A little more of the story.
Anyone in my family would tell you I could never leave well enough alone, could never be satisfied until I’d gone too far. Must have been true. This time I pushed myself so far into the tube I was out of control from the moment I let go of the sides.
I struggled to keep my arms over my head and my legs together, but the force of the water was too strong. I flopped and wallered around, knowing I needed to either get straight with the current or right with the Lord.
My right foot flew out and smashed the edge as the tube spit me out. I felt the jagged metal slice through my heel, felt the meat gap open. Tumbling downstream, head over hind end, I was helpless to do anything other than hold my breath and hope.
Some would have prayed, but I figured God had bigger fish to fry. After all, black men were being beaten to death in Mississippi, Mr. Johnson was fighting a War on Poverty, and "that damn Barry Goldwater" was running for President. God didn't have time to waste on one foolish little girl cutting her foot off on a bridge culvert in the backwoods of southern Missouri.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Richness
Rode my bike from my house to mom and dad's this morning. Four and a half pretty miles of narrow, crooked road through corn and soybean fields. Along the Little Blue River. Past a Pop Warner League football field where parents scream at second graders to "get that f'n ball."
Four and a half miles of blue morning sky and deep green leaves. 58 minutes of hard exercise and deep thought. As I pedaled, I thought about something Holly said in an e-mail the other day, something about the color of dirt roads. That got me thinking about the iron in the soil making the dirt red in the Deep South and how the dirt down home doesn't have enough iron to be red.
And suddenly, I knew I need to change a line in the passage about dirt roads. That instead of describing them as worn-out, I need to use the word anemic, because that's what they are--anemic: lacking in iron.
To me, finding that one better word felt like finding a gold nugget in a shaker pan of pebbles.
This is the richness of a writer's life, the space where the dots of a comment from a friend and a morning bike ride connect up with something from 5th grade science class to create a moment of clarity.
I LOVE this life.
Four and a half miles of blue morning sky and deep green leaves. 58 minutes of hard exercise and deep thought. As I pedaled, I thought about something Holly said in an e-mail the other day, something about the color of dirt roads. That got me thinking about the iron in the soil making the dirt red in the Deep South and how the dirt down home doesn't have enough iron to be red.
And suddenly, I knew I need to change a line in the passage about dirt roads. That instead of describing them as worn-out, I need to use the word anemic, because that's what they are--anemic: lacking in iron.
To me, finding that one better word felt like finding a gold nugget in a shaker pan of pebbles.
This is the richness of a writer's life, the space where the dots of a comment from a friend and a morning bike ride connect up with something from 5th grade science class to create a moment of clarity.
I LOVE this life.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Mysteries
I've had it in the last few days. My true voice, I mean. The one that speaks in the rhythms of my head and heart, the one that isn't concerned with impressing people or making them think I'm smarter than I am. The story I've been writing may or may not be good yet--it's a first draft after all--but the voice, that voice is the one I've been trying to uncover for a long time.
It went dormant in the night.
Writing this morning, I find myself typing convinced when sure would be the natural choice, describing what happened rather than living it out on the page. My sentences would totally please Grammatica, but they don't please me. They have such good posture, sit up so straight in their chairs.
What now, damn it?
The other day I read that real writers are the ones who keep writing even when they don't feel like it. The ones who plod on and trust in revision. They don't wait for inspiration. They don't believe in magic. They do believe in hard work.
I believe in hard work. I really do. So, this morning I've plodded on. But I'm writing dreck. Stilted, formal, city-girl dreck, a faded gray photocopy of the story inside my heart.
Maybe what I need is to get away from it for a few hours. Think I'll go ride my bike on a tan dirt road this afternoon. There's one not far from my house that runs parallel to a spring-fed creek. Maybe eating a little dust and watching the water run is what exactly I need. Cause more of thiscertainly sure isn't the answer.
It went dormant in the night.
Writing this morning, I find myself typing convinced when sure would be the natural choice, describing what happened rather than living it out on the page. My sentences would totally please Grammatica, but they don't please me. They have such good posture, sit up so straight in their chairs.
What now, damn it?
The other day I read that real writers are the ones who keep writing even when they don't feel like it. The ones who plod on and trust in revision. They don't wait for inspiration. They don't believe in magic. They do believe in hard work.
I believe in hard work. I really do. So, this morning I've plodded on. But I'm writing dreck. Stilted, formal, city-girl dreck, a faded gray photocopy of the story inside my heart.
Maybe what I need is to get away from it for a few hours. Think I'll go ride my bike on a tan dirt road this afternoon. There's one not far from my house that runs parallel to a spring-fed creek. Maybe eating a little dust and watching the water run is what exactly I need. Cause more of this
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Life-long Learner
Mystic Wing helped me find the end of my story yesterday. We were talking on the phone and, in his usual way, he asked the questions I needed to hear answered, knowing those answers would lead me where I needed to go.
I'm older than Bryan by a couple of years, but he's become the big brother I've always needed. When I count my blessings, he's near the top of the list, every time.
So, last night I spent a lot of time helping Evan study for his first test (it's tonight) and then an hour or so googling to find out why bugs fly towards lights, why moths are attracted to flames. Turns out it's tied up with their navigational system, that when they encounter a bright light very close to them, they mistake it for the moon, which throws them completely out of whack. They instinctively know they shouldn't be so close to the moon. Fascinating and perfect for the story, too.
You'll see some of the details when I get the story done. My point here is what a gift it is to write and to live a writer's life. Many of our conversations with each other are about words, about ideas, about the themes of life. We discover some factoid, study it, and use it to illustrate a point. We grow and learn and share.
More than anything else, being a writer means being a life-long learner.
Sign me up!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Why Yes, I WOULD Like Cheese with this Whine
Reading yet another Fannie Flagg novel. It's Welcome to the World, Baby Girl this time.
For some reason, all day I've had this fantasy of someone calling me Baby Girl and meaning it, of having someone available to shoulder some of the weight of the world, of having someone who loves me best of all.
There's nothing particularly new or different about my world this week, but I'm not handling the same old stuff very well. My shoulders are up around my ears, and no matter how many times I realize it and try to breathe them down, they bounce back the moment my attention turns to something else. Tigger shoulders, they are. Bouncy, flouncy, trouncy things. Hey--maybe I should trounce a few things and see if that helps.
The area between my shoulder blades feels as though it's badly sunburned--that tight, bright, raw feeling glows through my skin like neon on a dark, rainy night. I am not sunburned. I know this because, although I haven't been in the sun for weeks, I actually got a hand mirror and checked in the bathroom mirror. Nothing's burning back there except dull anger. Or maybe that's rage. Can't tell from the outside, and God knows my insides aren't in any shape to conduct a meaningful conversation.
Strangest of all, every once in a while, I audibly gasp like someone just sucked the oxygen from the room and I'm competing for the last breath. What's that about? Is the Big Fly Fisher in the Sky trying to reel me in?
This, too, shall pass. Or, at least that's what I've been telling myself all day.
Anyone know when this Venus Retrograde this is over?
For some reason, all day I've had this fantasy of someone calling me Baby Girl and meaning it, of having someone available to shoulder some of the weight of the world, of having someone who loves me best of all.
There's nothing particularly new or different about my world this week, but I'm not handling the same old stuff very well. My shoulders are up around my ears, and no matter how many times I realize it and try to breathe them down, they bounce back the moment my attention turns to something else. Tigger shoulders, they are. Bouncy, flouncy, trouncy things. Hey--maybe I should trounce a few things and see if that helps.
The area between my shoulder blades feels as though it's badly sunburned--that tight, bright, raw feeling glows through my skin like neon on a dark, rainy night. I am not sunburned. I know this because, although I haven't been in the sun for weeks, I actually got a hand mirror and checked in the bathroom mirror. Nothing's burning back there except dull anger. Or maybe that's rage. Can't tell from the outside, and God knows my insides aren't in any shape to conduct a meaningful conversation.
Strangest of all, every once in a while, I audibly gasp like someone just sucked the oxygen from the room and I'm competing for the last breath. What's that about? Is the Big Fly Fisher in the Sky trying to reel me in?
This, too, shall pass. Or, at least that's what I've been telling myself all day.
Anyone know when this Venus Retrograde this is over?
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Books
Jess and I went to Barnes and Noble the other day, and I walked out with three or four books I couldn't live without. Or thought I couldn't, anyway.
Turns out I was right about the first one, Drinking, by Caroline Knapp.
The funny thing is, neither I nor any of my close family has troubles with alcohol. (I've been worried a bit lately about Evan's drinking, but I guess I mean the family I grew up with.) I've never watched a friend spiral, never feared my own relationship to alcohol.
It doesn't matter. Knapp's story is universal, even if her theme isn't. From the first page, she had me right where she wanted me: totally drawn into her world and fascinated with her tale.
