Burning the shoulds...

I was talking to a friend of mine tonight who is pregnant. We were discussing diet and exercise when I mentioned that when I get pregnant I want to exercise a lot, not drink Coke, cook more, eat fruits and vegetables, not eat fast food, and not stress about money- all things I don't currently do. So, basically, I am privately telling myself that I want to be someone else when I get pregnant. These are all good things in this case, but the setting of such high expectations is dooming myself to failure. I've already created for myself a future of feeling like a bad parent, and I'm not even close to being one yet.

I know I've blogged about this before, but I guess until that moment I never realized just how deep my expectations for myself and my life reach. No wonder so many of us are unhappy. We all do it. We all place rules on how everything should be. This includes how others should be. No wonder so many people are angry when things don't turn out the way they wanted. No wonder so many people are prejudiced and mean to others who don't act the way they expected. No wonder so many people aren't satisfied, marry for the wrong reasons, have kids for the wrong reasons. They are living inside these boundaries that don't even exist. Boundaries created to make us feel good about ourselves. But they don't. They end up making us feel bad about ourselves, because we can never live up to them for one reason. We will never be able to predict the future. Therefore, how can we make such rules for ourselves?

My life coach currently has a really rad quote as her email signature, so I'm going to steal it and share it. "We must be willing to give up the life we planned so as to have the life that's waiting for us."- Joseph Campbell I thought about this more as I journaled tonight, and I wrote, if there is one thing I do with this life, I want it to be being true to myself. What else have I got? So in order to better throw out- no, burn- the shoulds in my head, I decided to write them all down every time one slips through. Hopefully, this will make me more aware of them, thereby, releasing me from them. What a freeing thought!

In reviewing the whole day, I came up with 15 shoulds, though I'm certain there were more:

I should get up early and help my husband.
I should move my car.
I should get to work early.
I should eat breakfast.
I should sleep.
I should dye my hair.
I should not spend money. x2
I should be teaching better. x2
I should dress better.
I should spend more time on my hair.
I should say hi to someone I know when I see them in the library.
I should not drink so much Coke.
I should drink more water.
I should work on my current art project.
I should know what aperture and focal length are.

In applying this to my writing, I came up with three more:
My stories should be long.
My stories should be "good".
My stories should be written in silent seclusion.

No wonder I'm scared to try.


I am so in love with outside right now. I always am but with the weather cooling down and finally feeling like true fall, I could spend all day outside. I love the look of the sky at dusk. It feels so majestic. I tried to capture that in this photo. It didn't come out as I wanted, but I got a cool lens flare effect that I wasn't expecting. ;)

Riding the wave...

I was flipping through channels this morning looking for something vaguely entertaining to watch as I folded the laundry. I stopped when I heard the voice of Bill Kurtis. Wherever his voice reverberates lies a true crime buff's interest. I stopped for a second to watch to see if perhaps it was a case I was familiar with when I heard him say, "Jacksonville Beach". My ears immediately perked up as I remembered my husband telling me once of a girl he had vaguely known who had been murdered. It was her. The case was intriguing, and just as everyone says, it was disturbing to hear of such things happening in your very own neighborhood. But there was one line in the show that moved me the most. For one reason or another I am a one-liner junkie. There always seems to be just one line that flashes at me like a neon sign. (This is why I liked The Kite Runner, there were about 20 one-liners that shook me.) It was uttered by a police detective out of Duval County, I believe. He said, in rough estimation, "I believe every man is capable of murder given the right circumstances."

Well, this jumped out at me as I have blogged recently about what causes a person to cross that line between murder being the most heinous of sins and murder being fathomable. This question has been echoing through my brain in recent weeks what with the stories that have intersected my path. For some reason, I feel like this must be a necessary step for me in my progression as a writer, perhaps as a person. I guess it began with The Reader. I had no idea what the movie was about, but knew it was highly acclaimed and knew I loved Kate Winslet, and so watched it. Its merciful portrayal of her character's participation in the concentration camps of WWII opened my eyes to another side of the coin. Then there was Defiance. Again, I had no clue what it was about. My husband actually added it to our Netflix queue, and though I didn't really want to watch it, thinking it an action movie from the cover, I did. And, it depicted a completely different side of the Holocaust, the side that fought back. Well, out of the blue, my husband's aunt had mentioned weeks before of a book a friend of her's had written about his mother's survival of the Holocaust. It sounded interesting, so I am now in the midst of that harrowing tale. Upon posting about Defiance, a friend suggested another book written by a survivor about forgiveness. It is waiting on my nightstand, next to be devoured. The Kite Runner, a story of similar inter-class violence, I read because it was one of my students' summer reading assignments, and I had heard it was good. Then, the other night we were flipping channels and The Green Mile came on. Though I remember not liking it when it first came out, I was glued this time to its beautiful metaphor of murder and forgiveness. All these things coming at me completely by chance combine to point me in a new direction toward new realizations, new view points, a new understanding of the world.

It's interesting; I am starting to notice phases in my blogging. I feel I am currently in a 180 from my initial blog posts of life and love. My new focus seems to be on death and hate. I suppose it is necessary to understand both sides before being able to really deconstruct my characters. But I still love how it all just seems to be happening, and I am just riding this wave of inspiration. Whether a bright blue cool wave or a dark black rough wave, they both seem to take me to the same destination.


My new favorite model. I have to break up the dark subject matter with something. Why not a cute little pup?

Finding small treasures...

Although I spent many moments with my tears blurring the yellow lines of the road as I listened to The Kite Runner, I think the saddest part was today when the words faded into music. I couldn't believe it was over. It was like losing a friend or moving away. I've spent only the last week or so with my friends Amir and Hassan in Afghanistan, but I didn't want to come back. I felt that this is the best book I have ever read. As I thought this thought driving to work, I realized, I think that after pretty much every book I read. And, when it ends, I miss it, yet I immediately get this itch for the next adventure. Where will I be next? It's as exciting as if someone put the whole of Outer Space in front of me and asked, where do you want to go?

When I was little, my favorite stories were mysteries. I loved the tales about the girl who moved into an old house in a new city and ultimately found exciting treasures in the attic that led her on adventures. I loved the part when she found the treasures best. I feel that same excitement every time I hold in my hands a fresh new book. It hides within it so many clues, but not to the character's lives, to mine.

I never had any interest in foreign affairs. In fact when it comes to politics and current events, I've always felt I didn't belong. But reading about Obama, reading about Kabul and Peshawar brought these seemingly larger than life issues into real life. I felt I now had a connection to these things, these places. In fact I felt such a connection that my life suddenly felt unfamiliar. I spent my days in this war zone where things beyond horror occur like rainfall, yet I had to shut my car door and walk back into my nice house and watch commercials about the Rachel Zoe Project. Everything I had known felt far away, as if in a dream. How do you connect these two worlds? A world where excess is tossed around like garbage and people refuse food and love for the mere case of appearance; and a world where people are cast off, beaten, starved, and served death by their very friends because of their social class. So different, yet so similar. Again, I am reminded of how I hate hate. Anyone who claims to be better than another, by race, religion, or belief, should read this story and really hear what comes from such hatred. Small children forced to pay for the sins of adults. Sacrifice made in the form of a prepubescent boy. An image not so far off from what we do to each other here in the States. One's superiority complex only brings another's pain. Whether it's mobile death units that kill thousands a day as their families watch, or a religious group humiliating a gay man. Hate breeds pain. Hate breeds stupidity. It holds others down from their potential, thereby holding us all down.

