The End. Or is it the Beginning?

My humble thanks are extended to those of you who encouraged (or dared) me to blog daily in 2005.

I'd thought about writing a post that was the Year in Review, a sort of summary of the high points. And I even came up with a few, including a couple half marathons, the work D did on the front yard & the new fences he put in the back yard, watching R's skill as a horsewoman develop, seeing S on stage after the Nutcracker, traveling to New York and Orlando, writing 50,000 words of a novel in a month, and blogging daily.

But in listing some things, I exclude others. And my feeling right now is that the year is over & there is no point in dwelling in the past.

So I thought about recording my hopes for 2006: more poetry published, a better (closer to final) draft of the novel written, a couple more half-marathons run, more time spent in quiet solitude.

But what's more important is the here and now.

It's 7 minutes to midnight. Time to wake up the girls (as I promised I would) and celebrate, briefly, this transition from arbitrary end to arbitrary beginning - which is really, after all, a celebration of being here, now.

Penultimate Post of the Year

The rain is coming down, and has been off and on for days, and will continue to do so for the weekend. It's perfect for pulling out a jigsaw puzzle, and lounging around in front of the toasty fire with a cup of something hot to drink.

We had new friends over for dinner, and their girls and our girls had a grand old time running around and being silly and putting on a little dance show to princess music. It was all fun and games right up until their oldest and our youngest bonked heads. (R thinks this would be an appropriate place in my post to insert a sad face).

Insert sad face here.

They were fine after ice and sympathy was applied, although I think their daughter has the imprint of one of S's teeth on her forehead.


Tomorrow, as the last post of the year, I hope to writing something more than "had tea with the Jones'." Maybe I'll include a description of the crumpets.

For now, I just wish everyone a safe and relaxing New Year's weekend.

Shuffle off...

One of the coolest gifts I received for Christmas was an iPod shuffle.

"Good stuff, Maynard!" (How many of you remember that reference? Yeah, that's right. It's from the '70's. When I still had TV.)

I've loaded a grand total of 1 CD to the iPod so far, thanks to that whole issue I have with needing to sleep at least a little each night. So now I can listen to Cry, Cry, Cry but that's it. Ah, well. It's a start.

Off to jog. Or nap. Or possibly both. Now, that would be a spiffy yet completely counterproductive form of multi-tasking, wouldn't it? REM while you RUN! Race the breeze while catching Z's! Clearly, the sleep deprivation thing is taking its toll once again.

How many halves make a whole?

After too many days of too many sweets, I'm officially starting to train up for the San Francisco Half Marathon that takes place on Superbowl Sunday. Only 5.5 weeks to go - yikes!

This Week

My favorite week of the year, I think: between Christmas and New Year's, a of limbo or maybe even redemption, where you have been blessed with gifts, the holiday craziness is over and there's the anticipation of a fresh start just ahead. Resolutions are being made but have yet to be cemented into place let alone broken.

This is the week of jigsaw puzzles and cleaning up the wrapping paper and - this year, anyway - hanging down in front of a warm fire while the rain pelts the outside world. Our living room is a showcase for the four elements, I realized today: earth (an enormous ficus), air (hard to get away from that one), fire in the wood burning stove, and the 400 gallon fish tank. It's a good place to hang.

Offerings

On 12/22, I challenged my fellow poets on a yahoo group I belong to to post a new seasonal poem. I said I'd get one together & post it within two days. Here's what I wrote Christmas Eve, while the kids and D watched "A Child's Christmas in Wales." It's a family tradition to watch that film, and I hated missing it, but even this rough, rough draft of the poem was worth it, just for the spell that I felt while figuring it out, and the satisfaction of having written something new.


Offerings

This dark and tangled time of year calls
for the quick low flight of a swallow,
sweeping over the yellowed grass, over the briny
frost and mud. It calls for a swift thing racing
its long shadow along the earth, each wing-beat
a whisper that defies the dusk; a small body, warm
as a bullet in spite of the coming night. A song.

And I wish my heart were a swift thing, sweeping
godspeed below it in the frozen fields. I wish it were
heedless in its mission of the edges of the world;
reckless and singing through the cold air. I would be
abundant with alms, a benefactor to the chilled hills.
I would be the wind that wakes crocuses
and paper whites from the snow.

