the class danced at a cowboy bar til all hours. We laughed. We got up on stage and sang with the band. We annexed a hallway for our own private dance floor. We connected.
I've hit overload, but this is where the juice is, this world of people who love books, who use language as a tool and as a toy, who generously share their time and their experience to help those with less. Thank God and all the angels that I bought Blackbbird and it led me to Jennifer's website and all of you, who have helped give me courage to make myself part of this world we share.
Here's to more books, more words, more connections.
Much love to you all and more soon.
It's going to take some time to process all that has happened here and the incredible beauty of it. I'll write more when I can. For now, I have to get packed up and off to Albuquerque, where I'm meeting Monica at the airport. We're heading to the mountains for a few days of R&R. We're going to soak our bones and hike and hang out in this powerful place. Every moment, grace.
I'm leaving here filled with energy and enthusiasm and joy. Thursday and Friday nights, most of the class danced at a cowboy bar til all hours. We laughed. We got up on stage and sang with the band. We annexed a hallway for our own private dance floor. We connected.
I've hit overload, but this is where the juice is, this world of people who love books, who use language as a tool and as a toy, who generously share their time and their experience to help those with less. Thank God and all the angels that I bought Blackbbird and it led me to Jennifer's website and all of you, who have helped give me courage to make myself part of this world we share.
Here's to more books, more words, more connections.
Much love to you all and more soon.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Slight Delay
Okay, so I didn't read today. But I'm committed for tomorrow.
Truth is, I was there, ms. in hand, ready to throw myself off this cliff. Then the director of the workshop asked for a volunteer to trade times with another woman whose slot was Friday. Apparently, there had been some confusion and she wouldn't get to read at all unless someone traded. After it became obvious no one was going to speak up, I raised my hand.
I know, I know. But she has cancer, for God's sake, and has to get home for treatment.
There she stood, her little cancer hat in hand, hoping to tell her story while she could. What else was I supposed to do? She's smart and brave and deserved a moment in the sun. I'll get mine tomorrow.
Truth is, I was there, ms. in hand, ready to throw myself off this cliff. Then the director of the workshop asked for a volunteer to trade times with another woman whose slot was Friday. Apparently, there had been some confusion and she wouldn't get to read at all unless someone traded. After it became obvious no one was going to speak up, I raised my hand.
I know, I know. But she has cancer, for God's sake, and has to get home for treatment.
There she stood, her little cancer hat in hand, hoping to tell her story while she could. What else was I supposed to do? She's smart and brave and deserved a moment in the sun. I'll get mine tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Stepping Out of the Shadows
Just signed up to read at the open mic on Thursday at lunch. Truthfully, I'm not sure I'll follow through but had to sign up if I wanted the option. I can mark myself off just as easily as I wrote myself on.
A surprising thing happened during my turn in the barrel the other day: people laughed out loud. At the right places. And they remarked several times on the irony of my stories. I'd like to hear people laugh out loud at the things I find funny. I hope my courage remains intact.
The readings are held on the patio after lunch each day. People sit around under ancient trees and brilliant blue skies, drinking coffee, eating fabulous desserts, and listening to writers read. I imagine heaven to be much like this.
To be more accurate, being part of the audience is heavenly. Reading? That's another matter, and one located somewhat south of heaven. Still, I'm challenging myself to do this thing and so far, I seem to be rising to the challenge.
A surprising thing happened during my turn in the barrel the other day: people laughed out loud. At the right places. And they remarked several times on the irony of my stories. I'd like to hear people laugh out loud at the things I find funny. I hope my courage remains intact.
The readings are held on the patio after lunch each day. People sit around under ancient trees and brilliant blue skies, drinking coffee, eating fabulous desserts, and listening to writers read. I imagine heaven to be much like this.
To be more accurate, being part of the audience is heavenly. Reading? That's another matter, and one located somewhat south of heaven. Still, I'm challenging myself to do this thing and so far, I seem to be rising to the challenge.
Workshopping
So, here I am in the hotel lobby, having a cup of coffee and writing a post before my class starts. The mountains sit blue in the distance, silent and patient, tolerating the foolishness of people scurrying around the plaza, trying to buy bits of the wonder of this place.
I feel blessed to be in the particular class I chose. The teacher is enthusiastic and has lots to give. The 11 other students include a professor of fiction from the University of Idaho, a writing professor from Colorado, a man who has completed three novels and is apparently a workshop junkie, another workshop junkie from Palm Springs, a lovely woman whose stories I can't wait to hear and who is looking for a writing community. One woman has not spoken yet beyond giving her name and home town. One older woman doesn't seem to understand the nature of time or that others might not be as fascinated with her opinion as she herself apparently is.
All in all, a fascinating group, one I'm anxious to learn more about and from.
At dinner the first night, each class group sat together. Our teacher introduced himself and handed out a piece for us to read. Later, he walked around with a cup filled with scraps of paper, each with a day of the week. We drew scraps for the order in which our stories would be considered. As I reached into the cup, my heart was pounding out a mantra--Not Monday, Not Monday, Not Monday.