In the early going, Knapp describes drinking wine with her father when just the two of them had dinner together in a restaurant, a first for them.
I don't remember what we talked about that night, but I do know that the discomfort was diminished, replaced by something that felt like a kind of love.
Like drinking stars. That's how Mary Karr describes it in her memoir, The Liar's Club, a line she picked up from her mother. She drank red wine and 7-Up one night from a bone-china cup when she was a kid and she felt that slow warmth, almost like a light. "Something like a big sunflower was opening at the very center of my being," she writes, and when I read that, I knew exactly what she meant. The wine just eased through me in that Greek restaurant, all the way to my bones, illuminating some calm and gentler piece of my soul.
I think that's brilliant. The way she takes lines from a book she's read, gift wraps them, and sets them into her story like a present to be opened. If I hadn't already read The Liar's Club, you can bet your sweet bippie I'd have been online ordering it when I finished that chapter. As it is, I pulled my copy down from the bookcase and put it in the pile on my nightstand.
I'm coming to understand the richness, the texture that's brought to a story through the inclusion of a sense of history, through a sense that the action isn't happening in a vacuum. Our characters' daily lives and loves are filtered through the era in which they live, the movies they watch, the music they listen to, and the books they read.
Books. Aaaahhhh, books. From the moment I learned to follow black squiggles marching across white pages, I have loved books and the places they could lead me, the trails they blazed. I rely on their presence and give thanks for the lights they shine into the dark, slippery corners of my mind and heart.
Turns out I was right about the first one, Drinking, by Caroline Knapp.
The funny thing is, neither I nor any of my close family has troubles with alcohol. (I've been worried a bit lately about Evan's drinking, but I guess I mean the family I grew up with.) I've never watched a friend spiral, never feared my own relationship to alcohol.
It doesn't matter. Knapp's story is universal, even if her theme isn't. From the first page, she had me right where she wanted me: totally drawn into her world and fascinated with her tale.
In the early going, Knapp describes drinking wine with her father when just the two of them had dinner together in a restaurant, a first for them.
I don't remember what we talked about that night, but I do know that the discomfort was diminished, replaced by something that felt like a kind of love.
Like drinking stars. That's how Mary Karr describes it in her memoir, The Liar's Club, a line she picked up from her mother. She drank red wine and 7-Up one night from a bone-china cup when she was a kid and she felt that slow warmth, almost like a light. "Something like a big sunflower was opening at the very center of my being," she writes, and when I read that, I knew exactly what she meant. The wine just eased through me in that Greek restaurant, all the way to my bones, illuminating some calm and gentler piece of my soul.
I think that's brilliant. The way she takes lines from a book she's read, gift wraps them, and sets them into her story like a present to be opened. If I hadn't already read The Liar's Club, you can bet your sweet bippie I'd have been online ordering it when I finished that chapter. As it is, I pulled my copy down from the bookcase and put it in the pile on my nightstand.
I'm coming to understand the richness, the texture that's brought to a story through the inclusion of a sense of history, through a sense that the action isn't happening in a vacuum. Our characters' daily lives and loves are filtered through the era in which they live, the movies they watch, the music they listen to, and the books they read.
Books. Aaaahhhh, books. From the moment I learned to follow black squiggles marching across white pages, I have loved books and the places they could lead me, the trails they blazed. I rely on their presence and give thanks for the lights they shine into the dark, slippery corners of my mind and heart.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Busy, Busy
Can't believe it's been a week since I've posted. So much going on, most of it inside my own head.
Telling True Stories continues to spark my imagination, along with Fannie Flagg's books, most recently Standing in the Rainbow, and Anthony Doerr's Four Seasons in Rome.
The big thing all of these books are pointing out to me is that our personal dramas are played out against the background of the larger dramas of history, and using those larger dramas as an ingredient makes for a richer stew.
I've been obsessively researching the 60s and 70s, and some of what I've found has shocked me, even though I lived through it all. Sort of, given that I was tucked away in the hills at the time.
Anyway, Jess got here Friday and we've been hanging out, writing and talking. I read some letters she gathered in her travels this summer. Fantastic stuff. Truly cannot wait to see what she makes of it all.
More soon. Another busy day awaits.
Telling True Stories continues to spark my imagination, along with Fannie Flagg's books, most recently Standing in the Rainbow, and Anthony Doerr's Four Seasons in Rome.
The big thing all of these books are pointing out to me is that our personal dramas are played out against the background of the larger dramas of history, and using those larger dramas as an ingredient makes for a richer stew.
I've been obsessively researching the 60s and 70s, and some of what I've found has shocked me, even though I lived through it all. Sort of, given that I was tucked away in the hills at the time.
Anyway, Jess got here Friday and we've been hanging out, writing and talking. I read some letters she gathered in her travels this summer. Fantastic stuff. Truly cannot wait to see what she makes of it all.
More soon. Another busy day awaits.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Red Lightning
So, Deb and I were scheduled to leave between 1:00 and 2:00 yesterday afternoon. Surprisingly, we hit I70 about 5:15. This wasn't surprising because we were 3 to 4 hours behind schedule, but because we were ONLY 3 to 4 hours behind schedule. Deb is always, always late. Always. And, to add the good news, she called shortly before 1:00 to let me know how late she'd be. Ordinarily, I just hang around waiting til she shows. (She rarely answers her cell and almost never when she's late.)
So, we got off to a good start.
It takes about 5 hours to drive from KC to St. Louis. By dusk, we were watching the most fabulous lightning how I've ever seen. Hundreds and hundreds of strikes, most of it what we used to call heat lightning--waves of diffuse light rather than individual bolts. No rain and no thunder. The strikes were too far away for us to hear the thunder. As evening waned, lightning backlit the colors of the sunset so the flashes looked pink and purple and gold.
By the time darkness fell, the show got more dramatic. As we got closer, we began to see individual bolts. The biggest, brightest bolts I've ever seen, and each was of longer duration. We saw one bolt we felt sure hit something because it shimmered in the air for several seconds, trilling up and down from earth to sky. (This morning the STL news is full of the pictures of a historic church destroyed by lighting last night. ??)
We also saw red lighting. Stoplight red. Neon loosed in the sky. After the first bolt, we looked at each other in confusion and asked, "Did you see that? That red lighting?"
Later we saw a virtual starburst of red light in the distance. About 10 minutes after that burst, we began to hear thunder and 5 or 10 minutes after that drove into rain. Driving, streaming, pounding rain but hardly any lightning at that point. When we drove out of the rain about 20 minutes later, we started seeing lightning again, but the real show was over.
My bags had hardly hit the floor of the hotel room before I googled red lightning. Lots of theories, no real answers. If anyone knows anything definitive, be sure and leave a comment, would you? We did see discussions of "red sprites," those bursts of red light, so we know we didn't imagine it.
Silly me, initially I wanted to get here before dark. Thought it would be easier to find our way in an unknown area when we could see. And it would have been (especially because we were navigating construction-narrowed roads in driving rain), but we would have missed one of the most spectacular shows of our lives.
The Universe provdes, you know. It really does.
So, we got off to a good start.
It takes about 5 hours to drive from KC to St. Louis. By dusk, we were watching the most fabulous lightning how I've ever seen. Hundreds and hundreds of strikes, most of it what we used to call heat lightning--waves of diffuse light rather than individual bolts. No rain and no thunder. The strikes were too far away for us to hear the thunder. As evening waned, lightning backlit the colors of the sunset so the flashes looked pink and purple and gold.
By the time darkness fell, the show got more dramatic. As we got closer, we began to see individual bolts. The biggest, brightest bolts I've ever seen, and each was of longer duration. We saw one bolt we felt sure hit something because it shimmered in the air for several seconds, trilling up and down from earth to sky. (This morning the STL news is full of the pictures of a historic church destroyed by lighting last night. ??)
We also saw red lighting. Stoplight red. Neon loosed in the sky. After the first bolt, we looked at each other in confusion and asked, "Did you see that? That red lighting?"
Later we saw a virtual starburst of red light in the distance. About 10 minutes after that burst, we began to hear thunder and 5 or 10 minutes after that drove into rain. Driving, streaming, pounding rain but hardly any lightning at that point. When we drove out of the rain about 20 minutes later, we started seeing lightning again, but the real show was over.
My bags had hardly hit the floor of the hotel room before I googled red lightning. Lots of theories, no real answers. If anyone knows anything definitive, be sure and leave a comment, would you? We did see discussions of "red sprites," those bursts of red light, so we know we didn't imagine it.
Silly me, initially I wanted to get here before dark. Thought it would be easier to find our way in an unknown area when we could see. And it would have been (especially because we were navigating construction-narrowed roads in driving rain), but we would have missed one of the most spectacular shows of our lives.
The Universe provdes, you know. It really does.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Meet Me in St. Louis
My sister and I are off to St. Louis for a couple of days. Kind of a fool's errand, if you ask me, but she would not take no for an answer, and so I'm packing.
