Active Tense

As opposed to "passive tense."

Today started early, with a walk to a chicken-sitting gig, where I let the 10 gals out of their henhouse for the day, watered Paige's exquisite garden, and took care of the three kitties and angelfish. The owners returned this afternoon, so I won't be back until they next time they go on vacation (September?), but I always enjoy the time alone doing domestic chores away from my own home. What's that all about? If only I felt the same peace in my own home, where I am too judgmental about what I haven't yet done. At least, I suppose that's what's going on.

Later in the morning, I went to the home of one of Petaluma's Poet Laureates (once a Poet Laureate, always a Poet Laureate, right?). Terry also happens to be the leader of our upcoming Poets' trip to Wales, and she's building a lovely herb spiral, inspired by spirals she'd seen during previous trips to Ireland. It was a work party-cum-BBQ and a great chance to spend a little more time with her and a couple other fellow travelers.

I'm now officially "SUPER EXCITED" about the trip. I haven't done much on the revise-the-novel front, although I have been working on poetry and will be sending some things off in the next couple of days for a competition. Such things keep me motivated. Or (as is now the case) re-inspire me. And writing a blog entry two days in a row is fairly remarkable, if I do say so myself.

21 days to form a habit? How many days to format the habit of a lifetime of daily writing? The answer? All of them. "Write all the days!" as the family might say, much as one says, "Eat all the cake!"

And maybe this is what my new poet friends & I will look like while staying in Wales:

Half the Fun

...at least half the fun of a trip is the planning of it. The excitement of anticipation, the puzzle-solving logistics (train timetables, packing strategies, room reservations), all the components of the pre-realized dream have a certain appeal to me.

So as I prepare to travel for a 2+ week long trip (writing! with other poets! in Wales!), I'm thoroughly enjoying the preparation stage of things. And, because I am focusing more on my writing, I'm starting here with at least a brief update and mention of the trip, and to state my intention to blog more while away, although internet access will be challenging at best. Pob hwyl!

Achievement Unlocked

Or so goes the gaming phrase, according to D.

I could say "mission accomplished" but really it's more of a goal than a mission, or more of a small but very significant step towards accomplishment of the greater mission.

At least I have a sense of how it (probably) ends. I have something of a story arc, something of an idea of where Point B is and how to get there from Point A. I have the roughest golem.

And now the real work begins. Fortunately, I have always liked the editing, shaping, fixing part of writing. This might be the reason behind multiple, multiple drafts of even the shortest poems.

So I'm excited about breathing real life into this book now, and making it something better. But ask me again in two months if I'm enjoying the re-write clean up polish as much as I think I will now.

Pointy Pal Julia threatened to share the news with Suzanne if I didn't first, and so here you go. A post to declare that setting my own deadline and daring myself to get something done seems to have worked.

The new goal: a mostly-completed draft by end of July that can be further improved by a trip to Wales. Then let's see if anyone out there is interested in this little creation. Let's see if it has any worth.

The above shot is a view of the town where the story is set (from http://www.aberystwyth.com/):

One Day at a Time

Or maybe it should be "1000 words at a time," the amount I managed to write in about an hour yesterday at the Apple Box after some quality catch-up time with the Pointy Pals writerly friends. Still, if feels like a slow slog toward completion.

The protagonist is re-assessing all of her recent major life-changing decisions and second-guessing herself (write what you know). No, actually, she's more confused than I am - but then again, I have not had a scheming novelist throwing a bunch of stuff at me all at once to make things interesting. Note: this is not meant to be a fate-tempting statement! I am knocking on wood with my left hand and typing this single-handedly with my right.

Today I started the day writing a draft of a poem, but have not (yet) looked at the novel. However, the girls have just gone to bed for the night & D. is not yet due home for a while, and the glass of wine and red couch by the wood-burning stove beckons. So I am grateful for the poem draft and the blog post and being caught up in most of my personal email. For now.

A Novel Idea

I have nothing more witty than the title of this post to say. I'm just focusing on finishing the rough draft of my novel, and I've enlisted the support of my family but asking them to ask me every day, "Have you finished your novel yet?"

This is a lazy alternative to writing my goal and deadline on a 3x5 card and reading it every day, as any self-respecting self-help author would advise. But actually, I plan to do both. I just have to scratch out the current date on my "I will finish the rough draft of my novel by" card and put a new date in. How about March 31st? March 31st sounds good to me. Besides being the birthday of D's sister and my birth father, it's Easter. A holiday of hope, and the eve of National Poetry Month (the other project I have my sights on is assembling a book-length collection of poetry).

So even though there may be no one but me reading this blog at this point: There. I've put it in writing. "So say we all!"