But no.
I am slow.
Plodding and carapaced. A creature of the sea.
I pick the longest night of winter to emerge on dry land.
I drag myself through the sand, handicapped
by the element of earth. I dig a simple chamber
for the evidence of what can't be called love,
and leave my offerings lightly covered.
This one act takes all I have.

And when it is done, I turn and haul
myself away again, crawl from the shore,
don't look behind me, nor wonder
if my gifts will thrive or fail.
Instead, I abandon them almost at once,
in exchange for nothing more
than the slow, slow pulse
of the deep and thoughtless sea.

RBP, c12/24/2005

Ho, ho, *yawn*

Christmas has come and gone in a fog of cooking and discovering what was in all those odd-shaped packages under the tree. The meal was good, although served four hours after the guests had arrived. I was in the kitchen the whole time, with just the right amount of company and chit-chat with my in-laws while prepping the food.

We ate at 3pm, but I am so full I don't expect to need to eat until tomorrow's feast. Between now and then, there's cleaning and prepping and a writer's group meeting (Boxing Day at the Apple Box) and cooking, and somewhere in there, I hope, a quick jog to make up for all the cookies and fudge I had today!

Julia Childs, look out!

So even though I am a poor cook with a VERY limited repertoire, for some reason, I really enjoy making fancy Thanksgiving and Christmas meals. Tomorrow, I'll be serving:

Prime rib
Yorkshire pudding
Green beans with walnuts and walnut oil
Potato and celery root gratin with fontina cheese
Glazed pearl onions with raisins and almonds
[D's mom will provide a Yule log from a French bakery.]

On Boxing Day, we're having:
Apricot-glazed turkey with roasted onion and shallot gravy
Herb Stuffing
Broccoli and cheese casserole
Green beans with walnuts and walnut oil (a fresh batch)
Pickled baby carrots with mustard seeds, honey and dill
[D's sister will bring mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie.]

I also have some nice loaves of wheat and nut bread for each meal.
Thank goodness for the November, 1994 issue of Bon Appetit, is all I can say.

Now to wrap the last of the presents!

Merry Christmas Eve to all.

World enough and time

One of the main things I learned from Nanowrimo is that one has time. It's focus and a sense of priorities that really makes the difference.

This is the thought that is simmering in the back of my mind while I start to look at what I want 2006 to look like. One of the scientists in "What the Bleep Do We Know!?" said that when he wakes up, he decides how he's going to make his day. And then he makes his day.

A lot of the spirituality and philosophy that appeals to me most has this intentionality in common. Living scattered with a completely unfocused mind has done me little good so far. I'm trying to pull together the nano-seconds of intentionality I experience until they happen more and more frequently. I admire those of you who are already doing this. You set a good example for me. Thanks.

How far down the rabbit hole do you want to go?

Have you seen "What the Bleep Do We Know!?"

If you have not, you must.
Really. I insist.

When I grow up, I want to study quantum theory. Full-time.

No. Strike that part about growing up; I want to study it starting now.
(But I'm going to keep my day job. It comes in handy.)

Happy Winter Solstice

A few of the families from R's 5th grade class met with her teacher in a candle-lit room tonight to celebrate solstice. The children, being children, were wound up by the rain and excitement of the holiday and candlelight. They ran around and jumped up and down and giggled and shouted, and so in spite of the fact that I so wanted to soak into shadowy silence and just breathe, I found myself in the familiar role of trying to Referee Chaos.

It wasn't until much later, after they were in bed, that a caught my breath. But I'm still looking forward to four days off work!



Here's a poem by one of my favorite authors, Susan Cooper, that I read once we'd finally had our potluck and started telling stories sharing Solstice thoughts:


The Shortest Day

And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
And when the new year's sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, revelling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us - listen!
All the long echoes, sing the same delight,
This Shortest Day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And now so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome Yule!

The sound of me not hand-writing those cards...

That's what the little two-note, back and forth, windshield-wiper beat and humm of the printer heads is.

Thanks to D for making it possible for us to have somewhat personalized messages while I retain the small scrap of my sanity that is left after seven hours (give or take) of simultaneously wrapping and boxing and parenting. Not that I wrapped or boxed any children. That I remember.

Did I say I wouldn't do this again? Last year, did I say that? I just checked my blog posts from last December and no, I didn't officially announce to the world that I would not wait until the last minute to wrap and send things out. But I can say it now. About next year. This year, it's sadly, pathetically, too late to make any such declarations.

"Toujours en retard," that's me.