Just finished reading Standing in the Rainbow, another Fannie Flagg novel. Fannie has reminded me of the value of simplicity. Her stories and her language are comfortable and familiar and. . .universal. Reading them is like slipping into an old hoodie sweatshirt, flannel pants, and soft socks.
All this reading lately. All these voices. Feels like I'm on the verge of something really important, something vital. Something's brewing. I'll post a piece when it's ready.
Meantime, I'm off to STL. Ya'll take care while I'm gone.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Problem Solved
Solved the porn-on-my-computer problem. Bought my college-bound boy his very own laptop. Never been happier to sign a credit card receipt.
Happy, Happy
Happy, happy, happy, happy, happy.
Evan just walked in the door. You will never, ever guess what he handed me.
Go on, try. What do you think it was?
Give up?
His completed college registration.
Evan decided to go the nearby community college and got himself registered for a Biology class. He starts next Tuesday.
I believe in MIRACLES!
Evan just walked in the door. You will never, ever guess what he handed me.
Go on, try. What do you think it was?
Give up?
His completed college registration.
Evan decided to go the nearby community college and got himself registered for a Biology class. He starts next Tuesday.
I believe in MIRACLES!
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Where I'll Find Him
In a wise a loving comment on my post Dreams, Grammer said:
I'm skeptical of the match.com thing. I met every man I've loved while doing what I loved to do most: music. That's where I'm soul-bare, available, listening, and ready for anything. What do you love to do most? What puts you in that kind of space? I think that's where you're gonna find him.
I've spent a bit of time now, thinking about what I love most these days: reading, writing, watching the pond, talking books with people who love them as I do.
Not much man-meeting potential there. Not that many years ago--maybe 5--I hiked across Canada, biked across Alaska, kayaked in Puget Sound, watched the sun rise above Acadia National Park (the first place the sun touches in the US each morning) and on and on. Once I was a person who flew in hot air balloons and drove a dog sled through the forest on the night of winter solstice. Now I'm a person who surfs the internet.
Maybe that, above all, is what needs to change. Instead of thinking about life, I need to get back to living it.
Thanks, Tracy. Great comment.
I'm skeptical of the match.com thing. I met every man I've loved while doing what I loved to do most: music. That's where I'm soul-bare, available, listening, and ready for anything. What do you love to do most? What puts you in that kind of space? I think that's where you're gonna find him.
I've spent a bit of time now, thinking about what I love most these days: reading, writing, watching the pond, talking books with people who love them as I do.
Not much man-meeting potential there. Not that many years ago--maybe 5--I hiked across Canada, biked across Alaska, kayaked in Puget Sound, watched the sun rise above Acadia National Park (the first place the sun touches in the US each morning) and on and on. Once I was a person who flew in hot air balloons and drove a dog sled through the forest on the night of winter solstice. Now I'm a person who surfs the internet.
Maybe that, above all, is what needs to change. Instead of thinking about life, I need to get back to living it.
Thanks, Tracy. Great comment.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Ribbons of Words
Reading Telling True Stories has been like holding match to a gas jet for me. Whoooooosh! Suddenly, I'm hearing the words almost non-stop. In my dreams, floating in that gulf between waking and sleeping, when I close my eyes and drift, it's like the Big Guy in the Sky is sending down dictation.
Weird, but wonderful.
TTS is a collection of essays about writing non-fiction. Much of it is slanted to narrative newspaper writing, but the information and wisdom is valid and valuable, no matter what you write. I practically forced Barb to buy it, and she called yesterday praising it to the skies, in tears while she read a piece aloud to me.
So, get yourself to a bookstore or library or bookselling web site near you and get yourself a copy. Then dive in and swim around in it for a few hours. I think you'll be glad you did.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Deeper
Picked up a novel off my dad's bookshelf yesterday--Wild Orchids by Jude Deveraux. Reading this book may prove, once and for all, that I truly will read anything with words on it. Started late last night and finished this morning. It was the polar opposite of the writing I encountered in Taos. No music weaves between the lines, no "stab of actuality" in the descriptions, and the rhythm of the language is clunky at best. There are at least three plots roiling around between the covers and one of them is pretty ridiculous.
Still, I couldn't put it down. Learned something, maybe even several things by reading it.
One of the plot lines brings us to an about face by one of the protagonists, a writer, about his childhood and the people in it. He had a tough time growing up and used it as fodder for his books. He wrote about people who were ignorant, unkind, and hurtful to him. Decades later, he gets to know one of these people as an adult, and learns how life looked from the other side of the page. He then plots out a book retelling many of the same stories from that point of view. Wouldn't that be an interesting exercise?
Everyone is the hero of his/her own story, and so it should be. But other points of view deserve to be explored, too. This character never met his father, who had been in jail since before the character was born. When he learns some of his father's story, it turns out not to be as cut and dried as that sounds. This character left home, got rich writing books (!!) and used some of his money to help younger generations of his family go to college. For family members who stayed in the community, it's a mixed blessing. Turns there's more to the situation than he imagined.
Isn't that always the way? Just when we think we can safely write someone off as all wrong or all bad, they turn out to be as multi-faceted and complex as we ourselves are. Damn. I hate it when that happens.
Can't say I recommend this book, but sure can say I recommend reading a book you wouldn't ordinarily pick up. Once in awhile, anyway.
Still, I couldn't put it down. Learned something, maybe even several things by reading it.
One of the plot lines brings us to an about face by one of the protagonists, a writer, about his childhood and the people in it. He had a tough time growing up and used it as fodder for his books. He wrote about people who were ignorant, unkind, and hurtful to him. Decades later, he gets to know one of these people as an adult, and learns how life looked from the other side of the page. He then plots out a book retelling many of the same stories from that point of view. Wouldn't that be an interesting exercise?
Everyone is the hero of his/her own story, and so it should be. But other points of view deserve to be explored, too. This character never met his father, who had been in jail since before the character was born. When he learns some of his father's story, it turns out not to be as cut and dried as that sounds. This character left home, got rich writing books (!!) and used some of his money to help younger generations of his family go to college. For family members who stayed in the community, it's a mixed blessing. Turns there's more to the situation than he imagined.
Isn't that always the way? Just when we think we can safely write someone off as all wrong or all bad, they turn out to be as multi-faceted and complex as we ourselves are. Damn. I hate it when that happens.
Can't say I recommend this book, but sure can say I recommend reading a book you wouldn't ordinarily pick up. Once in awhile, anyway.
Friday, August 10, 2007
This Just In
Trying to download images from an FTP site so I can write captions for photos for my upcoming book. Having trouble--error messages and the like. Finally think I've got it and open an unknown file on my desktop that might be what I'm looking for.
What pops up? Well, let's just say it wasn't images of luxury living.
Okay. . .for some people it might be. But those people would not be me.
I'm certain I'm over-reacting, but just can't believe I raised my son to watch that kind of stuff. Yeah, I know. He's 25. No girlfriend right now. Not many friends here. But Lord, God. I hate this.
Um. . .God? Are the hormonal urges of a young man one of those things I cannot change? Or should I have taught him better than that? Any little bit of wisdom or understanding or serenity would be greatly appreciated about now. RIGHT NOW, as a matter of fact.
What pops up? Well, let's just say it wasn't images of luxury living.
Okay. . .for some people it might be. But those people would not be me.
I'm certain I'm over-reacting, but just can't believe I raised my son to watch that kind of stuff. Yeah, I know. He's 25. No girlfriend right now. Not many friends here. But Lord, God. I hate this.
Um. . .God? Are the hormonal urges of a young man one of those things I cannot change? Or should I have taught him better than that? Any little bit of wisdom or understanding or serenity would be greatly appreciated about now. RIGHT NOW, as a matter of fact.
Lord, Grant me the serenity. . .
Edited 03.05.08 to add: If you've come to this post looking for words about serenity, welcome. I hope you'll also go to this post, which I wrote just for you.
How's it going with Evan (my 25-year-old son), you ask?
"Mom, what time does Aunt Debbie get up?"
"She's usually at Grandma's house by 8:30 or 9:00"
"What? 9:00? I can't wait until 9:00. I have to get on the road. Why doesn't she get up until 9:00? That's terrible!" [at full volume]
"Mom, can you cash my paycheck for me?"
"How big a check, Evan?"
"I need $800."
"I don't have $800 on me, Evan. Why don't you go to the bank?"
"What? You can't cash the check? What do you mean? Why would I go to the bank? They'll just hose me over again. I don't have $800 in my account, they aren't going to cash a check for me." [at full volume]
"Evan, you don't need to have $800 in your account, the person who wrote the check needs to have the $800."
"You just don't know anything, Mom. My bank isn't going to cash that check for me. [at full volume while slamming and banging around]
Mom, will I be able to drive that car home today?"