St. David's Day 2013

Friday and St. David's day. I have a few daffodils in a vase at work, cut fresh in the back yard. When we moved into our house, 19 years ago, the front yard was a typical suburban expanse of lawn with a fruitless mulberry in the middle of it. I used to mow it with a manual mower, even when seven months pregnant with my first child (much to my macho neighbor's chagrin - why wasn't my husband doing that? He just didn't understand how much I enjoyed it!). We bought the house in December, and it wasn't until the following spring that we had the surprise of a daffodil coming up in the corner of the front lawn. Just a single plant and a single bloom, like a surprise present from the previous owners. 

The next year, there were two blooms, and then a few more each year - until we finally re-landscaped to remove the lawn and put in planter boxes and a combination of ornamental grasses and rampantly persistent poppies that do battle with weeds every year. Actually, I do battle with the weeds. I don't think the grasses or poppies - which really are like weeds, at this point, even care. I moved the daffodil bulbs to the back yard when we pulled out the lawn, and each year they've continued to spread, until now around mid-February I have an entire corner of yellow blooms heralding the coming of St. David's Day. They have grown without me doing anything about it, epitomizing grace and engendering my awe and gratitude. 

Daffodils are such happy flowers. This year for the first time I could actually smell them, too. I'd thought they had no smell at all - in fact, a coworker at the library 25 years ago had once famously said to me, "Daffodils smell disappointing." But these, this year, under my nose, are a light floral sweetness that lifts my spirits and makes me hope for the coming Spring.

Any Day that Starts With Writing is a Good Day

That's my new motto. Even if this morning's writing started 2 hours later than my best-intentions (damn them!) would have had me at my screen, creating. Working towards a wrap-up of the first ugly draft of "Hiraeth." Perhaps by March 1 (St. David's Day!) I'll have writing the ending and have started to take out and examine the whole ugly mess of a thing so I can rebuild it into something worthy of the time I've put into it.

Ash Wednesday, Valentine's Eve

This is the time of year when I reawaken with the daffodils and focus on writing and on the self-examination and internal life that are a part of that activity.

I am (again) back to trying to work a 40 hour week. I am (again) back to trying to write daily.

R. is getting closer to graduation and the beginning of a whole new stage of her life.
D. is growing his business (The Works) and working only 20 hours a week at his "day job"
S. is still dancing almost daily, and playing in the Rep. Orchestra whenever possible. Her interest in ballet is waning, and her interest in acting and voice is waxing. She's now taller than R. and has started to share more and more of her thoughts and feelings with me, just at the age when children typically stop sharing such things. Go figure.

I'm well into the tail end of my Welsh novel, and plan to have the first messy error-riddled draft finished within the next couple of weeks, so I can start all over and make it right. And make it good.

And WALES!
I will be traveling there this summer for three weeks - for the first time in nearly 14 years. It's been far to great a hiatus, and I'm very, very excited about the trip.

Hello July

Blogspot warns me that the browser I'm using is not supported, and that I may experience "unexpected behavior" as a result.

I'm expecting the unexpected, but I doubt this post will jump up and start tap-dancing while you're reading it.

Lately I've been writing. Only a few sentences, and on a good day a poem draft. But daily, for many days now. (16, but who's counting?) And I've been reading. Poetry, for the most part. But also, I'm immersed in Lindbergh. First it was Anne Morrow, with A Gift From the Sea during vacation last month. And now, I'm enjoying Forward From Here by her daughter Reeve Lindbergh. That voice is so clear to me. Direct, and honest, and humble without being self-effacing. There's something about the perspective of both women that reminds me of Madeleine L'Engle. I've probably said this before. And there's something about all three of them that will forever remind me of my maternal grandmother, who introduced me to Anne Morrow Lindbergh, with whom she'd shared French class at Smith in the twenties. Is it a humanist quality? It's something beyond just feminist, beyond just New England prose (although there's that, too). But I find it expansive, inspirational and at the same time, so very comfortable and familiar - old friends from whom I've been parted for too long.

In addition to reading more in general, I've been listening to Pema Chodron and to Diane Ackerson's One Hundred Names for Love on CD.

For a few weeks there, too, I was reading The Success Principles. It was interesting being compelled equally by the exercises suggested by Canfield for visualizing everything you want to be and do and have, and by Chodron's instruction to learn about the traps and suffering that come from beliefs and thoughts. I felt a little schizophrenic! But then the Canfield book had to go back to the library (someone else pursuing success had put a hold on it), while I own the Chodron CDs. So I've traded in much of the index-card affirmation reading and visualization of my new home, slim self, and fat bank account for almost-daily meditation.