Placeholder post

until I can write more...!

Once more into the breach!

Still trying to finish the shopping, although I'm liking Clare's advice about keeping it simple better every passing hour.

At least this year, I managed to make some of gifts I'm giving - painted ceramics that the girls & I had a lot of fun doing.

Now it's wrap & ship & get the cards out & take a breath before the visitations begin over the weekend!

Proselytizing by the Best Sellers

The girls hung out at Gymnastics for yet another Parents' Night Out (this time of the year, aka "Dump Your Kids and Shop Night").

I had already gone to a couple of large stores and was at my third for the night, Borders, when my dazed consumer stupor was interrupted by a tall well-groomed man, perfectly disguised as a Christmas shopper, who suddenly started to shout to everyone in the store, "Well, he knows if you've been bad or good! Yes, he does! But who is it who knows? It's not Santa Claus! It's our one and only Lord and Savior, who came to redeem and save the world. What are you doing here? You're buying more and more things for people who already have all that they need. We live in a country that has more storage buildings than it does housing for the poor, and there are people who are cold and hungry, and people who are dying of AIDS, and hookers, but you'd rather forget about them and be good consumers instead!"

There was a more, but by then, store security was already escorting him out.

For someone calling out a sermon in a bookstore, he was pretty lucid. And I stood there, just after he had gone quiet, holding a basket in one hand and a calendar in another, and I thought about his message.

I deliver food to poor families. I donate clothing to Hospice and money to a half-dozen other organizations, including The Heifer Project. I try to treat everyone who begs from me on the street with the respect that one human deserves from another. I give them food when I can, water when I can, money when I can be fairly sure that it won't go to drugs or alcohol. But if I took what I spend on Christmas each year and instead donated it directly to people who could use it, wouldn't that be better than contributing to the excess of the fortunate?

Those who are more cynical might think that the bald truth is that I'm too tired or lazy to finish my Christmas shopping, and I'm getting creative with my excuses for getting out of it.

But really, it's something to think on, isn't it? I mean, you never hear about Jesus dashing around the marketplace trying to find the right sandals for Thomas Didymus, or the perfect belt for Bartholomew for Hanukkah. That just isn't what it's all about.

But being mindful of what it is all about - that's the challenge.
It shouldn't take a man with a message in Borders to remind one of priorities, but if it does, it does. And here and now, still thinking about that man, I remember where the word for "angel" comes from: it's from the Greek word "angelos," which means "messenger."

Still recovering...

So two of my coworkers whose birthdays are in late December had an "Evil Twin" birthday party where you come as your own bad self - with a full costume, a prop, or just an attitude.

I don't like to go to parties, in general.
Especially ones where there's the potential that people will really be, you know, partying.

But an excuse to dress in a costume and go to an event as a character is a whole other story. Must be a carryover from the Science Fiction Convention Days. I must be somehow pining for the evenings when I would be applying nail polish in a panic while sewing up the last few stitches and looking for my other suede boot.

My choices, as I saw it, were some kind of dominatrix librarian, or a tragic poet, or (what I landed on), something rather Goth.

As in: fishnets, 4" vinyl black heels, a black velvet skirt, and a black corset. I also dyed my hair black, put on black nail polish and jewelry that consisted of black beads and crosses, and I added a length of long black hair (as an extension). Add the makeup, and I had the desired look. I have to wait for Monday's blackmail photos to make it to me so I can post one here.

I had a lot of fun at the party. There was wonderful live music and singing, and I had great conversations with folks and surprised one or two people with my costume. D had agreed to come with me (in no costume, since he is his own evil twin), so I could have a drink if I chose to.

I did choose to. I had a couple of vodka and cranberries.

I've learned some interesting things about alcohol:

1. It is unwise to make a vodka and cranberry with 4 ounces of vodka and a splash of cranberry juice for color.

2. It is equally unwise to drink said drinks on an empty stomach.

3. Within an hour

4. One is not given warnings when one has had too much. I didn't know this was true. I honestly didn't know, having never (I SWEAR) gone to a party where I had more than one small drink, that one can go from feeling really really great (if a little unsteady and blurry around the edges) to wishing one could just die, because six feet underground would be a better place to be.

I won't go into details (unless you pay me or need me to scare your pre-teen child), but suffice it to say we left the party none to soon, and I owe my husband a debt I hope I'm never in a position to have to repay, and I won't be drinking alcohol for a very long time. Say thirty or forty years.