"I don't know. Maybe. But you have to have patience when you're negotiating, Evan."
"What? You say I can buy a new car and now you're telling me I won't get it. I can't have the car, can I? Why did you ever tell me I was going to be able to buy a new car? I'm never going to get it, am I?
That's my life. Someone waves something good in front of me, and as soon as I try to reach out for it, they snatch it away." [at varying degrees of volume, ranging from yelling to muttering.]
"Evan, I'm not saying you won't get the car. I'm telling you that the key to negotiation is being willing to walk away."
"Right. I'm just going to walk away. That's the only Jeep with a sunroof in this hick town. In Minneapolis there are hundreds. . .thousands of Jeeps with sunroofs. But here in Hicksville, there's one. And now you're telling me I can't get the only car I want in this whole town."
All this before the coffee's done this morning. No wonder my poor little doggie's taken to living in my closet, under a pile of dirty clothes. I'd join her, but there's no room. I haven't done laundry in two weeks. Evan's got both machines running almost constantly.
"Mom, what time does Aunt Debbie get up?"
"She's usually at Grandma's house by 8:30 or 9:00"
"What? 9:00? I can't wait until 9:00. I have to get on the road. Why doesn't she get up until 9:00? That's terrible!" [at full volume]
"Mom, can you cash my paycheck for me?"
"How big a check, Evan?"
"I need $800."
"I don't have $800 on me, Evan. Why don't you go to the bank?"
"What? You can't cash the check? What do you mean? Why would I go to the bank? They'll just hose me over again. I don't have $800 in my account, they aren't going to cash a check for me." [at full volume]
"Evan, you don't need to have $800 in your account, the person who wrote the check needs to have the $800."
"You just don't know anything, Mom. My bank isn't going to cash that check for me. [at full volume while slamming and banging around]
Mom, will I be able to drive that car home today?"
"I don't know. Maybe. But you have to have patience when you're negotiating, Evan."
"What? You say I can buy a new car and now you're telling me I won't get it. I can't have the car, can I? Why did you ever tell me I was going to be able to buy a new car? I'm never going to get it, am I?
That's my life. Someone waves something good in front of me, and as soon as I try to reach out for it, they snatch it away." [at varying degrees of volume, ranging from yelling to muttering.]
"Evan, I'm not saying you won't get the car. I'm telling you that the key to negotiation is being willing to walk away."
"Right. I'm just going to walk away. That's the only Jeep with a sunroof in this hick town. In Minneapolis there are hundreds. . .thousands of Jeeps with sunroofs. But here in Hicksville, there's one. And now you're telling me I can't get the only car I want in this whole town."
All this before the coffee's done this morning. No wonder my poor little doggie's taken to living in my closet, under a pile of dirty clothes. I'd join her, but there's no room. I haven't done laundry in two weeks. Evan's got both machines running almost constantly.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Stories Matter
I picked up a copy of Telling True Stories this afternoon. It's a nonfiction writers' guide from the Nieman Foundation at Harvard. So far, it's fabulous. Inspiring. Illuminating.
I skipped around in it a little before buying the book and just now finished the first essay. Talking about why stories matter, Jacqui Banaszynski concludes with these words:
Stories are our prayers. Write and edit them with due reverence, even when the stories themselves are irreverent.
Stories are parables. Write and edit and tell yours with meaning, so each tale stands in for a larger message, each story a guidepost on our collective journey.
Stories are history. Write and edit and tell yours with accuracy and understanding and context and with unwavering devotion to the truth.
Stories are music. Write and edit and tell yours with pace and rhythm and flow. Throw in the dips and twirls that make them exciting, but stay true to the core beat. Readers hear stories with their inner ear.
Stories are our soul. Write and edit and tell yours with your whole selves. Tell them as if they are all that matters. It matters that you do it as if that's all there is.
If we're honest with ourselves, every one of us occasionally wonders why we do this, why we keep moving our fingers across the keys, turning our selves inside out to tell stories about things that turned our lives upside down.
Banaszynski's answer is simple and true: our stories matter. They are history, they are music, they are the soul of the world.
Write on, my friends.
I skipped around in it a little before buying the book and just now finished the first essay. Talking about why stories matter, Jacqui Banaszynski concludes with these words:
Stories are our prayers. Write and edit them with due reverence, even when the stories themselves are irreverent.
Stories are parables. Write and edit and tell yours with meaning, so each tale stands in for a larger message, each story a guidepost on our collective journey.
Stories are history. Write and edit and tell yours with accuracy and understanding and context and with unwavering devotion to the truth.
Stories are music. Write and edit and tell yours with pace and rhythm and flow. Throw in the dips and twirls that make them exciting, but stay true to the core beat. Readers hear stories with their inner ear.
Stories are our soul. Write and edit and tell yours with your whole selves. Tell them as if they are all that matters. It matters that you do it as if that's all there is.
If we're honest with ourselves, every one of us occasionally wonders why we do this, why we keep moving our fingers across the keys, turning our selves inside out to tell stories about things that turned our lives upside down.
Banaszynski's answer is simple and true: our stories matter. They are history, they are music, they are the soul of the world.
Write on, my friends.
Invisibility
As many of you know by now, when I get stressed, I move through my days wrapped in a cloak of invisibility. Don't talk much, don't do a good job of answering either phone or e-mail messages. Just get through.
Until a month or so ago, it did not occur to me that my invisibility can impact others. I truly didn't realize anyone would miss me and never, ever imagined they might be hurt or wonder what went wrong.
So much for sensitivity, right?
Over the course of the last month, several situations have unfolded where I've been forced to recognize that my habit of disappearing hurts others from time to time, and I'm in the process of working through that. Making amends, trying to become more conscious.
Last Thursday I went to my favorite yoga studio for the first time in many, many months. The teacher greeted me like the prodigal daughter and the other students were incredibly warm and welcoming. Went to another class on Monday. Different teacher, different students. Same response. I couldn't have been more surprised.
The thing is, in almost every way I recognize that everything's connected, that the whole is dependent upon the parts. So it's a mystery that I have been too wrapped up in my own stuff to realize my absence would impact others, would take something away from the whole, whether it's a class, a friendship, or a circle of writers.
To the many loving friends who have held space for me during these times, thank you. And my deepest apologies to those I've hurt.
There still may be times when I need my cloak, but from now on, I'll let you know when I'm donning it. I'll make sure you know how important you are to me and that my distance is my own and has nothing to do with you. To be more accurate, I will make every effort to do these things. If you notice me messing up on this, please get my attention (a 2 x 4 works nicely) and remind me of the world outside myself.
Thank you all.
Until a month or so ago, it did not occur to me that my invisibility can impact others. I truly didn't realize anyone would miss me and never, ever imagined they might be hurt or wonder what went wrong.
So much for sensitivity, right?
Over the course of the last month, several situations have unfolded where I've been forced to recognize that my habit of disappearing hurts others from time to time, and I'm in the process of working through that. Making amends, trying to become more conscious.
Last Thursday I went to my favorite yoga studio for the first time in many, many months. The teacher greeted me like the prodigal daughter and the other students were incredibly warm and welcoming. Went to another class on Monday. Different teacher, different students. Same response. I couldn't have been more surprised.
The thing is, in almost every way I recognize that everything's connected, that the whole is dependent upon the parts. So it's a mystery that I have been too wrapped up in my own stuff to realize my absence would impact others, would take something away from the whole, whether it's a class, a friendship, or a circle of writers.
To the many loving friends who have held space for me during these times, thank you. And my deepest apologies to those I've hurt.
There still may be times when I need my cloak, but from now on, I'll let you know when I'm donning it. I'll make sure you know how important you are to me and that my distance is my own and has nothing to do with you. To be more accurate, I will make every effort to do these things. If you notice me messing up on this, please get my attention (a 2 x 4 works nicely) and remind me of the world outside myself.
Thank you all.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Dreams
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.
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.
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.
Update
Okay. I passed the test call for that freelance editing job. Now I'm set to do five training calls and see how it goes. They'll pay me to do the training calls, so it's all good. Wish me luck. I'd really like to land this gig. For one thing, it's completely self contained. The call comes in, I edit it in one sitting, and upload it. When I'm done, I'm done and free to get back to my real work. Plus, I'd get to lay out my own schedule for when I'm available, week by week. That leaves me plenty of time to write. And maybe travel.
I'll let you all know how it goes.
I'll let you all know how it goes.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Freddy Rouse
My son mentioned he wanted "real food" for breakfast, and I replied, "There's eggs and bacon. Bagels. Toast. We've got it all, Freddy Rouse."
Freddy Rouse has been a constant presence in my life. Everyone--from my dad to my little brother--talks to him from time to time. I've heard the phrase, "We've got it all, Freddy Rouse," a million times.