Today I moved the location of my iMac. R. was done with her desk and I took it in order to shift my writing perspective as I've wanted to for years. I'm no longer restricted by the limitations of the immovable cantilevered desk D. had put in the office so long ago, when he realized the wide spacing of the floor joists made the floor (and any tower on it) bounce under our weight. Now computers have come a long way, I have this desk, and I can write looking out the window rather than at the wall. My back is still more or less to the door, which isn't optimal - except insofar as it meets my maternal requirements to be able to walk past the room or peek in and immediately see what my youngest might have on the screen during the (increasingly less) rare time she's allowed there. Usually it's still Club Penguin, or possibly My Little Pony. There are worse evils.

The light is about done for the day, which is always depressing on a Sunday. But this time next week, I'll have two (count 'em, two!) teenagers in the house. Yikes!

Good Friday Eve

This high holiday season has meant so little to me. I feel like my family has become just so...secular.

Yes, we're particularly busy and preoccupied this year. And maybe this just proves somehow that it's only been my pushing and prodding and bringing out the little ceramic bunny decorations half-way through Lent that has ever meant Easter was coming in our home. Or maybe it's just the the girls are older. Or that, for the first time I can remember, we have no plans - AT ALL - for Sunday.

The lack of familial pressure to prepare or go to a breakfast or lunch is a relief (if I can stop myself from feeling any filial guilt about it). But I'm saddened by the loss of celebration and ritual all the same.

We plan to have young friends staying over tomorrow and I expect to have the girls decorate eggs. Maybe that, or reading some e.e.cummings, will help.

April and the Wood Burning Stove is Still My BFF

What's better than curling up in the red couch next to the fire at the end of a hard day?
Um...nothing.

I May Be Slow, But At Least I'm Expensive

...it's kind of like that. Except that I'm impatient. So impatient, in so many ways. I don't wait for people to finish their sentences. I don't wait for people to catch up. I don't like waiting at all. I've often joked that patience is one of the big lessons I'm supposed to learn during this lifetime. My mother always ran late, my husband used to always leave me waiting. My second child is very, very slow. And I slam instead of sipping. I walk fast. I'm not good with just letting time pass.

Except that I remember being something very like patient when it came to petting zoos as a child. I would wait for a fawn to approach me. Pointlessly, for minutes, while my mother suggested we move on to the next thing. Or (we have video footage of this), I would follow a peacock all over, hoping it would be so kind as to drop a tail feather for me to collect.

But this wasn't patience, really. It was stubbornness. Or perhaps pride. Or some combination of the two.

You see? One character flaw masking another. Might come in handy to remember and instill on some unsuspecting fictional player in a novel.

Advancing at the Retreat

Just arrived home from spending about 8 hours writing and dining with fellow writers at Julia's parent's Stinson Beach house. I progressed further than I have in months (years, even) with my old Welsh novel. It was a productive time following a busy morning at work, and sandwiched between long drives: on the way out, in Mill Valley, I was rear-ended, but it seems that the cars and I sustained no damage (except a bit of a headache for me), and on the way back, it was a long and windy road in the dark.

But I'm home safe, and sound, having heard a very important quote on the way back from Diane Ackerman. Michael Krasny quoted her from her NY Times column as saying, "In the end, what we pay the most attention the most defines us, and how we choose to spend our lives transforms us." To which she replied:

It does. So you need to ask yourself, "With what do you want to spend the irreplaceable hours of your life?" Because paying attention programs the brain, and makes it easier and easier and easier to slip into those little habits, those palatial ruts, that we love so much. And they can be good or bad, depending."

I somehow didn't know of this woman before tonight. How is that? I think I have a new hero.

April Again

National Poetry month. Again. And Spring. Today, no rain.

I'm grateful for the renewal of energy that comes for me each Spring. Just when I thought the drive to accomplish anything beyond mere survival was gone for good, I have a day like this, where I am able to focus on some things that have long awaited my attention.

It felt satisfying to get a few things done: dog to dog park then to pet store for a thorough bath, pet food purchasing, squaring away travel plans, working on the Human Race campaign for S., exploring the purchase of a url for D's new business, a long run at the gym (6 miles, only .5 of which was walked), returning of video, mailing of letter, bargain grocery shopping - so important to check those expiration dates! - a little weeding, a little laundry, dishes, re-laying the butcher paper in the hallway which now constitutes our flooring, down time with the girls watching a movie, fire starting, blogging.

And I feel the day was about 5 hours too short, and that just one more weekend day at home would be lovely. Serves me right for working 4 hours yesterday.

But tomorrow promises more time to write, at least. I'll go to bed tonight thinking about my "Welsh novel" so that by the time I get to writer pal Julia's retreat in Stinson, I'll be focused and can join the group of novelists hitting the ground running, as it were. I could be working on a book of poetry too, but I think for a long period of time, the novel would be good. Although I may work on poetry here & there too.

But if I don't go to bed now, it'll mean too little sleep for the long day ahead. Forcing myself to wrap it up and call it done.