I realize that this particular lesson is one that most people learn, if they must learn it at all, when they are in High School or college. How I got to be nearly forty before I learned it is just the result of having underdeveloped social skills, I guess. But if this is a new level of party-going sophistication, I'm going back to my asocial ways. And I DO NOT understand how people can drink to excess, experience anything near what I experienced, and do it again. But I know they do.

I distinctly remember thinking that childbirth, my benchmark of emotionally and physically challenging experiences, was a friggin' cake walk next to my post-party night. I mean, really. A cake walk.

Tell me: has this kind of thing ever happened to you? If it hasn't yet, take my advice: ignorance is bliss.

Brrr!

I spoke to my brother A. in Denver tonight (because it's my sister-in-law's birthday today), and he told me how cold it's been there.

And I thought we had it bad with the temps dipping down into the 30s. We Californians don't understand REAL cold. I think if I lived somewhere where it dropped into the sub-zero temps (like Denver. Or Boston, for example, Kate, right?) I'd just stay inside. In bed. With lots of quilts over me and a bedwarmer at my feet and lots of hot tea and good books. If that took all winter, so be it.

Kachina, Kachina

R is studying the Pueblo Indians, and made this to go with her report:



It loses something in the photo, so you have to trust me - it's enough to make her parents proud of her hard work.









The Artist
Pismo, after Thanksgiving
(Uncle B had spiked her hair)

Quantity vs Quality

If you've seen I Heart Huckabees, you may remember the riff about "quantity" and "quality."

And even though the discipline of blogging daily (which has admittedly fallen apart a lot of late) has been good for me, I'm looking forward to a time where I'm not compelled to write short relatively meaningless things for raw fish.

I'm looking forward to some DEPTH, man. Something with more thought behind it than "had tea with the smiths."

Still not quite the Gory Details, actually

So I've weighed out feeling SHAME for not providing the details I said I would and the NEED to sleep, and guess which won?

I will say that dinner was in a private dining room on the 4th floor of the Farallon restaurant in San Francisco. I just tried to find pics online and couldn't, but let me assure you that the paintings on the wall made me feel like I was in Jules Verne while he was on an acid trip. I will find and post a photo.

And my colleagues were really very well behaved. It was a moderately loud, moderately rowdy crowd - what you might expect from your average company party. Everyone stayed dressed, even.

The Gory Details

Actually, I'm sorry/pleased to report that the company holiday party was really quite tame this year - at least from our point of view.

I will provide more details, however - real or fabricated, in my next post.

Sorry about the tease, but this entry is already late and duty calls...

Decadence

Off to the company holiday party. I really like the company I work for; my coworkers are lively, interesting people. They work hard, and they play hard. Very hard. Company parties provide a history lesson. It's my annual reminder that there was a reason that Rome fell.

But I'm sure we'll manage to have a bit of quieter fun anyway. Will report back in more detail tomorrow, although I may have to hold back a bit, since some colleagues have this url and actually use it.

Step One: Present Flowers to the Principals

Just a quick note to qualify the daily post, and to say that S has completed the first step toward performing in the local Nutcracker - that of tiptoeing onstage at the curtain call, standing in first position and presenting flowers to a principal dancer, then tiptoeing off the stage.

In her case, she presented red roses to the dancer who played the Sugar Plum Fairy, who also happened to be S's "mentor" when the ballet school had a "mentor day" a few months ago.

Next year, she expects to graduate to performing, which represents a significant commitment of time and work, but would be worth it. There may well be a Gingerbread Boy costume with her name on it!

A sense of humor will save you

Ever have one of those moments - or days - when you or your loved ones are just on the brink of a horrific ugly meltdown, and someone says something funny that lightens up the whole situation and dispells the tension?

That happened several times today. One minute, I was sure there was going to be bloodshed, or at the very least raised voices and a scuffle - between R & S, or R and me, or S and me, or the rest of creation and me - and then, one tap-dancing comedic moment later, all was right with the world.

Thank God for the Intervention of Humor, is all I have to say.

Another day in the life

Work (with associated drama and juggling), home, lunch for S, a trip downtown to pick up a surprise Christmas present for R (a ceramic horse her sister painted for her), pick up R from school, to the library, to the gym, stop to get dinner on the way home, dinner, to the local university theater for a rehearsal for S for the Nutcracker (she's not dancing, but she's presenting flowers to the Sugar Plum Fairy at the curtain call), then back home for the bedtime routine, three phone calls re: coordinating Christmas, make cookie dough for a fund raiser tomorrow, and then, somehow, because I stupidly still have energy, watch a movie. While folding laundry.