A few days ago, I found out that Freddy Rouse never lived anywhere but in the imaginations of my dad's family. He was, in fact, the imaginary friend of my dad's youngest brother, the baby of the family. Evidently, Freddy did everything with Uncle Don, and the rest of the family went along with it. They talked to Freddy and offered him food and fun; asked questions and inquired about his general comfort.
Dad hung on to the habit, and now I realize I have, too. 65 years after Don dreamed him up, Freddy Rouse still lives with us.
Want to talk about the power of imagination?
Freddy Rouse has been a constant presence in my life. Everyone--from my dad to my little brother--talks to him from time to time. I've heard the phrase, "We've got it all, Freddy Rouse," a million times.
A few days ago, I found out that Freddy Rouse never lived anywhere but in the imaginations of my dad's family. He was, in fact, the imaginary friend of my dad's youngest brother, the baby of the family. Evidently, Freddy did everything with Uncle Don, and the rest of the family went along with it. They talked to Freddy and offered him food and fun; asked questions and inquired about his general comfort.
Dad hung on to the habit, and now I realize I have, too. 65 years after Don dreamed him up, Freddy Rouse still lives with us.
Want to talk about the power of imagination?
Monday, July 02, 2007
Everything As It Should Be
I am not in Iowa meeting Amma with Jess, as I planned. Instead, I am here on the pond, fulfilling my motherly duties and editing a test call for a company that provides transcripts of quarterly conference calls for publicly traded companies.
Creating a transcript of these calls is not easy, but I feel pretty good about it. Although the company specified that they're looking for MBAs or people studying for an MBA, I applied and was selected. Yep, me, the college dropout.
Why would they consider me? Because I spent seven long years writing investor relations and public relations for The Wasband's company. Didn't get paid. Rarely got acknowledged. Never got thanked. It's quite a kick that, so many years later, that experience might be the key to giving me time to write.
Not long ago I put it out into the universe that I needed new ways to make a living, some combination that would leave time and mental energy for my real writing. And though this editing job is not yet mine, it's an opening, a possibility that would let me work 20 hours a week and write the rest of the time. (Well, whenever I'm not running the salon or taking care of my parents or Evan, now that he lives here again.)
If that possibility exists, there are others. And I'll keep looking until I find something that's right for me and my life. And I'll remember that even painful and difficult things can become valuable down the road.
Creating a transcript of these calls is not easy, but I feel pretty good about it. Although the company specified that they're looking for MBAs or people studying for an MBA, I applied and was selected. Yep, me, the college dropout.
Why would they consider me? Because I spent seven long years writing investor relations and public relations for The Wasband's company. Didn't get paid. Rarely got acknowledged. Never got thanked. It's quite a kick that, so many years later, that experience might be the key to giving me time to write.
Not long ago I put it out into the universe that I needed new ways to make a living, some combination that would leave time and mental energy for my real writing. And though this editing job is not yet mine, it's an opening, a possibility that would let me work 20 hours a week and write the rest of the time. (Well, whenever I'm not running the salon or taking care of my parents or Evan, now that he lives here again.)
If that possibility exists, there are others. And I'll keep looking until I find something that's right for me and my life. And I'll remember that even painful and difficult things can become valuable down the road.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
GodSpeed, Jess
I can't fully explain what a joy it's been to have Jess here the past few days. She's such an easy guest, full of interesting stories and able to go with the flow. Yesterday we left my house about noon and didn't get back until after 8:00pm, each little thing flowing into the next. And she flowed right along with it, even though it wasn't what we expected to do or really were dressed for.
In fact, she introduced me to a great little tea shop down in Westport. Yep, that's right, the guest introduced the host to her own town. How great is that? We went to a self-defense class at the salon and then had lunch with Barb (Barbara Robinette Moss) at a little Thai place and then the three of us went to Westport to the tea shop. She introduced me to bubble tea, which was interesting if not fabulous. (Jess assures me this place doesn't make it right.) Eventually, Barb's husband, Duane, joined us and we got a drink at a little outdoor joint. Jess kept her equilibrium through it all, even though some of it (especially the class and the outdoor joint) included some odd folks and sharp edges.
Maybe Jess has learned to keep the Second Agreement: Don't take anything personally. She has a copy of the book with her, and just before sitting down to write this, I flipped through the pages and came to this: If you keep this agreement, you can travel around the world with your heart open and no one can hurt you. . . You can choose to follow your heart always.
So, I'm getting ready to wish her well and watch her disappear down the street, following her heart and the stories of her family. I'm so glad she stopped here at the pond for a bit. Her visit reminds me (though I never actually forget) of the power and grace of this group of women. It reminds me of what can happen when you open your heart and take risks. It reminds me that all we need is love.
Godspeed, my friend. Traveling mercies.
In fact, she introduced me to a great little tea shop down in Westport. Yep, that's right, the guest introduced the host to her own town. How great is that? We went to a self-defense class at the salon and then had lunch with Barb (Barbara Robinette Moss) at a little Thai place and then the three of us went to Westport to the tea shop. She introduced me to bubble tea, which was interesting if not fabulous. (Jess assures me this place doesn't make it right.) Eventually, Barb's husband, Duane, joined us and we got a drink at a little outdoor joint. Jess kept her equilibrium through it all, even though some of it (especially the class and the outdoor joint) included some odd folks and sharp edges.
Maybe Jess has learned to keep the Second Agreement: Don't take anything personally. She has a copy of the book with her, and just before sitting down to write this, I flipped through the pages and came to this: If you keep this agreement, you can travel around the world with your heart open and no one can hurt you. . . You can choose to follow your heart always.
So, I'm getting ready to wish her well and watch her disappear down the street, following her heart and the stories of her family. I'm so glad she stopped here at the pond for a bit. Her visit reminds me (though I never actually forget) of the power and grace of this group of women. It reminds me of what can happen when you open your heart and take risks. It reminds me that all we need is love.
Godspeed, my friend. Traveling mercies.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Green Tara and Red Toes
Jess brought me this beautiful print of Green Tara. I absolutely love it.
Here are Jess's toes, post pedicure. She keeps petting her feet, talking about how soft they area. The red polish looks great, don't you think?
Finally, here's Jess in her semi-permanent position in a comfy chair facing the pond. We're actually writing this evening, between stories and pictures and laughter.
Here are Jess's toes, post pedicure. She keeps petting her feet, talking about how soft they area. The red polish looks great, don't you think?
Finally, here's Jess in her semi-permanent position in a comfy chair facing the pond. We're actually writing this evening, between stories and pictures and laughter.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Jess in KC
Jess is HERE!!!
She arrived a couple of hours ago and we've been talking non-stop. Now we're having a snack and playing with our computers. Updates soon.
She arrived a couple of hours ago and we've been talking non-stop. Now we're having a snack and playing with our computers. Updates soon.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Such Sweet Sorrow
Katie will go back to Minnesota this afternoon. I started crying last night. Why wait? It only adds pressure later. A certain number of tears must be shed every time we part, and I might as well get on with it.
My eyes feel like they're full of sand this morning and my heart feels hollow, a space where unwary birds bounce off the walls with the same PLONK as when they fly into the sunroom windows. Their beaks twist on impact with the windows, small clicking sounds the only evidence of their contact with the Great Transparency, but they rend holes in the walls of my heart, pecking out a fretwork of love and loss.
As you can hear, I'm in contact with the Great Opaque, fully engaged in the mystery of pushing a rock up a hill with my nose.
This, too, shall pass.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Happy, Happy
Last night Katie and I went to see "Romeo and Juliet" at KC's Shakespeare in the Park. It was a beautiful night and the production was lovely. Sitting there laughing together, whispering to one another from time to time, watching the shadows gather and darkness slide over the stage—well, it was just about as good as life gets in some ways. On the way home, we talked about love and relationships and the differences between men and women.
I loved being a mom when they were babies, toddlers, and young kids. The teen-aged years had flashes of brilliance along with plenty of challenges. But this, this young adult stage has a grace I could not and did not imagine. I am so thankful, so grateful for this front row seat where I can watch the drama of their lives unfold.
It's not all beer and Skittles, of course. From here you can see the hair in the noses of their mistakes, feel the pinch of their small pains like too-tight shoes, and their bigger pains strike you like silver stakes through the heart. Worst of all, there's precious, precious little you can do to warn or redirect them. When a toddler gets too close to a flame, you move the candle. When your candle-moving days are over, all you can do is trust that they learned to step away on their own. Or to use a fire extinguisher.
So far, so good with that. Happy, happy.
May each of you know such happiness.
I loved being a mom when they were babies, toddlers, and young kids. The teen-aged years had flashes of brilliance along with plenty of challenges. But this, this young adult stage has a grace I could not and did not imagine. I am so thankful, so grateful for this front row seat where I can watch the drama of their lives unfold.