Using this book as a map, I searched my attic for some small treasure. And, what I found was that my fear of the unknown, of war, of other cultures I've never experienced, of situations I'd rather pretend don't happen every day is unnecessary. Shutting out any part of the world shuts us out from ourselves. There is a magnetic attraction I have to finding out about the dark side of man. I don't know why it's there, but I'm glad it is. I know it serves a purpose. It makes me feel closer to life, closer to God to acknowledge what is, all that is. I will most likely never be able to explain it, but in order to love life, I feel I have to love all of it. Even the parts that make me sick to my stomach with grief.


Snakes, for instance, as my girl Bree blogged about recently, are often seen as the symbol of evil. But snakes are as much a part of God's nature as a tree or a butterfly. I think the trick in appreciating nature, or life, is to appreciate all its parts.

This is a corn snake that someone banished from their home when they decided they didn't want a pet anymore. By the time Cornholio slithered onto our front walk he was so emaciated, his chances of survival are slim.

Redefining the "norm"...

I was talking with friends the other day about children with learning disabilities, and how they just need to learn the tools they require to succeed. One of my friends pointed out that, in fact, we all do this. We are all looking for different tools to do the same job. We each have different abilities and varying degrees of each. We each have different limits and varying degrees of each. The trick is figuring out what your individual ones are. I don't know who it was that created the "norm", but it was not a very smart person. I think growing up, at least for me, it is easy to identify with the norm, and assume it is universal. It's taken me my entire thirty years to realize that I am not the "norm", and that nothing is wrong with that. So, now I am faced with the job of figuring out what it is I need and when and how and how much, etc., etc.

It's been interesting releasing the blame and guilt for this. For instance, I have always known I was shy, introverted. For my whole life, I have hated myself for it, and tried to figure out how to not be that way. It is just now that I realize it is not a negative thing, and that I need to ration out my socializing. So, I take note of when I know I've had too much, and remember that for next time. It's cool to be able to give myself that slack and to look out for myself, for once.

The same is true for all things, all ways of life. The 9-to-5 settled life does not define "stability" for all of us. Some of us, including me, would lose our minds in that world (have lost our minds in that world). So, we figure out what we need and fold our lives around it. There's this scene in Harriet the Spy (yes, I'm referring to this movie again, it is amazing, and I can't wait to finally read the book) when her nanny's boyfriend tells Harriet that he quit his job where he was a "bajillionaire" to be a delivery man. He suddenly realized the "norm" was not for him, and with this realization "life is sweet again".

I think the most important thing we can teach kids is to constantly question. Maybe the actual asking of "why" is more important than the answer. As you explore your world, you find yourself.

Asking why we ask why...

We have company in town for a couple weeks, which is always a good excuse to sit and be lazy and enjoy time. Today we all sat around and watched TV for hours. It was great! I haven't done that since I was a kid. We watched one movie that was amazing, to be included in a future post. Then we ended the night (great plan) with Haunting in Connecticut. Although it was highly Hollywoodized, it is always interesting to me to see the intersection of "living" and "dead". I put these words in quotations, because, to me, there are no such things, only different planes of existence. Beyond that, I have no clue how to explain anything. Which is why I am so attracted to ghost stories, mysteries, and mythic beings, like the Loch Ness Monster. Because we will never know the truth.

I guess it goes along with my love of imagination, as well as my love of space. With imagination, the possibilities are literally endless, you can't count them, you can't possibly know them all. Same with the stars. You can't possibly count them, you can't possibly know them all. That is so captivating, and so much fun to think about. No wonder I love the paranormal, too.

I think we are all like 5 year olds, constantly asking why, why, why. We do research, we build machinery, we create theories, but when it comes down to it, the answer always ends up 'because God made it that way', in other words, 'I have no clue'. You can answer a simple question of why do we have brains with a break down of neurons and synapses, but if you keep asking why, eventually the answers run out. Always. So the best we can do is marvel at the vast minutia (I love this word!) of the world, and be grateful to be a part of it.


**To follow up on last night's post, the art show today was just as expected- lame. But at least I got to sit and chat with friends and family, and it got me back in the art show frame of mind.



I think the blurriness of this photo of our antique TV says it all. TV blurs reality, to say the least. But movies to me are an art form that increases evaluation of reality. (At least the good ones!)

Getting ready...

Getting ready for an art show tomorrow, so tonight's post will be brief. My last art show was months ago. I bowed out for a spell to regroup, get excited about the work again, and get new ideas. Instead my interests traveled to new exciting places. I agreed to do this art show only because my sister asked me to. Well, and I knew it would be my other sister's first. I remember how scary my first art show was, and so I agreed. It was stressful getting my stuff together again, but it reminded me how I love doing shows. So, it has inspired me to make the next move.

All the art rage lately has been focused on the fairly new Riverside Arts Market. All the cool artists are there to see and be seen. No, I'm just kidding, but compared to the shows I've done, you could call it the "big leagues". I've been thinking about trying it out but just wasn't ready. Well, I feel ready now. I went ahead and printed out the forms tonight, and will be sending them off this week for the initial approval. It only lasts through mid-December before calling it quits for the "winter". So if I can get in just one time before the end of the year to try it out, and I like it, well that gives me til re-open in April to get more stuff made. Perfect.

I'm really excited about it. I spent the evening planning how to more "professionalize" my display, and I've come up with some great ideas. So, soon maybe I will be posting about my success there. We shall see. Until then, I will enjoy the smaller venues, like St. Luke's Catholic Church in Middleburg. The center of all that is artistic. Yes, that's Middleburg. Good luck to me.


Today was my third day in a row of seeing the sky again, and look how it's helped me already. It has inspired me to stretch my art show wings. I'm telling you, always look to the sky is my greatest piece of advice for myself, and others. As long as your chin is up, you will never want for possibilities.

Wishing upon a star...

Tonight on my drive home the sky was a blend of brilliant pinks, oranges and blues. The only reason I noticed it was because I suddenly became aware of the fact that I am no longer present when I drive. I'm floating down the road to Kabul alongside the characters of The Kite Runner, eyes glazed over, mouth agape. As I shook myself (criteria #2), I saw that the sky in front of me was beautiful. I then remembered a time not too long ago when I used to notice the sky every day on my drive home. I remember blogging that it was the thing that kept me in check, kept me dreaming, away from reality. But lately I have lost that connection. I also realized that it was about the time I lost the sky that I stopped taking pictures. I stopped seeing pictures.