Could I have drawn anything but Monday? Of course not. The Law of Attraction at work. It's probably a good thing, because going first allowed me the luxury of not going through the others, feeling worse by the moment. They're all MFA-type stories--obscure and meandering. So unlike my work. So unlike my background.
As it is, we considered my simple story first and I feel good about the suggestions people made and the feedback I got. Now I'm free to be a sponge in the midst of learned folk. It promises to be quite an experience.
And you can't beat the backdrop.
I feel blessed to be in the particular class I chose. The teacher is enthusiastic and has lots to give. The 11 other students include a professor of fiction from the University of Idaho, a writing professor from Colorado, a man who has completed three novels and is apparently a workshop junkie, another workshop junkie from Palm Springs, a lovely woman whose stories I can't wait to hear and who is looking for a writing community. One woman has not spoken yet beyond giving her name and home town. One older woman doesn't seem to understand the nature of time or that others might not be as fascinated with her opinion as she herself apparently is.
All in all, a fascinating group, one I'm anxious to learn more about and from.
At dinner the first night, each class group sat together. Our teacher introduced himself and handed out a piece for us to read. Later, he walked around with a cup filled with scraps of paper, each with a day of the week. We drew scraps for the order in which our stories would be considered. As I reached into the cup, my heart was pounding out a mantra--Not Monday, Not Monday, Not Monday.
Could I have drawn anything but Monday? Of course not. The Law of Attraction at work. It's probably a good thing, because going first allowed me the luxury of not going through the others, feeling worse by the moment. They're all MFA-type stories--obscure and meandering. So unlike my work. So unlike my background.
As it is, we considered my simple story first and I feel good about the suggestions people made and the feedback I got. Now I'm free to be a sponge in the midst of learned folk. It promises to be quite an experience.
And you can't beat the backdrop.
Monday, July 09, 2007
My Turn in the Barrel
We workshopped my story this morning and I survived. It was actually easier than I anticipated because people obviously were commenting in an effort to be truly helpful. And they were, even (or maybe especially) when they were telling me what didn't work.
My greatest fear was that I'd cry in front of them when they criticized me, that they'd see me for the silly wimp I can sometimes be. That whole criticism thing? That was my first big mistake. No one was criticizing me, they were reviewing my work. I am not my ability to write any more than I am my ability to comb my hair or to cook a meal. It's freeing to understand that. And I do, at this very moment. I'll forget again, no doubt, and need reminders. I think that's part of the insecurity that comes with creating something.
I'm proud to report that I took careful notes while each person talked and never once needed to even clear my throat or sniffle. Acted like a real grown up. Now I can settle down and concentrate on soaking up every bit of information and learning being offered.
Speaking of which, I picked up a book Barb recommends in her class, and it's phenomenal. Maybe the most enlightening stuff I've ever read on writing. Pick up The Situation and the Story if you get a chance. I promise you won't be sorry.
Tomorrow will be another big day. Pam Houston is reading in the evening, a real treat. If you haven't read Cowboys Are My Weakness or Waltzing the Cat, get thee to a bookstore or on-line bookseller and get copies. Pam's a larger than life personality. Drove in last night just as everyone was gathering, a grand entrance if I ever saw one, complete with the largest Irish wolfhound in existence hanging its head out of her SUV. No one in the place missed her arrival. But she's filled with a love of life that shines out her pores, I swear. I can't wait to hear her read.
Taos is lovely, but so far it doesn't call to my heart the way Sante Fe and Abiquiu do. There's lots more to see, though, and maybe I'll fall in love as I get to it.
Meantime, my love to all of you. And my enduring gratitude for your support.
My greatest fear was that I'd cry in front of them when they criticized me, that they'd see me for the silly wimp I can sometimes be. That whole criticism thing? That was my first big mistake. No one was criticizing me, they were reviewing my work. I am not my ability to write any more than I am my ability to comb my hair or to cook a meal. It's freeing to understand that. And I do, at this very moment. I'll forget again, no doubt, and need reminders. I think that's part of the insecurity that comes with creating something.
I'm proud to report that I took careful notes while each person talked and never once needed to even clear my throat or sniffle. Acted like a real grown up. Now I can settle down and concentrate on soaking up every bit of information and learning being offered.
Speaking of which, I picked up a book Barb recommends in her class, and it's phenomenal. Maybe the most enlightening stuff I've ever read on writing. Pick up The Situation and the Story if you get a chance. I promise you won't be sorry.
Tomorrow will be another big day. Pam Houston is reading in the evening, a real treat. If you haven't read Cowboys Are My Weakness or Waltzing the Cat, get thee to a bookstore or on-line bookseller and get copies. Pam's a larger than life personality. Drove in last night just as everyone was gathering, a grand entrance if I ever saw one, complete with the largest Irish wolfhound in existence hanging its head out of her SUV. No one in the place missed her arrival. But she's filled with a love of life that shines out her pores, I swear. I can't wait to hear her read.
Taos is lovely, but so far it doesn't call to my heart the way Sante Fe and Abiquiu do. There's lots more to see, though, and maybe I'll fall in love as I get to it.