It's not all beer and Skittles, of course. From here you can see the hair in the noses of their mistakes, feel the pinch of their small pains like too-tight shoes, and their bigger pains strike you like silver stakes through the heart. Worst of all, there's precious, precious little you can do to warn or redirect them. When a toddler gets too close to a flame, you move the candle. When your candle-moving days are over, all you can do is trust that they learned to step away on their own. Or to use a fire extinguisher.
So far, so good with that. Happy, happy.
May each of you know such happiness.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Making the World Your Home
Katie got here last night and it's wonderful to have her sleeping in the next room as I write.
At dinner I told her about Jess and her journey and about Holly's travels with the Dead. We talked about how travel opens your mind and lets you see not just places and people, but new ways of being in the world. I think I've got her convinced to do a semester abroad next year.
We spent the evening researching programs. She's most interested in Australia and London, but I might get her to be a little more adventurous than that after she gets used to the general idea. Katie's a girl who likes to have a plan, likes to know exactly what's in front of her. She's organized and thorough; she plans ahead; she makes more than a list, it's more like a grid. God alone knows where she got these tendencies.
Her first comment about every single program we checked into was about the cost. I kept telling her not to worry about that yet, kept explaining that finding ways to pay for it was my job, not hers, but she persisted. We had a wonderful time, laughing and looking at pictures and imagining her adventures.
After overhearing a conversation between my nieces the other day, I called K to ask her whether she had thought I wanted to be a mom as she was growing up. Her answer: "D'oh. It was only what you were born to do."
She was mostly right. Being a mom, her mom and Evan's—was one of the things I was born to do. More find me all the time.
At dinner I told her about Jess and her journey and about Holly's travels with the Dead. We talked about how travel opens your mind and lets you see not just places and people, but new ways of being in the world. I think I've got her convinced to do a semester abroad next year.
We spent the evening researching programs. She's most interested in Australia and London, but I might get her to be a little more adventurous than that after she gets used to the general idea. Katie's a girl who likes to have a plan, likes to know exactly what's in front of her. She's organized and thorough; she plans ahead; she makes more than a list, it's more like a grid. God alone knows where she got these tendencies.
Her first comment about every single program we checked into was about the cost. I kept telling her not to worry about that yet, kept explaining that finding ways to pay for it was my job, not hers, but she persisted. We had a wonderful time, laughing and looking at pictures and imagining her adventures.
After overhearing a conversation between my nieces the other day, I called K to ask her whether she had thought I wanted to be a mom as she was growing up. Her answer: "D'oh. It was only what you were born to do."
She was mostly right. Being a mom, her mom and Evan's—was one of the things I was born to do. More find me all the time.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Coming Home
My girl arrives for a visit in less than 12 hours. Lucky me!!!!
Last night on the phone she said she'd be "home" in less than 24 hours. You can not imagine how happy I was to hear those words come out of her mouth.
She has never lived here in Kansas City—she's a Minnesota girl, through and through. And yet, she feels as though coming to visit me is coming home, and I thank God and all the angels for that.
As the kids were growing up, that was one of my goals. I wanted the word home to mean me. I wanted to be their anchor in the world, a safe place, their one true thing. I wanted them to know they belonged somewhere and with someone, no matter what.
And so, Katie's random, without-any-thought reference to home sets my heart afire. . .with love and hope and pride.
While she's here, I'll continue to try to teach her (by example) that we carry the answers inside ourselves, that we only find true happiness within, and so on. And while I do, I'll go right on being glad that she's grown to equate me with the feeling of being most thoroughly at peace and at rest.
Home.
Last night on the phone she said she'd be "home" in less than 24 hours. You can not imagine how happy I was to hear those words come out of her mouth.
She has never lived here in Kansas City—she's a Minnesota girl, through and through. And yet, she feels as though coming to visit me is coming home, and I thank God and all the angels for that.
As the kids were growing up, that was one of my goals. I wanted the word home to mean me. I wanted to be their anchor in the world, a safe place, their one true thing. I wanted them to know they belonged somewhere and with someone, no matter what.
And so, Katie's random, without-any-thought reference to home sets my heart afire. . .with love and hope and pride.
While she's here, I'll continue to try to teach her (by example) that we carry the answers inside ourselves, that we only find true happiness within, and so on. And while I do, I'll go right on being glad that she's grown to equate me with the feeling of being most thoroughly at peace and at rest.
Home.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Racing Time
My mother and i made a quilt this weekend. To be accurate, we pieced the top. We'll turn it into an actual quilt over the next few days. We're making it as a birthday gift for my niece.
Over the last three days, Mom's been as happy as it's possible for a 73-year-old woman with assorted health problems and tired eyes to be. She has bounced out of bed and hit the ground running. I know this because I stayed at Mom and Dad's house Friday and Saturday nights. (We worked so late I was too tired to drive 4 miles home.)
Yesterday afternoon Mom and I were making salads to take to a Father's Day feast at my sister's house when she sighed deeply, and said, "I must be about to die."
My neck actually snapped as I whirled around to confront her. "Why would you say such a thing?"
"Thing are so good right now," she said, "and no one gets to be this happy for long."
She's wrong, but I'm racing time to demonstrate that.
As difficult as it has been in some ways, the move here to MO has been truly successful. The time is going to come—a long time from now, I hope—when I am even more thankful to have spent this time with my folks. I will never, ever forget the day Mom thought she was too happy to live.
Over the last three days, Mom's been as happy as it's possible for a 73-year-old woman with assorted health problems and tired eyes to be. She has bounced out of bed and hit the ground running. I know this because I stayed at Mom and Dad's house Friday and Saturday nights. (We worked so late I was too tired to drive 4 miles home.)
Yesterday afternoon Mom and I were making salads to take to a Father's Day feast at my sister's house when she sighed deeply, and said, "I must be about to die."
My neck actually snapped as I whirled around to confront her. "Why would you say such a thing?"
"Thing are so good right now," she said, "and no one gets to be this happy for long."
She's wrong, but I'm racing time to demonstrate that.
As difficult as it has been in some ways, the move here to MO has been truly successful. The time is going to come—a long time from now, I hope—when I am even more thankful to have spent this time with my folks. I will never, ever forget the day Mom thought she was too happy to live.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Fearlessness and Right Action
Had the strangest dreams last night, including this odd little bit.
I was traveling, visiting someplace in the US, an urban area near wild and beautiful settings. My folks were with me and we had rented an apartment-like place to stay while we were at this festival. I had been enjoying the events and spending time with many of the locals. At an event late at night, I reached for my purse to pay for a glass of wine I'd had with a couple I'd gotten to know and like. It turned out I'd left my purse at the apt., so I ran back to get it. Running back, I felt strong and healthy and as though running were no challenge at all. My dream self observed how strong and capable she felt and knew that she'd found her stride. I felt what it would be like to be a real runner, just the movement, not the drudgery and effort.
I was surprised to find the couple still there when I got back. After I'd paid for the wine, they began to explain to me that they were planning to sue me. They showed me pictures of watches the woman designed and told me I looked like I had money. They'd seen me wear jewelry too close to her designs and they were going to sue me for it.
I stood up, told them they could certainly try, but they'd have hell to pay making it stick. I walked off without a backward glance. The guy caught up to me and told me they would back down. He said his wife thought I was a soft touch but he warned her against trying. When he walked away, I could hear him talking to her: "She's not who you thought. For one thing, look at her. She doesn't weigh any XXX pounds (my actual weight). She's much smaller and stronger than you thought. Forget it. This isn't going to work."
I ran back to the apt. and started to go in the back way so I wouldn't wake my folks. As I went down the stairs to the basement, a man followed me. I turned and told him to get away from me. He shrugged and continued to follow me down the stairs. "There's nothing down here for you," I said, and I walked toward him, which made him back up the stairs and then turn and run away.
Another man appeared, This one older and not so large, but drunk. He, too, felt threatening. He walked toward the stairs, boasting about how he would take me where he wanted me. I waited until he got near the stair rail, then pushed him and watched as he toppled over the rail and down the stairs.
The next morning other people in the apt. building were looking out their doors, chatting with my mother about what had happened. My mom was about to defend my actions when the other women broke in to tell her they'd heard and seen nothing, but whatever happened was good and right because no man had a right to threaten a woman and no one who didn't live there should be trying to get into the basement so late at night.
I woke, feeling strong and confident. And thin.
The thin feeling didn't last long, but I think Green Tara's fearlessness and compassion are working on me through my dreams.
If you guys have ideas of the meaning, I'd sure be interested.
I was traveling, visiting someplace in the US, an urban area near wild and beautiful settings. My folks were with me and we had rented an apartment-like place to stay while we were at this festival. I had been enjoying the events and spending time with many of the locals. At an event late at night, I reached for my purse to pay for a glass of wine I'd had with a couple I'd gotten to know and like. It turned out I'd left my purse at the apt., so I ran back to get it. Running back, I felt strong and healthy and as though running were no challenge at all. My dream self observed how strong and capable she felt and knew that she'd found her stride. I felt what it would be like to be a real runner, just the movement, not the drudgery and effort.