I read an excerpt today from the book, Concerning the Spiritual in Art by Wassily Kendinsky, with my SAT prep student. A section of it nudged me gently, and I read it over and over again until I felt its meaning wrap around my life. The passage went like this:

The nightmare of materialism, which has turned the life of the universe into an evil, useless game, is not yet past; it holds the awakening soul still in its grip. Only a feeble light glimmers like a tiny star in a vast gulf of darkness. This feeble light is but a presentiment, and the soul, when it sees it, trembles in doubt whether the light is not a dream, and the gulf of darkness reality.

Since experiencing the simplicity of Island of the Blue Dolphins, I have begun to take in all of the materialism around me. When one says "materialism", people usually first think of extravagant things, like diamonds and furs. But to me, and I believe to Mr. Kendinsky as well, it refers to anything other than our most imminent needs. Anything that we consume other than these needs is poisonous to our souls. So, like with alcohol, we must take them in responsibly and in moderation. But, as the passage so beautifully points out, the most important goal is to not let them blind us, mistaking the light as dream, the dark as reality. For as all true dreamers know, when you wish upon a star, everything your heart desires will come to you.


Playing with light and darkness.

Broaching forgiveness...

There are two things that make a great book for me. One, that when I am away from it, at work or wherever, I can't stop thinking about it and am eager to know what happens next. And, two, when I am pulled away mid-read, say to check someone in, it takes a few seconds and a few shakes of the head to remember where I am. The Island of the Blue Dolphins meets both of these criteria for me. I think of getting lost in a book as kind of like seeing one of those hidden holographic images in the photos with all the mixed up colors that used to hang in the malls. Some people see it; some people don't. But for those who do, a magical secret world awaits.

The coolest part about this book in particular is that it is such a simple story. It consists of basically one character throughout. Yet it captivates my attention, and I feel a genuine concern for her. The simplicity, though, is a facade. It hides a thoughtful complexity beneath. Again, like the holographic picture. Upon first glance, it is a story of an Indian girl alone on an island. But beneath, there is much more said. My favorite example of this is her relationship with her dog. To explain it I will have to give a brief synopsis of the book, as their relationship has a history. When Karana, the main character, jumps off the ship that carries her people away to be with her younger brother who was left behind, he tells her that he is now chief of the land and must take care of her, though he is only 6. During an attempt to be brave, he is killed by a pack of wild dogs. Karana is left alone. Once she gathers food, builds her home, and prepares her weapons, she sets off to find the pack of dogs and kill them in honor of her brother, as well as to protect herself. She is almost successful, killing some and wounding their leader. When she finds him, she carries him back to her home and nurses him back to health. Her one enemy, who killed her last remaining relative, now becomes her only friend. He is all she has, her only hope for companionship. And, soon, they are best of friends, the old wounds forgotten.

I relate this tale to the books I am now starting to read. The one I started today, Hiding in the Spotlight, is a story of a Jewish girl who escaped death during WWII by hiding the fact that she was a Jew and performing as a pianist for the very soldiers who killed her family. (Thank you, Nancy.) The other, which I will read after, is Sunflower, a compilation of views on forgiveness, written by survivors of genocide from several countries. (Thank you, Cara.)

It's interesting to read IOTBD because I feel like it represents life today, only scaled down to such an extent that it makes our human turmoils more visible, more understandable. Once you scrape away all the excess, the view becomes clear. And you see that beneath it all, we are all alone. And, sworn enemies or not, all we have is each other.


Eckhart Tolle tells a story of geese in his book, A New Earth. He was sitting by a pond one day when he saw two geese fighting. One pecked at the others head, they squawked, they splashed, and then... they swam away, back to normal. He spoke of how interesting it was to see them release their anger and get over it so quickly, interacting again. He then relates it to humans, and the damage we do by holding on to our anger. What benefit does it have?

Admitting (and accepting) faults...

Tonight, I watched an episode of Hell's Kitchen, the one show my husband and I watch consistently. I don't know why, but we love it. One thing I "love" about it is how any time someone gets called out on a mistake he's made, he consequently complains in his "confessional" soliloquies that he is being "thrown under the bus". He only messed up this one time. Yet, when someone else messes up, the others (the same ones who fucked up yesterday) talk in their confessionals about what an idiot the person is and how easy the task is that he slipped up on. Apparently, they forgot that they are not perfect either. So, in tandem with the idea of the independent woman/man ideal that so seduces our culture comes the falsehood that mistakes are inadmissible.

I saw it all the time with my second graders when I taught in the public hell system. I even saw it among coworkers at the domestic violence shelter where I once worked. The immediate jump to get defensive, to point the finger someone else's way when a mistake has been identified. We strive so much for perfection, we fear that mistakes will show weakness. Or perhaps a dependence on others, God forbid.

It's pretty cool that I now work in two environments where it is okay to step up and say, yes I screwed up, and people gather around and help you. No one laughs and points fingers or calls names. Now if only I could do that for myself.


Growing up, not down.

Exploring thermo (and human) dynamics...

I was just rereading a previous post, entitled Owning the Power of Transference (7.31.09), about the effect we have on every single person we come into contact with, whether negative or positive. I was thinking about this tonight on more of a subparticle level. It has been shown that all we are is energy on a basic level, just the same as the sun, identical to the makeup of a plant. That plant transfers energy from the sun into food, just as we eat the plant transferring its energy into our own. So, is it possible that people, when they come into contact, both physical and otherwise, transfer energy to each other? Either taking it away or adding it, or both? I wondered about this this evening in response to a strong feeling of connectedness I felt to someone from the past. How do we explain such connections? Especially those that have no logical reason.

Family members who may have only known each other a short while, having been separated at birth or soon after, still feel linked regardless of time. Friends whom we haven't seen in a long time, can hardly picture the contours of their faces in our minds anymore, still feel a part of us, somehow. Former partners meet decades later and immediately feel the same pull toward each other.

I picture it like one of those heat readings, with waves of various heights and colors, and when you come into contact with certain people's energy fields a blip is created, a change in your energy reading that sticks, remains that way. Like a specific sensitivity to something, when you are again in contact with that energy, your energy field immediately recognizes it and responds accordingly. Perhaps these connections come from long periods of exposure to other people's energy fields, or perhaps certain energies are just attracted or repulsed more than others. I don't know.

But I definitely think the people in our lives make a permanent imprint. At least the important ones. Whether it's a positive or negative imprint, your two energy fields are forever linked. Energy can be neither created nor destroyed, but maybe it can be shared.


And what of our connections to places? I am, without a doubt, connected to St. Augustine. And our ancestors? Can energy be transferred from other dimensions as well? I believe it can.

Simplifying life...

Today at work I visited an island and learned how to hunt for food, build a house and make bows and arrows. You know, in between checking people in and out of the hotel. I was transported into the book, Island of the Blue Dolphins. I'm in the process of waiting for three new books on hold at the library and in the mail from amazon, so I picked this one up as an "in the meantime" read. It was one of my few favorite summer reading books from school, and I've been wanting to experience it again. Plus, I want to try and read a little from different genres to help me figure out what I want to write. Anyway, as I was reading the main character, Karana's, account of her days alone on the island, it struck me how straightforward life is. Her days consisted of waking up with the sun, bathing in the stream, finding her breakfast of quail eggs and seeds, spending her afternoon hunting her dinner- usually fish and abalone, eating, and watching the ocean as she fell asleep. It was good to read about how life is supposed to be. Simple. You do what you need to survive, and beyond that, you just enjoy life.