Meantime, my love to all of you. And my enduring gratitude for your support.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
The Eagle Has Landed
I'm all registered and set up for the conference here in Taos, but as the minutes tick by, it seems like less and less of a good idea. My intestines have tied themselves into a hangman's noose and all the moisture in my body has collected into a lump in my throat. Right now the only thing I really want to do is run for my life, run back to the pond where I can be invisible if I choose.
Something or another led me to do a little research on birth order last week. Several of the discussions of middle children mentioned our tendency to feel invisible. I sure did, and I hated it. Now as an adult, I've cultivated the ability to go invisible when I need to, to withdraw so far into myself that I imagine others can't even see me, let alone criticize or hurt me.
I know my cloak of invisibility exists only in my head. But I'll tell you this: when I go invisible, people don't talk to me much and I can go about my business without putting on make up or doing my hair. Strange but true.
Now I'm about to be as visible as it gets. And not in Carrie's living room among people I regard as family. Nope. This time it's among strangers in a setting filled with opportunities to make a fool out of myself.
(Sigh)
I've been watch the other writers arrive for 45 minutes now. They're all cuter and thinner and smarter than me. Much better writers, too. I can tell none of them feels out of place or out of their league. Not a single one of them looks as though they're contemplating hitching a ride to the airport or locking themselves in their rooms until this thing's over.
Guess I'll go put on some lipstick. It should go well with the dirty splotch down the leg of my white jeans. And, of course, my new cowboy boots.
Think Our Lady will protect me?
Something or another led me to do a little research on birth order last week. Several of the discussions of middle children mentioned our tendency to feel invisible. I sure did, and I hated it. Now as an adult, I've cultivated the ability to go invisible when I need to, to withdraw so far into myself that I imagine others can't even see me, let alone criticize or hurt me.
I know my cloak of invisibility exists only in my head. But I'll tell you this: when I go invisible, people don't talk to me much and I can go about my business without putting on make up or doing my hair. Strange but true.
Now I'm about to be as visible as it gets. And not in Carrie's living room among people I regard as family. Nope. This time it's among strangers in a setting filled with opportunities to make a fool out of myself.
(Sigh)
I've been watch the other writers arrive for 45 minutes now. They're all cuter and thinner and smarter than me. Much better writers, too. I can tell none of them feels out of place or out of their league. Not a single one of them looks as though they're contemplating hitching a ride to the airport or locking themselves in their rooms until this thing's over.
Guess I'll go put on some lipstick. It should go well with the dirty splotch down the leg of my white jeans. And, of course, my new cowboy boots.
Think Our Lady will protect me?
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Live from Santa Fe
Seen on the sidewalk in downtown Santa Fe. Great advice, yes?
Barb and me at the sculpture garden in front of the Georgia O'Keefe Retreat Center.
A prairie chicken in the same sculpture garden.
Love to all. More soon.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Taos Writer's Workshop
Today will be crazy busy for me. I've got to run payroll this morning and get my laundry done and get packed this afternoon. Tomorrow morning I'll be off to Santa Fe for a few days of fun and then on to Taos for a week-long writer's workshop, where Barb will be teaching and I will be studying.
Feeling blessed, I am.
From Sunday afternoon through the following Friday evening, my entire focus will be on writing. My idea of bliss. I don't know what to expect in the classes themselves or who or what I'll encounter there. Aaaahhhh. Adventure.
Plus, I'll be in New Mexico. I've pulled out my hiking boots, cleaned out my camelback, and found a compass. This is going to be fun.
Last night I dreamed of writing. Words were running through my head and I was transcribing them on my new laptop. As I typed, I kept being amazed and how much sense I was making. (It's always a surprise when that happens.)
I'll have wireless access and, of course, my laptop, so I'll let you know how it's going. I am so very excited about this.
Feeling blessed, I am.
From Sunday afternoon through the following Friday evening, my entire focus will be on writing. My idea of bliss. I don't know what to expect in the classes themselves or who or what I'll encounter there. Aaaahhhh. Adventure.
Plus, I'll be in New Mexico. I've pulled out my hiking boots, cleaned out my camelback, and found a compass. This is going to be fun.
Last night I dreamed of writing. Words were running through my head and I was transcribing them on my new laptop. As I typed, I kept being amazed and how much sense I was making. (It's always a surprise when that happens.)
I'll have wireless access and, of course, my laptop, so I'll let you know how it's going. I am so very excited about this.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
The Pond
Sometimes it feels a bit nuts to love this little pond, this tiny body of water, so much. It was great to have Jess here, an objective observer who appreciated it the same way I do.
It rained the entire time Jess was here, unusual for KC in the summer. So. . .for those of you who aren't here and for Jess, who didn't get it see the sun shine on the pond, here's a picture. Enjoy. And do come visit us. You have an open invitation.
And yes, this is the surface of the pond, not the sky. I do love me some reflections.
It rained the entire time Jess was here, unusual for KC in the summer. So. . .for those of you who aren't here and for Jess, who didn't get it see the sun shine on the pond, here's a picture. Enjoy. And do come visit us. You have an open invitation.
And yes, this is the surface of the pond, not the sky. I do love me some reflections.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)