I was surprised to find the couple still there when I got back. After I'd paid for the wine, they began to explain to me that they were planning to sue me. They showed me pictures of watches the woman designed and told me I looked like I had money. They'd seen me wear jewelry too close to her designs and they were going to sue me for it.
I stood up, told them they could certainly try, but they'd have hell to pay making it stick. I walked off without a backward glance. The guy caught up to me and told me they would back down. He said his wife thought I was a soft touch but he warned her against trying. When he walked away, I could hear him talking to her: "She's not who you thought. For one thing, look at her. She doesn't weigh any XXX pounds (my actual weight). She's much smaller and stronger than you thought. Forget it. This isn't going to work."
I ran back to the apt. and started to go in the back way so I wouldn't wake my folks. As I went down the stairs to the basement, a man followed me. I turned and told him to get away from me. He shrugged and continued to follow me down the stairs. "There's nothing down here for you," I said, and I walked toward him, which made him back up the stairs and then turn and run away.
Another man appeared, This one older and not so large, but drunk. He, too, felt threatening. He walked toward the stairs, boasting about how he would take me where he wanted me. I waited until he got near the stair rail, then pushed him and watched as he toppled over the rail and down the stairs.
The next morning other people in the apt. building were looking out their doors, chatting with my mother about what had happened. My mom was about to defend my actions when the other women broke in to tell her they'd heard and seen nothing, but whatever happened was good and right because no man had a right to threaten a woman and no one who didn't live there should be trying to get into the basement so late at night.
I woke, feeling strong and confident. And thin.
The thin feeling didn't last long, but I think Green Tara's fearlessness and compassion are working on me through my dreams.
If you guys have ideas of the meaning, I'd sure be interested.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Signs, Signs, Everywhere the Signs
While sitting down to meditate yesterday, I noticed a feather floating at the edge of the pond. It looked mighty similar to the two feathers on my meditation altar, the ones Jennifer gave me at the workshops. I thought about going out to pick it up, but let that thought go and got on with my meditation.
This was the first feather I've seen on the pond or on the banks in the two years I've lived here. It's always seemed strange that, with dozens of geese around all the time, there are no feathers lying about.
This morning, as I was lighting my meditation candle, I wondered what had happened to the feather, wondered whether it was—by some really strange chance—still out there on the pond. It didn't seem likely, but I checked.
I found not one but two feathers floating in almost the exact same place the feather had been yesterday. One is floating along, held up by the other. Reminds me of the circle and the way we hold and suport one another.
Bidden or unbidden, God is present.
This was the first feather I've seen on the pond or on the banks in the two years I've lived here. It's always seemed strange that, with dozens of geese around all the time, there are no feathers lying about.
This morning, as I was lighting my meditation candle, I wondered what had happened to the feather, wondered whether it was—by some really strange chance—still out there on the pond. It didn't seem likely, but I checked.
I found not one but two feathers floating in almost the exact same place the feather had been yesterday. One is floating along, held up by the other. Reminds me of the circle and the way we hold and suport one another.
Bidden or unbidden, God is present.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Thinking of England
Remember a few weeks ago when I was all verklempt over the intros an editor rejected? The ones I couldn't find ways to write?
The comments I got were—as always—kind and loving and helpful. Realized this morning I'd never let you all know what happened.
One day I sat down in my beautiful red leather recliner and refused to let myself get up until I'd written them. I visited web sites and bulletin boards for cigar smokers and people who love to pamper themselves to get a flavor of what they talk about among themselves.
Then I mediated a moment, consciously turning loose of my reservations and my own opinions about the topics. Finally, I wrote.
Can't say it exactly flowed, but I did manage to hit the word count with every one, "pumping up the envy factor" all over the place. They were pretty over the top if you ask me, but I got it done.
The editor sent a one line response: Thank you. These are exactly what I was looking for.
I read one to Mystic Wing yesterday and he informed me I'm now officially a literary whore. Works for me. In the end, all I had to do was close my eyes and think ofEngland the pond.
The comments I got were—as always—kind and loving and helpful. Realized this morning I'd never let you all know what happened.
One day I sat down in my beautiful red leather recliner and refused to let myself get up until I'd written them. I visited web sites and bulletin boards for cigar smokers and people who love to pamper themselves to get a flavor of what they talk about among themselves.
Then I mediated a moment, consciously turning loose of my reservations and my own opinions about the topics. Finally, I wrote.
Can't say it exactly flowed, but I did manage to hit the word count with every one, "pumping up the envy factor" all over the place. They were pretty over the top if you ask me, but I got it done.
The editor sent a one line response: Thank you. These are exactly what I was looking for.
I read one to Mystic Wing yesterday and he informed me I'm now officially a literary whore. Works for me. In the end, all I had to do was close my eyes and think of
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Is Silence Golden?
A friend told me something in confidence the other day, and now it's boiling inside me, bubbling in my brain, looking for someone safe to discuss it with. I have not repeated what he told me, and I will not. But, woooweee, it's hard to keep my mouth shut.
One of our employees told me something slightly alarming yesterday and asked me to keep it confidential. I've been down the path she's on right now and it leads to disturbing, frustrating, just-plain-ugly places. I want to talk to her best friend; I want to call her mother; I want to confront the issue, but feel I can't because she asked me not to.
A colleague is in the process of making me totally, off-the-wall, batshit crazy. I'm pretty sure I'm returning the favor—not on purpose mind you, but simply by being myself (albeit a sometimes sarcastic, snotty version of myself). We are bringing out the worst in each other, but we are doing it beneath a threadbare blanket of civility.
Repeating a confidence for the zing I'd get from the gossip is just plain wrong. I'm clear on that.
Repeating confidential information in a way I interpret to be helpful—that's not quite so cut and dried. After all, my intentions would be good. Trouble is, my perceptions might be wrong in the first place and there's always the chance that whoever I chose to tell might not handle it well. The whole thing is fraught with peril, a phrase I remember from the boxcar-load of romance novels I read the summer after sixth grade. Best to keep my mouth shut and my eyes and ears open for now.
And finally, there is my say-nothing-but-leave-no-doubt-of-my-true-opinion situation. Jeeezus, squeeeze us. How old am I now? Have I learned nothing in the 43 years since I was 10 years old? In this case, not speaking up is just plain childish. Chicken shit. Not helpful to me, not helpful to the colleague. Not helpful.
Why is it so hard to be silent in some situations and so difficult to speak up in others?
Small mysteries, but they are the stuff of my life.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Further Thoughts on Practically Perfect
The other day I wrote about a new book, Practically Perfect in Every Way. At the time, I'd read 17 pages. Now, three-quarters of the way through it, I still love her voice and admire her writing, but I'm not so sure what I think of the book.
The premise is that this non-introspective type woman spent two years exploring various self help books in an attempt to improve her home, finances, marriage, parenting, and so forth.
So far, she's pretty much refuted the advice of each "expert," concluding that it's not possible or necessary to improve on her natural style. In fact, as she turned her attention to the issues of her life, she began sleepwalking and having panic attacks. It seems that the less introspective she is, the less she is troubled with these problems.
Most of my (ok, all of my true) friends and I are trying to live consciously. It's fascinating to read the thoughts of someone who finds introspection to be self-indulgent. Her views, while not my own, have lots to teach me.
There's a line between self-awareness and narcissism. In fact, they may be kissing cousins. It's easy to get carried away and forget which side of the line we want to be on. I'm trying to figure out how to recognize and respect the line and would love to hear your thoughts.
The premise is that this non-introspective type woman spent two years exploring various self help books in an attempt to improve her home, finances, marriage, parenting, and so forth.
So far, she's pretty much refuted the advice of each "expert," concluding that it's not possible or necessary to improve on her natural style. In fact, as she turned her attention to the issues of her life, she began sleepwalking and having panic attacks. It seems that the less introspective she is, the less she is troubled with these problems.
Most of my (ok, all of my true) friends and I are trying to live consciously. It's fascinating to read the thoughts of someone who finds introspection to be self-indulgent. Her views, while not my own, have lots to teach me.
There's a line between self-awareness and narcissism. In fact, they may be kissing cousins. It's easy to get carried away and forget which side of the line we want to be on. I'm trying to figure out how to recognize and respect the line and would love to hear your thoughts.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Smells
Stepped outside to walk my little dog last night and got hit full blast with the smell of Missouri, the smell of my childhood.
Just before it rains here, you can smell iron in the soil, heat from the rocks, and snakes in their holes mixed with something indefinable and sweet, like cookies baking in the next gallaxy—first star to the right and straight on til morning, or some place close to that.
Fecundity. Maybe that's the sweet smell—ripeness and possibility.