It seemed peaceful to me. Then I fast-forwarded for a moment to the life we lead today. Almost nothing we do, no action we take, has a direct consequence anymore. Karana hunted her food and then ate it. Today our meals come from a seemingly endless chain of people and companies that we have no interaction with. We just pick it up. Karana built her home. Today most of us have no idea how to lay a foundation or build a frame for a house. Instead, we pay people to do it or buy it prefabricated. Karana fought the wild dogs for survival. Today, we fear no animal other than ourselves.

Maybe if we had a closer connection to our own survival we would understand the purpose of life better. But, when all these other things get in the way, it's hard to see what's really important.


A Simple Kind of Life.

Deconstructing what's "real"...

Man. I am pretty sure that in the last week or two of writing, I have learned more about myself than in my entire thirty years of living. I wrote my post last night honestly, but when I shut my laptop, I didn't get "that feeling". The feeling that I'd kicked truth's ass. I didn't give it much thought though, and laid down to go to sleep. But I couldn't sleep. I was exhausted from standing for 8 hours straight, my mind was still, but I couldn't seem to drift off. Maybe what occurred to me tonight had something to do with that.

Again, in my bathroom, this time getting ready for bed (something in my toothpaste must stimulate my brain cells), it occurred to me how, well, dumb it was that I had somehow decided that just because I specifically woke up and sat down in the morning hours to write that that makes me an official writer. Sure it was the longest consecutive period of time I have spent writing so far. But I have sat down in my office plenty of times before to write. It's just usually at midnight or one, and only for an hour and a half. I was reading the book Picture Writer today at work, and before growing bored of it and returning it to the library, I did come across one interesting item. In the very back, the author listed the results of a survey she had given writers, asking them when they write. There was a list of quotes from published authors that varied as much as the swirls of our fingerprints. One said in the morning, one said once a week, one said 10 hours a day, one said midnight to 6 am, others said whenever they can- in waiting rooms, in traffic, etc. And, I thought, wow, midnight to 6am? So that's ok???

Apparently, I have some kind of mommy complex where I have to be told that the things I do are ok before I will stop beating myself up for them. So, now that I know it is ok to write at night, I can stop beating myself up for not getting up early to do it. I function best in the hours of 10pm to 3am. So what?

Thinking on this, it was quite amusing when I sat down to check my email and found one from my life coach quoting my previous email to her in which I had stated that I wanted to write in the morning "to make it feel like it is a real job and not a hobby". Only, she had underlined the word "real". Well, my view instantly shifted, my blinders immediately widened. I wanted to wake up and work in the morning because in my mind that is what constitutes a "real job". I can't just write a little here, a little there. That's not how you do "real jobs". But, who is scoring me on the realness of how I write? Why do I feel the need to construct my life around these rigid ideas I have cemented in my mind? I write because I want to write, not because I have to or I should. So shouldn't I then write when I want to write, not when I have to or when I should? I'm always amazed at how a person's outlook so alters their sense of reality. Stephen said no more outlines. No pre-planning. And, I intend to honor that to my best ability.


Hanging on to the mommy complex. It's time to let go, and live life by my rules- there are none.

"Spitting in the eye of despair"...

So today is the day- the day I officially became a writer. It literally felt like the first day on a new job. I dragged myself out of bed, even threw on some clothes, and headed to the kitchen to make tea. I had bought this tea, you know the kind that helps with clarity and brain function, blah blah, figuring that if I had something yummy to look forward to, it would help me to get out of bed and work before I have to go to work. Well, I guess I'm gonna need a little more on-the-job training in that department. The first cup was barely edible, the second only good enough to warrant about 5 sips. I felt like the new secretary who can't even make coffee on her first day. But, I'm hoping I'll get better, and maybe even learn how to make scones one day!

So, after that I warmed up with a writing exercise my life coach taught me. Even at this point, I was feeling the nerves. I was hoping what to write about would magically come and hit me in the head when it was time. It didn't. I came up with one line in my head that I liked and applied it to a story I had started a couple of weeks ago. But, I couldn't decide if I liked it better in the first or third person. So I did a little experiment and tried both. Third, definitely third. The problem is I couldn't come up with enough meat. I had the bones. But at this rate the story would be a page.

Reading over the few paragraphs I had written, I realized what I had been most afraid of. More than merely failing, I fear a) not knowing what to write about and b) hating what I do write. And, that is exactly what happened today. I got so frustrated, I went out to my backyard, sat on the concrete patio and meditated for five minutes, trying to get rid of all the yuckiness. When I came back inside, I named the yuckiness Expectations. I realized I had been writing as though this were the draft that would be sent off to press. I stopped. I decided to work instead on a novel I started about 5 or so months ago. One I had put away, because of course I had decided I didn't like it. And, this time, I just wrote. I didn't worry about capitalization, spelling, symbols, or theme. I just typed. It probably wasn't prize-winning material. But that's what the second draft is for. By the time my two hours was up, I had most definitely made my 1,000 word daily goal that Stephen said I should aim for. And, that was it. My initiation. Yucky, but I did it.



Driving home tonight, I listened to the last CD of On Writing. Stephen talks about the process of writing the book, and how it was filled with self-doubt. Stephen King filled with self-doubt? Ridiculous. And then I thought, why is that any more ridiculous than me being filled with self-doubt? There was one line he said in particular, though, that grabbed my attention and I repeated it in my head almost the whole way home. It was in answer to the question he hears most often- does he write for the money? His answer was a longer version of this: writing is "a spit in the eye of despair".

It was nice to remind myself of why I am doing this. Not for money. Not for fame. Not for something else to do. Lord knows I don't need that. I write because it is my connection to life. Because, every time I sit down with words, I become closer to life. The feeling I get when I transform my thoughts into the perfect sentence, when I am shooting pictures, when I go hiking, when I hear a beautiful piano solo by Ben Folds, when I'm jumping up and down with 20,000 people to the music of No Doubt, when I'm with my husband- that is life to me.


So, I was doing the dishes tonight when I came across my wonderful cup of tea from this morning. It was green. Even green tea is not green. How I made green tea, I do not know. Maybe I was summoning the spirit of Dr. Seuss to inspire my writing, who knows. But it made me laugh. When you can laugh at your mistakes, I figure it's a pretty good day.

Calling myself out...again...

Today I mused over the line that exists between art and work. If I truly want to make writing and photography my work while continuing to enjoy them, I have to figure out where this line lies. Of course, according to what I quoted Tolle on the other day, there is no line. Everything, even taking out the trash, can be enjoyed if we are aligned. And, I believe this. But what I wondered more about was actually scheduling my time. I feel I'm teetering on yet another line- the border of completely admitting that I am a writer. It would seem that this would be something I would love to claim, would love to jump into. And, I would. The thing is once I jump, I take that risk of failing. And, it's a huge risk, seeing that this is a dream I have had pretty much since birth. I don't want to end up like those people on the American Idol tryouts that make fools of themselves singing "Loving You" in front of millions of people and then walk away still believing they are truly talented, it's just that no one else can see it (or hear it).