Boor-ring. I know. But reality. And as such, I guess there's no harm in documenting it.

See what I mean?

You see what I mean about time being funny? How it contracts, hiccups, stretches? It's all relative. As they say.

Time is a funny thing

For example, it may feel like a WHOLE DAY has passed within which you did not blog, and yet, somehow, it HASN'T.

The quietest weekend in December

...at least, that's what I suspect this last weekend will be. The next 10 days, anyway, are looking to be mighty busy. I'm glad that I'm only plugging away at finishing my novel, now, and have a little breathing space within which to take on all the other challenges that present themselves daily.

You may note that I've added Michael's blog to my links. I think he's actually had mine listed on his page for a while, so the reciprocity is belated. (Thanks to Michael for the NaNo kudos and interest in actually reading the novel when it's ready for critiquing.) Check out the count-down on his home page, and the gorgeous photographic work he does. Makes me wish I could get married again just to have him photograph the event. Hmmm...maybe in ten more years, when D & I celebrate our 25th...?

I'm trying to get to bed before 10pm and I do actually want to work for a few more minutes on the novel, so that's all for now, folks.

The things that start with one loose rock

like avalanches,
or your husband taking apart the fireplace:
Howard Carter excavating the livingroom,
finding the dust and concrete trash
that the men who made this place stashed
there, forty-one years ago.

And you know he will put it all back together,
the rocks and bricks and mortar.
And he'll make it even better
with intake fan and register,
so the wood-burning stove will have lungs
to breath out its domestic fire.

But while the bricks and rocks lay
on the carpet, wait to be put back in place,
you think of the one loose rock
that led to this, and the loose rocks that have led
to avalanches, to falling cathedrals and towers,
to tumbling unstoppable ruin.

Look out, Terry

Something marvelous happened to me last week which, in the flurry of novel writing, I was unable to record, but have been thinking about ever since.

I was giving a quote for data recovery--something I do, as I've mentioned, several times at day, five days a week. And the potential customer on the phone was a man who has spent a couple of decades working in Television, whose cousin is an Executive Producer in Hollywood (of the Ellen DeGeneres Show, at the moment). I say this just to explain that he and his family are deeply involved in Show Business.

We'd had a good chat about the service my company offers, and about his situation. And even though he wasn't sure that the data he'd lost warranted the expense of professional recovery, toward the end of the conversation, he said something that stopped me dead.

He said, "You know, you remind me of that woman...she's on WHYY...um..."

"Terry Gross??!!!" I asked.

Ok. Maybe not "asked." I kind of yelled.

And he quickly backed off--afraid, it turns out, that he might have offended me somehow.

"Yes," he said timidly. "From Fresh Air..."

"Terry Gross??!!!" I asked again. "You think I sound like Terry Gross?!"

When I assured him that this was a good thing, a really good thing, the best thing that had happened to me all week, he clarified: "Not so much your voice, but just your style of speaking and asking questions."

He'd found me out.

I mean, I'm a Fresh Air fan. I listen to the show whenever I can catch it. My writer group friends and I dream about being on that show. And the funny thing is, about a week or two ago, I'd realized - on my own, very suddenly in the middle of a giving a quote - that I sounded an awful like the interviewer I so admire. Inadvertently, I'd started to question callers like she questions guests. But I'd figured my secret was safe with me.

And this man, in turn, was astounded that someone on the West Coast, at random, would have ever heard of Terry Gross. It's a small world. And a world in which, apparently, we can emulate our heroes. Even if we end up being transparent while we do it.

I just have to be a little careful. I don't want to find myself finishing all my data recovery phone quotes with, "Well, I want to thank you so much for talking with me today."

Paying off the sleep debt

So I did get myself to work yesterday, but only stayed an hour because it was pretty clear that four-hours of sleep a night that many nights in a row (with no prospect of sleep again until 7pm) had finally taken its toll.

I went home.
I slept nearly 6 hours straight. (Ah! how nice!)
And am still ready to sleep more.

But that's what weekends are for, right? zzzzzzz....

Thanks again to all for your fantastic support of my writerly pursuits.