Since the blast from the past of The Counselor's cologne, I've been obsessed with smells: noticing them, dissecting them, describing them. Nothing jerks me into the past or pitches me into the future as thoroughly as smells and nothing is as difficult to explain. At least nothing I've tried so far.
Ever noticed the smell of berries baking? Their sweetness turns inside out, deliciousness shimmying in the air like the a preview of coming attractions.
Or vanilla? Why does the scent of warm vanilla makes you want whatever it's attached to? And what exactly does it smell like?
Ahhhhh. The mysteries.
I've got to go. It's still raining and I've got to sniff the pond.
Just before it rains here, you can smell iron in the soil, heat from the rocks, and snakes in their holes mixed with something indefinable and sweet, like cookies baking in the next gallaxy—first star to the right and straight on til morning, or some place close to that.
Fecundity. Maybe that's the sweet smell—ripeness and possibility.
Since the blast from the past of The Counselor's cologne, I've been obsessed with smells: noticing them, dissecting them, describing them. Nothing jerks me into the past or pitches me into the future as thoroughly as smells and nothing is as difficult to explain. At least nothing I've tried so far.
Ever noticed the smell of berries baking? Their sweetness turns inside out, deliciousness shimmying in the air like the a preview of coming attractions.
Or vanilla? Why does the scent of warm vanilla makes you want whatever it's attached to? And what exactly does it smell like?
Ahhhhh. The mysteries.
I've got to go. It's still raining and I've got to sniff the pond.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
WooooHooooo
Writing this post from my brand-new, 13 inch, white MacBook--the first words I've typed on it.
While I love this new laptop, I'm still mourning the old one--just a bit--a much beloved aluminum 12-inch MacBook with attitude. As many of you will recall, I smelled The Counselors's cologne at a restaurant last week and dropped my laptop on a tile floor, mangling its case and, as it turns out, the power port. When I tried to plug it in yesterday it buzzed ferociously, clearly a sign of impending laptop doom.
Anyway, here I am with a new computer in my lap. Kind of like turning a page, I think.
Stay tuned for further developments. So far, I love this little gem. Its keyboard is comfortable and its screen, which is an inch bigger than the old one, easy to see. Maybe it will inspire me to be braver and bolder. I hope so. I'm really working on that bravery thing.
much love to all.
While I love this new laptop, I'm still mourning the old one--just a bit--a much beloved aluminum 12-inch MacBook with attitude. As many of you will recall, I smelled The Counselors's cologne at a restaurant last week and dropped my laptop on a tile floor, mangling its case and, as it turns out, the power port. When I tried to plug it in yesterday it buzzed ferociously, clearly a sign of impending laptop doom.
Anyway, here I am with a new computer in my lap. Kind of like turning a page, I think.
Stay tuned for further developments. So far, I love this little gem. Its keyboard is comfortable and its screen, which is an inch bigger than the old one, easy to see. Maybe it will inspire me to be braver and bolder. I hope so. I'm really working on that bravery thing.
much love to all.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Words of Wisdom from Barbara Robinette Moss
Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pig.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Meeting Expectations
My sister, one of the people with whom I'm struggling at the moment, often speaks to me in a tone of resigned patience that makes it clear I'm getting on her last nerve and that it's quite an effort for her to slow her thinking down to the level of my lower, reptilian brain function.
I am not the only one who notices this, so I'm sure this is a fair and accurate observation, not my own stuff. Or, not JUST my own stuff.
What is my stuff, however, is how I respond to this: By being as stupid as she clearly expects me to be.
In the rest of the world, I'm my normal, relatively competent self. But put me in the same room--or even the same building--as my sister, and my brain melts like an Otter Pop at a Fourth of July parade. In Death Valley. At high noon.
This morning I needed to send a fax from the office. My sister has moved her office recently and doesn't have the phone lines resituated yet, so it was necessary to unhook the phone line from the phone and plug it into the fax. Well within my capabilities. She offered to do it for me, poor little soul that I am, but I opined that I could manage myself.
Yeah. Sure.
I went to the back room, removed the phone line from the wall and plugged it into the fax. I punched in the number, the screen indicated it was dialing, but all I got was a strange tone rather than ringing or a connection. I hit redial several times and then decided to call the intended recipient of the fax to see if their system was working. When I reached over to reconnect the phone, it hit me. I had connected the fax to the phone rather than to the wall jack.
Now, I screw up as often as the next guy, but not much more than that. Unless my sister is within close proximity. When she is, this is the kind of stuff I fall into.
Thank the Good Lord I figured it out, connected it properly, and got the damn thing sent before she realized what I'd done.
Talk about living down to someone's expectations. Sheeeeesh.
I am not the only one who notices this, so I'm sure this is a fair and accurate observation, not my own stuff. Or, not JUST my own stuff.
What is my stuff, however, is how I respond to this: By being as stupid as she clearly expects me to be.
In the rest of the world, I'm my normal, relatively competent self. But put me in the same room--or even the same building--as my sister, and my brain melts like an Otter Pop at a Fourth of July parade. In Death Valley. At high noon.
This morning I needed to send a fax from the office. My sister has moved her office recently and doesn't have the phone lines resituated yet, so it was necessary to unhook the phone line from the phone and plug it into the fax. Well within my capabilities. She offered to do it for me, poor little soul that I am, but I opined that I could manage myself.Yeah. Sure.
I went to the back room, removed the phone line from the wall and plugged it into the fax. I punched in the number, the screen indicated it was dialing, but all I got was a strange tone rather than ringing or a connection. I hit redial several times and then decided to call the intended recipient of the fax to see if their system was working. When I reached over to reconnect the phone, it hit me. I had connected the fax to the phone rather than to the wall jack.
Now, I screw up as often as the next guy, but not much more than that. Unless my sister is within close proximity. When she is, this is the kind of stuff I fall into.
Thank the Good Lord I figured it out, connected it properly, and got the damn thing sent before she realized what I'd done.
Talk about living down to someone's expectations. Sheeeeesh.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Practically Perfect
I am having a practically perfect evening: wearing ultra-comfy pjs, curled into my favorite chair, a red leather recliner. Above me, the ceiling fan stirs the cool evening air and outside, the midnight blue sky embraces india-ink outlines of trees circling the pond. Josh Radin sings to me from the iPod (thanks, Jess).
Best of all, I'm diving into a new book, practically perfect in every way, by Jennifer Niesslein. I'm only on page 17, but I'm in LOVE with this woman's voice. She's absolutely fearless about revealing her flawed human self and reading along feels like listening to your best friend telling stories. (Well, it feels like that to me. But I'm lucky. My best friends are really, really good storytellers.)
Check out Jennifer's blog or her magazine Brain, Child.
Back to the book now. More soon.
Best of all, I'm diving into a new book, practically perfect in every way, by Jennifer Niesslein. I'm only on page 17, but I'm in LOVE with this woman's voice. She's absolutely fearless about revealing her flawed human self and reading along feels like listening to your best friend telling stories. (Well, it feels like that to me. But I'm lucky. My best friends are really, really good storytellers.)Check out Jennifer's blog or her magazine Brain, Child.
Back to the book now. More soon.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Anger Management
Chanting to Tara this morning, I wonder how anger fits into compassion.
I have been angry lately, with several people in my life. I don't like anger. Like the color orange, it scares me with its intensity. When people around me get angry, I head for the exits. When I get angry, I keep quiet until I can walk it off and yell all I want without bothering anyone.
Not good, I know, but I'm a work in progress, you know.
Barb and I were talking about anger the other day, and I oh-so-wisely told her that anger is a call to action, a sign that something needs to change. Easy to say to someone else, right? But even in my own life I know there's a reason for my anger, that's it's a call to stand up for myself. Necessarily.
But I never quite manage to ride the fine line between standing up for myself and getting obnoxious. Mostly I stay on the silent side of the fence, stewing dangerously. Two or three times in the last two years that stew has boiled over and I've yelled, screamed actually, at someone.
These are not scenes I want to repeat.
In other people, it's easy to see the fear that lies beneath their anger. Its harder to diagnose the fears that lie beneath my own.
Ah HA! That's the key. I need to find that fear, work on it with active compassion, and face it head on. Then maybe the anger will dissipate, like Smoke from a Distant Fire.
Okay. That's the assignment. Thanks for listening while I worked this out. Updates at 11.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Magnificient Obsession
Cleaning the house in preparation for a baby shower tomorrow, I watched "The Starter Wife" on USA. I'm hooked. Completely. If you haven't seen it, check it out. Now, I may like it for obvious reasons, but even without my background, I think you'll find it interesting and funny.
My favorite line was "It's hard to find inner peace when you worship at the Church of Perpetual Upkeep."
Amen, Sister.
My favorite line was "It's hard to find inner peace when you worship at the Church of Perpetual Upkeep."
Amen, Sister.
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