If I jump, I want to succeed. I can't hide anymore. And, the one step left to make me feel like a real writer is to dedicate specific and consistent chunks of time to my writing. I've been doing it more often, but, as Stephen, who writes everyday including Christmas and his birthday, says, it's gotta be every day. So, I asked myself this morning- do I force myself to write, like it's a job, or do I only write when I feel inspired, like it's a hobby? Well, everyone, including me, knows the answer to this question, only it wasn't so glaringly clear until I just now typed it. I am afraid. Terrified would probably be closer to the truth. This is why I feel sick in the mornings, and at night when I lie down to sleep. I am so close, I can literally feel it. I just have to make that one final leap. I have to break that record in my head that continues to play the same old line- You're going to mess up, you're going to mess up, grow some balls as I said once before, and just do it. The time is now.


Go toward the light, dewin, go toward the light!

Ditching the reruns...

As I was brushing my teeth this morning, it came to me. Life as I know it suddenly made sense, and I had to stop and smile, foamy teeth and all. Last night as I was driving down 9A, Stephen said something that made total writing sense to me. After speaking about how writers simply come across stories and transcribe them, he went on to state that it is almost never a good idea to begin the writing process with a plotline. Instead you take a fleeting idea or question that flutters through your brain and just start writing. If you begin with a map, the result will come across forced and trite. However, if you explore the storyline as you go, it will develop naturally and honestly. (Insert Amen here.) I have felt this very thing before. Trying to start off from a prefabricated outline or overall focus feels uncomfortable. It's like writing a research paper, which is hardly ever fun. And, for whatever reason, as I was brushing my teeth, his words replayed in my head and something snapped.

I've been noticing the past couple of days a heaviness first thing in the morning. Not exactly a sense of dread, but most certainly a desire to stay in bed. And, I hate it. It's a yucky feeling and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where it was coming from. Everything is good in my life right now. No reason for yuckiness. Until, in nothing more than one split second, it all made sense. Just as it is unnatural to apply a rigid outline to a story before it's been written, so is it to apply a rigid outline to my life before it's been lived. How will there be room left for options as of yet unknown? How could I foresee the introduction of new characters? How would I predict the development of the main character? Stephen says even he does not know the ending until it happens. And, so it should be with life. Every day, every second, lived as a surprise. I don't want to grow to expect certain things to happen. I don't want to expect anything out of life. The last thing I want is a trite existence. I don't need to be known for anything special or remembered by others, I just want to live aligned with my spirit, wherever it leads me.


Here's a creepy one for ya! I took this at my hotel, obviously. This is a depiction of how I feel when I live life according to an outline. Like life is happening all around me, yet I remain just a black and white rerun of the same day over and over. Regardless of where I am or what seemingly monotonous thing I may be doing, as long as I do it with spirit, it feels new and exciting.

Going with the flow...

I took a short trip today to meet my new little brother, so I got lots of drive-time with Stephen King. CD 4 of On Writing is definitely my favorite thus far. I felt like I was in church, nodding and "Amen"ing everything he said. The most intriguing thing, and perhaps the most important that I have learned this past three months since starting my blog (Happy 3 month Anniversary, by the way), that Mr. King had to say was that writers don't create stories, they tell stories. He regards these tales as "relics" or "fossils" that the writer stumbles upon and unearths. A thing already in existence that the writer simply transcribes. It's interesting to me, because now that I think about it, this is pretty much what I wrote about in my 10th post, "Maintaining openness". King says that these stories he stumbles upon are such a discovery that even he doesn't know how they will end when he first finds them. Even he cannot predict who the characters will become by story's end. They simply find him and jump out from the Streams of Story into his head. And, I have felt this myself many times. Maybe you have the pieces but you don't quite know how they fit together until the words pour out like puzzle pieces from your fingertips.

On CD 5, he gives an assignment, a prompt for a story we, the listeners, are supposed to finish and email him. Though horror is not my forte, I decided to try it. One of the other important things I have learned is that you must try everything to determine what you are meant to do. So, though the prompt didn't excite me, and though, to be honest, I felt a bit queasy writing about such things, write I did, and I churned out the greatest number of pages I have ever written in one sitting, the highest number of words. I can do this.

In my Tolle reading for today, he states that our purpose in life is to align our inner focus with our outer focus, meaning to express our spirit through our work, whether that work is writing, mowing the lawn, or washing your face. When you are one with the spirit, it flows through you, guides you. Just like Stephen King said.


My new little brother.

Disowning past mistakes...

Today I read a story with one of my students about the brontosaurus. Brontosaurus, which means "thunder lizard", spent its days eating its vegetarian diet, awaiting extinction. Unfortunately for the brontosaurus, his body was too big, his head too small. So in order to fit enough food through his tiny mouth to sustain his weight, he had to be constantly eating. Because of this, coupled with his enormous weight, he had little to no chance of outrunning his smaller, swifter predators, who held him as a prize dinner because of his sheer size. It seems the brontosaurus was doomed from the get-go, simply due to a minor malfunction in form.

I'm beginning to wonder if humans don't suffer a similar plight. Let me tell you about this "research study" I saw once on one of those Dateliney type shows. A cooler was left out on the summer streets of New York City full of icy cold sodas. One of the staffers had been assigned to walk by it, pull a soda out, open it up, and walk away. The intention was to see if others would follow suit. Well, lo and behold, as soon as they saw one person do it, others came by and took a soda too. It must be ok, they assumed, though they had no clue whom the cooler belonged to. But passersby continued to take the sodas until the cooler was bare.

Tonight I had the absolute privilege of hearing a remarkable tale of four brothers who led a group of runaway Jews to safety during World War II. The movie was called Defiance; and, it was quite the eye-opener. In this story, just as in The Reader (and similar to the case of Christine Collins as depicted in Changeling), those who were involved in the mass murder of the Jews claimed that they were under the authority of the Germans, that they had to kill in order to keep their jobs. They said this under the gunpoint of one of the brothers. This, they pleaded, was their claim to life. Please don't kill me, it was in my job description. Well, you can imagine how well that went over.

Later in the movie, once the brothers had established their camp of refugees, a German soldier is captured spying on their hidden quarters. As their leader decides what to do, the members of the camp begin to encircle him, yelling and cursing at him, as he begs for his life. One man spits on him. When the soldier tells them he has a wife and children as an attempt to gain their sympathies, men and women both begin to beat him with their fists and guns, screaming and crying about their loved ones whose deaths he contributed to. Their leader walks away as they beat him to death.

It was this scene that reminded me of the cooler experiment. No one in their right mind would say that killing people is okay. But when you see one person do it and then another, and then your boss tells you you have to do it to keep your job, it suddenly seems plausible. When you see one person spit on a man, another yell, and you hit him just to test the boundaries, and everyone else files in line, it suddenly becomes alright. One of the filmmakers on the movie summed it up when he said, "do we have to lose our humanity to fight for it?"

So, again, I wonder if we are permanently flawed, unable to exist on this planet without killing each other, ourselves. I wonder- where did all the anger come from? I wonder- when will it end? Is it possible for us to let go of the sins of past generations, and start over? And, if not, I fear we are as doomed as the brontosaurus. Big bodies, tiny heads.


This is a random picture I caught of a flashlight shining through the holes of my dog's crate, of all things, and onto the wall. I took it because I liked how the light formed little spiral flower designs. This is kind of how I see people- the many broken parts of one beam of light. Maybe if we all worked together, we could better resemble that Beam.

Knowing when to say when...

I finally finished Dreams from my Father tonight, all 442 pages. To call it an amazing story is to call the universe kinda big. It is the story of a boy searching for his roots, a story of our beginnings, and an examination of where we are as a culture now and how we got here. There were several life-altering moments throughout the story, but I think the one that has opened my eyes the most is his family's breakdown of the changes that occurred in Africa (and I'm sure elsewhere as well) post-colonialism.

On a visit to the town of Alego, where his father is buried in an unmarked grave, Obama and his sister come across a few locals who tell them of the harshness of life there. They follow their words with a request for money. Once they have gone, Obama's sister asks their uncle what has happened in Alego. People never used to beg there, she says. Their uncle replies, "I believe they have learned this thing from those in the city. People come back from Nairobi or Kisumu and tell them, 'You are poor.' So now we have this idea of poverty. We didn't have this idea before. You look at my mother. She will never ask for anything. She has always something that she is doing. None of it brings her much money, but it is something, you see. It gives her pride."

This idea of life before materialism blows my mind. I can't even imagine such a place. Obama's grandmother talks later of the traditions of the Luo, his family tribe, and how slowly but surely they disappeared in favor of those of the English. She starts off with the tribe's instant liking of tea, as introduced by the English, and how this brought a need for teapots and sugar, something they had never needed before. And, from there, the sense of need continued to grow. It got me thinking about how these imagined needs have now been blown completely out of proportion. How we now need cell phones, cable tv, manicures, internet, and Starbucks. It reminds me of a song by Ben Folds called All U Can Eat. It takes the form of his usual crass humor that my mother has never been able to understand, punctuated with a tear-inducing piano solo in the middle, and addresses the American ideal of overconsumption- of food, stuff, and hypocrisy.

Son, look at the people lining up for plastic.
Wouldn't you like to see them in the National Geographic?
Squatting bare-assed in the dirt eating rice from a bowl,
With a towel on their head and maybe a bone in their nose.
See that asshole with a peace sign on his license plate?
Giving me the finger and running me out of his lane.
God made us number one cause he loves us the best,
well He should go bless someone else for a while, and give us a rest.

I think the most important thing we can do as people is to be sure we keep looking deeper into ourselves, asking why a little more. Our culture isn't in itself harmful, but anything done without self-insight is dangerous.


Simplicity encourages us to focus within, complexity without.

Pondering the life story...

Today, today, today. Today was quite a day. Maybe it was because I wasn't getting enough oxygen to my brain, or maybe it was because I was hyped up on Benadryl, but the whole day seemed kind of like a dream, like a story. I had so many signals coming my way today, all of a freakishly similar nature, that it almost seems ridiculous to call them a collective sign. A sign is something that happens once or twice, maybe. But today, four times over, I was acquainted with the importance of the "life story".

This morning at the hotel was slow, and I actually had help, so all my work was done in the first hour. So I spent the rest of the morning paring down the last section of Dreams from my Father. The section addresses Obama's first visit to Kenya, his homeland, and in today's reading in particular, his first visit with his grandmother, who lays out his ancestry for him in a short story, very similar to the first book of the Bible. So and so begat so and so, who begat so and so, etc... She traced his history back over hundreds of years. I remember pulling away from the book and just thinking what an amazing life this person has lived, but I bet to him, it was a shock people even wanted to read about it. Strangely, my musings were interrupted by my boss, who, though he had no clue what I was reading, for some reason, launched into a tale of his own life and travels. He spoke of the traditions of his Phillipino heritage, his travels to the United States and decision to finally remain here, his values which he passed on to his daughters. Staring off over my shoulder somewhere, he ended his story confirming to himself, more than to me, that he has had a good life. And, that he believes he has given his daughters the experiences they need to be happy fulfilled people.

When I got in my car to drive home, I picked up on Stephen King dictating his spiral downward into alcohol and drugs, as I listened to his book on cd. His book, written with a focus on discussing the craft of writing, in fact begins with a short tale of his life from birth to The Tommyknockers. Actually it begins with an introduction that makes it clear that he does not call this book a biography, because, it seems, he does not feel his life is worthy to be written about at length. Same with his discussion of writing. He claims that most books on writing are "bullshit", and that he has kept his short as a means of limiting the bullshit therein.

Finally, because I am so sick, I decided that instead of spending the night working on items for my art show in two weeks, I would cozy up on the couch with my old torn baby blanket, a box of tissues, and the final three episodes of Dawson's Creek. Good thing I had the tissues. My head is still swimming from all the tears. For all the pain of watching the last 3 seasons, the final two episodes were well worth it. They must've hired some new writers for those, or else smacked the old ones. Anyhow, the finale of the series depicts Dawson turning his life- the first 5 seasons- into a movie, and then, a tv series. (Remember, his dream was to be a filmmaker.) There was something about the idea of putting your life onto paper, onto a screen, that grabbed me. That seemed so powerful. So telling. But everyone who writes a biography, I imagine, is initially plagued by the thought that his life is unremarkable, who would want to read about my life?? But people do.

I don't know why. But I figure it's the same reason people love "reality" shows and Lifetime movies. There's a certain draw to watching life as an outsider. Maybe because it gives us a sense that it all comes together, eventually. Maybe it's the desire to have closure, because our real lives are constantly rotating wheels with no brakes. Or maybe it's because we like a little reminder every once in a while that life has a purpose. Obama went through all those hard times, feeling like he didn't belong, so that he could be a great leader. My boss jumped over all his obstacles so that he could pass on the true meaning of living to his children. Stephen King went through all his ups and downs so that he could write some amazing books. And, Dawson, well Dawson went through those ten tormenting years chasing after Joey so that she could end up with Pacey and he could finally get that meeting with Spielberg. Everything works out in the end.

So, do I take this as a sign? Do I write about my life, though there are large chunks of it I don't even remember at all? Maybe this is my way to recollect my past, determine my future. Who knows? But that's the fun part of life. You never know how it ends.


Like the lines that encircle a tree's trunk, we too are drawn as people to leave the mark of our pasts.

Continuing my (not so momentary after all) visit to the dark side...

Today I continued thinking about my post from last night, so I decided to pull a "to be continued..." for tonight's post. So, for those who have not yet viewed Changeling, or The Reader for that matter, please do not read ahead!

As I was thinking, I decided that there is a fundamental difference between people who are serial killers and people who are not. Sounds like a duh statement, I know. But, many environmental factors, and possibly some genetic ones, led to Gordon Northcott's actions, factors that most people, thank goodness, are never dealt. The dreaded comparison I drew last night is more between people in general and the accused from the LAPD. The whole time I was watching the trial of the LAPD in this movie, I kept flashing back to the trial of Hanna Schmitz in The Reader. They both are trials of normal people who overstep the boundaries of humanity due to their narrow focus on keeping their jobs. Only, in the former, the defendant is portrayed as evil, while in the latter, the defendant is portrayed as good. You can argue as to the differing severity of their crimes, but in the end, they both crossed that invisible line that protects us as a civilized society.

People like to think they are above this, but it happens all the time to varying degrees. You know that person who always says yes when you ask to borrow money? Or when you need someone to watch the kids? Or when you need a ride somewhere? Or just when you need a drink or a backrub? So, you continue to ask, even when you know it inconveniences them. Something you wouldn't do to anyone else, because it would be rude, but you continually do it to this one person, because you know they will take it and not say anything. Same thing. You are taking advantage of someone for your own needs, without concern for theirs. And, it's not because you are a bad person, but because you have no one telling you not to. Like me. I am notorious for being late to work. I know it's wrong, but I can't seem to keep myself from doing it. Until my boss calls me out on it. Then you can bet I'll be early every day. If we don't have someone consistently watching over us, so to speak, we tend to lean toward selfishness. It reminds me of Obama's recent speech to Congress, and how he mentioned that the introduction of public health carriers will bring about a sort of indirect regulation over the private companies to keep them from driving up prices and treating customers poorly, which, as Obama stated, is not because they are bad people, but because they are focused on keeping their job. Just like the LAPD. Just like Hanna Schmitz.

We are all made of the same cloth, and we all have the same dark tendencies within us, whether it's coming in late to work or convincing an innocent woman she is crazy or being an accomplice in the deaths of innocent people. The lesson: to acknowledge this tendency and learn to control it, which boils down to the age-old saying that pretty much everything comes down to- "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you".

Visiting (if only momentarily) the dark side of the moon...

Wonder. I wrote of it at length after my visit to "space". Allowing your mind to stretch in an attempt to understand even a small piece of our ever-widening universe is addicting in its endless possibility. But there is another side of wonder that is less inviting, though just as addicting. Stretching your mind to understand the human capacity for evil is a desperate attempt at lassoing a feeling of safety. If we could only wrap our collective head around how a person can inflict such pain, whether mental or emotional, but especially physical, on another, maybe we could feel safe to live in this world, proud to be a human being. But that will never happen. Maybe, even truer still, our attempt to comprehend the grotesqueness of crimes committed by seemingly "normal" people is our fight to deny that such a possibility lies within all of us. Isn't that what Lord of the Flies was about?

But, how do we as civilized beings continue living in a world where we know such evil is possible? How do we as creatures with souls continue feeling knowing that we are essentially no different than the lowest of the low? We tell ourselves we are different. And we believe it. But are we?

PS- Watch Changeling. It'll blow your collective mind.


Without dark, there cannot be light.

Breaking free from the web...

I once heard a saying that the only two emotions are fear and love. All other emotions are just versions of one of the two, sneaking around covertly with the purpose of "protecting" you from the truth. Since hearing this years ago, I have argued it over and over in my brain. And, I have come to the conclusion that I think it's pretty darn near on the money. It's a lot easier to deal with your emotions when you boil them down to one or the other. It's also scarier because you suddenly realize how afraid you truly are- of people, of yourself, of life. But once you face that, it becomes a lot easier to laugh at it. And, what more can we ask from life, really?


All these tangled roots serve one purpose: to sustain. Fear, just as love, serves to point us to the truth. You just can't get caught in the web.

Fitting work in around life...

Today my husband and I threw our bikes on the back of my car and headed down to Guana Preserve to explore the trails. The second you pull in you know that this is a special place. It's just so beautiful and expansive. When you reach the trails, some no wider than a couple feet, it feels as if you are the only person on the planet- the way I imagine our first explorers felt. As though your eyes are the first to lay claim to these spaces. We traversed through heavy woods, swampy areas, and grassy plains, until we finally reached the river, where I took a nice stroll through the cool water before heading back.

When I visit these places, places that seem so devoid of life, like you're the only one there, but when you listen are actually so full of life, it makes everything else seem so... unnecessary. It makes me wonder, when is enough enough? We keep adding more stuff to our lives. Why? America's version of the successful human is this busy person who is working, going to school, and raising a family all at once. It has come to the point where we feel guilty to take time to ourselves. Or, when we do it has to be labeled as "time to ourselves", instead of what it is- living. Where a bike ride along a path in the woods has to be for exercise or else, why do it? Everything has to lead to a purpose, a goal. What for? I used to stress out thinking about my job if it had no potential for upward movement. In fact the one job that had potential staying power was the one that made me the most miserable I have ever been. Now I am happy to just have a job I like. I go there today. That is all I know. Who cares about tomorrow? We keep stressing for a happier tomorrow, but what about today? Sure, goals can be good. But I'm really worried about this trend of trying to fit life in around work, instead of fitting work in around life.



Life. I pause and say it again aloud- "Life". What is life? Is life just what we do for a "living"?

Seeing all parts of the whole...

When I transferred to the University of Rhode Island my sophomore year, I had never even visited the campus. I had never been further northeast than Tennessee. I had never seen more than a sprinkling of snow. I knew not one person who went to school there. The day I arrived I went through a round of about 3 to 4 people before I found my dorm room. Each time I spoke with one, they would ask me, "who is your roommate?" And, I would happily reply, "Amy Blahblah* ". From every single person I uttered these words to, I received the same response. Their faces automatically dropped, and they offered some form of "Oh God, I'm sorry".

Well, being naturally terrified of a new school in a new town in a new state in a new part of the country, this did not make me feel much better. I finally arrived in my new room and began unpacking, a brick of dread lodged in my stomach. A few minutes later when Amy walked in, I greeted her with a warm hello. No response. Her only utterance was to boss around some guy she was with and tell him where to put her things. Not a good start. From there, I learned to disappear into the wall whenever possible, as she snarled and complained and yelled, I mean YELLED, at our floormates down the hall when they were being what she deemed as too loud.

Eventually, it became too uncomfortable and I set out to find alternate living arrangements. When I found I could move to another dorm room, I was scared to tell her. But one afternoon as she was folding laundry, I told her my plans. Surprisingly, her face dropped. She was visibly upset. She had no idea that her actions were having this effect on me. She apologized over and over and asked me not to move out. So, the next day I canceled my moving arrangements with the housing office, and from then on out, we became really good friends. She protected me from the annoying people in the hall. She introduced me to the stirfry station in the cafeteria. She took care of me when I got sick- my first time being sick away from my mom. She always got me Awful Awfuls and double Cheeseburgers from McDonald's, always with no ketchup. A lot of people didn't see the Amy that I saw; all they saw was a bitch, and they immediately shut out the rest. But they were wrong, and I was wrong. I realized then that if I were to shut out all the people I knew just because of one view of them, one part of their personality that I didn't like, I would have missed out on knowing a lot of people. I wouldn't know my sister, my best friend, my father. No one is just one part. Everyone has many parts. Everyone has something valuable to give. Don't let one thing you disagree with about someone cloud your vision from all of the amazing things they have to offer.

http://www.whitehouse.gov/MediaResources/PreparedSchoolRemarks/



*names have been changed to protect the bitchy. :)

Believing in magic...

Tonight I had a rap session with some pretty prominent thinkers- my niece and nephews. We were watching Night at the Museum, and my niece asked me how all the animals and people in the museum came to life. I told her, "Magic." To this, my nephew responded that there is no such thing. I quickly came to magic's aid, and stated, "yes, there is". It was then that he let me know that, yes, there may very well be, but that some people don't believe there is. Sad, but true. Whatever you want to call it- magic, God's will, "an extraordinary power or influence seemingly from a supernatural source", as Merriam-Webster prefers- we aren't just here by chance. We don't just love by chance. And, we don't just create by chance. There's a power at work in the universe, in us all. But it only has the power to change you if you believe.


Goofy faces galore! Have a happy, and magical, Labor Day!!!

Visualizing goals...

Throughout most of your life, you have these goals, whether they're personal, professional, or what have you. You picture them floating someplace off in the far distant future. Maybe you plan some steps that you hope will get you there one day. You take one step at a time. But it seems you never make it. Your goals continue to remain these elusive fuzzy carrots backing away from you as quickly as you approach.

At least that's how it feels for me. No matter how passionately I feel toward them, they escape me. But, the other day something changed. I started work with my life coach who helped me to break my steps into even smaller pieces and it worked. I worked. And got some great writing accomplished. Suddenly, completing my first novel seemed possible. I actually- for the first time ever, I realized- pictured it happening in my head. I mean the very second. I pictured myself writing the very last word, putting it down with a sigh, and then holding my very first novel in my hands. It was powerful. You know you always hear these "nuts" who talk about the power of visualization. I believe it now. Suddenly, writing a book doesn't seem like this huge gigantic enormous stupendous mountain that I have to climb barefoot. It's become a nice gentle hike up a hill. A beautiful one. Suddenly I remembered that writing is fun. I am looking forward to the process of writing my first book. And the pressure's off. If I don't like it, hey I can write another one! What a relief.



The joy of creating. Even my 3 year old niece feels it. It's the connection to creation that musicians get when they play with eyes closed (of course, in this case, I think it was more that she was afraid she'd hit herself in the eye with a stick!)

Getting some much needed rest...

Partied out, so no blog posting tonight. I will post an afternoon blog tomorrow as my in-between for tonight and tomorrow night. Until then...

Attempting to "change a piece of dream-world into reality"...

I was working with my SAT prep student tonight and one of our reading passages we were working with was an excerpt from Henry David Thoreau. All I can say is Henry David Woah! It was beautiful. For those of you who follow this blog even slightly, you may have recognized that the two words I apply to all things beyond measure in their level of coolness are "amazing" and "beautiful". This is one. Why have I never been exposed to him before? Of course, when we read it, my student said his book, Walden was "boring", and that I shouldn't read it. But I think I'll love it.

I only read a piece of it, and I've only found select quotes tonight in researching him on the internet, but he just may be my new hero. I can't wait to pick up some of his writing. So, because I am exhausted from my first longest day of tutoring ever and I have to be up early for another long day of guest servicing, uh you know what I mean, I end my short nightly post with this quote....

“Love is an attempt to change a piece of a dream-world into reality.”
Henry David Thoreau



More from my driving collection. Again today I was at the beach for work, and I just love it there. It is so peaceful, and the air smells so new. As soon as we hit the jackpot, I'm moving there.

Taking shelter within the storms...

As I have mentioned before, when I was a kid, my family had a beach house in St. Augustine. In fact, it was in the process of being built when my mom was pregnant with me. So, she was out there a lot at that time, which is why I claim to have been born there. You would think that my favorite memories would be of my time building drip castles and swimming along the sandbar, but you would be wrong. My favorite times were the days when there were thunder storms, which happen quite frequently here in Florida. Our house was on stilts and used to sway in the wind. The sliding glass doors leading to the beach would shake and make noise. I was always drawn to the windows, even though I was terrified. I remember one night during a huge storm huddling with my sisters on the bed watching Family Ties until our parents got home. And another, when I was much older, walking on the beach and watching as the black sky traveled from over our house to over the ocean in approximately 30 seconds. It was unbelievable. And, for whatever reason, though frightening, it was strangely comforting.

Some of the most comforting times I have ever experienced, in fact, have been in times of trouble. When I first went away to college in St. Petersburg, I was turned completely upside down, trying to deal with homesickness and a completely new environment full of daily changes and strange people. I remember walking in the rain one night out to the sea wall and standing in the dark just watching the water crash against itself until I literally couldn't stand anymore from the wind knocking me over. But, I felt better. I also remember lonely nights in Rhode Island, when I had not one friend to my name, driving out to Narragansett Beach in the freezing temperatures with my windows down, my hand extended out against the wind until I could no longer feel my fingers.

Storms to me are calming comfort. Today, in the midst of a big one, I was walking near the beach for work, and as the wind blew my hair around and droplets started to fall, I could smell the ocean on the air. And, I breathed in deeply.



So, my new thing is taking pictures while I'm driving. Probably not the safest idea, but hey, I'll take my inspiration when I can get it. So being a storm lover, tonight I was snapping away. I really like to play with the lights outside too and see what I can make them do. I liked the way the lights played through the small droplets on my windshield. So, though this may not be the most spectacular photo- to me, it holds a lot of peace.

Taking things less seriously...

There's a super cheesy, overdone phrase people sometimes use to refer to the part of you that needs care- your "inner child". If you're overworked and need a break, your inner child needs to relax. If you're sad or depressed, your inner child needs comforting. If you're frightened, your inner child needs to be calmed. But, now that I think about it- the opposite is actually true. Our inner child takes care of us.

I was listening to this song by Jukebox the Ghost today that I love- Good Day. And in it, it talks about this place where the dead and living gather and revert back to their youth and frolic and cavort. It's really a rather cute song on the surface. But this one line struck me- "Running circles around ourselves just for fun". And I started to think about what it really meant to me. To "run circles around somebody" generally means to be way better than them at something. But the second part of the line- "just for fun"- implies it is not in a competitive manner, but a playful one. So I picture the youthful version of oneself running around the adult version of oneself and laughing. Not out of meanness, but because the child version is "free" and wears his "heart on [his] sleeve" without being "humbled" and "alone", as the adult is.

It's interesting to me that we believe we get smarter as we age. It seems to me that we just get more afraid. Or maybe we get more jaded. We get so focused on the details- the trees, that we no longer acknowledge that there is even a forest- a larger purpose- there. Maybe our "inner child" is actually there to remind us of what is really important about life- not to take it so seriously.



So I didn't get a chance to take many pictures today so I'm pulling from the other day. But I figured it was perfect for this post, because this is a fun shot to me. Even though it's not the greatest quality shot, I think it has a lot of emotional content that is relatable to this post.

Life's short, have fun.