Slow To Post

Who remembers when POST meant power-on-self-test? For those who do, you also know that a system that took a very long time to POST was a potentially failing system. So am I failing? Nope. Fortunately, the long delay before posting for me only represents priorities that have been elsewhere.

Since last I blogged, D. has recovered from pneumonia (mostly), and R. and I have spent a week looking at colleges in Northern California and Oregon. She's a great traveling companion, and apart from a stressful hour in Portland trying unsuccessfully to find the Old Spaghetti Factory in the rain, I would consider the trip a very positive experience.

The time away gave me an opportunity for a little perspective, and I'd like to think I've come back with more balance. I worked only a hair over forty hours last week, and got home with a touch of light still in the sky more than once.

The longer days are such a blessing; I dread the time change coming later this week because of how difficult it may make mornings, but I welcome the ability to come home and accomplish domestic chores before sunset - sunset, which heralds the complete waning of my energy.
There may be no activity that gives me more satisfaction after a hard day than weeding the yard.

I realize that I'll never make my house feel like a HOME until I spend more time there, getting rid of things that hold me back and building the things that help me grow. Watching an episode of Hoarders in the hotel room with R. was at once a traumatizing and inspiring experience. And yes, R., I'm scarred for life.

Often when Lent comes along, I use it as an opportunity to commit to some kind of discipline. This year, in addition to avoiding alcohol during Lent (so far, so good!), I'm writing notes toward a poem - if not the actual first draft of a poem - every day.

11 entries for the 11 days. I had to go back and fill in a couple of blanks, but I'm on track and am grateful for the magic that happens when I show up to write. I may start thinking I have nothing but mundane grocery lists or reviews of the say to scribble, but end up with a metaphor that has made a guest appearance or (in some cases) shoved its unexpected way into the poem and transformed it. I am grateful for the appearance of the poetic mindset whenever it comes.

As I have before, I wonder what it would be like to live more than a few minutes every day as a poet. The upside is that I feel I could produce truly valuable work. The downside is that I don't think I'd be very capable of meeting normal obligations, like feeding the family, for example. Thus the crazy balancing act implied by giving myself the handle "Practical Poet."

I'm trying to do both here, people. Fold the laundry and compose the sonnet. Dishes and villanelles. Driving children while scanning a line, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel to count the feet in a phrase.

And I know I can't be the only working middle-aged mom doing this. Not all poets are either drifters or doctors, after all.

Eight

Eventually, naming posts after the date will wear thin. And by "eventually," I most likely mean tomorrow.

Had the pleasure of meeting with the writer pals, J&S today, and although I actually got little actual writing down, I did re-read some chapters of my "Welsh novel" that I hadn't read in two years, thus reminding me of whole subplots and characters I'd forgotten about completely. It helps me settle back into it, as did watching "Framed" (the BBC film that takes place in North Wales) over the weekend.

Managed to make short trips to the gym both yesterday and today. D. is better, although not yet ready to go back to work. I'm shooting for a week of NOT working 10 hour days. Goals are so important. My goal is to do less. Ironic, isn't it?

Seven retro

Teenagers hanging out in the livingroom until late, watching D. play his video game. It's beyond me how they can spend two hours watching someone else explore a gaming world. So I took a short trip to the gym while they hung out. After a day of office-cleaning and a few errands with S. - by the time the guests left and we settled down to a movie (just the family), I was ready for sleep. And missed, for the first time this year - ha! - the chance to write. But it was a good day. No complaints here.

Six

Cutting it close to midnight once again but this is the force of stubborn habit that builds a body of work. Or at least a body of blog entries. Brutal day, the end of a brutal week. But it really is first world problems. How can I possibly complain when there is more than enough food to drink, a roof over my head, and my family safe and sound? Some more challenging things have happened to family members this week - one threatened with losing a house, another in a bad car accident from which, thank God, he walked away relatively unharmed. D's pneumonia is not much better, and his doctor has prescribed prednisone, which does not make me happy. But apparently it's a short course. We'll see how it goes and hope it will help sooner rather than later...I'm fighting off something tonight myself, and I just hope that a good night's sleep is all it will take to shake it.

Five

The best thing about waking up at midnight with what I think I should call "angry insomnia" is that it can lead to lovely fruitful conversations with the senior night owl of the family. So D. and I talked, and that's a god thing.

Today's interesting news is that a boy that R. has liked, and maybe even more than liked, for two or three years now has mustered the gumption to broach the subject with her. It would seem that the two of them agree that they fail miserably when they try to follow the social conventions, and they are better off forging their own reality of whatever their relationship is supposed to look like. And whatever that means in the long term, for now they are together. And I have to say that I do not recall ever ever seeing R. so happy. Just friggin' beaming.

Four

There are days, and this is one of them, when really there is nothing left of me by the time I finally come home. I left at 7:30am and I got home at nearly 10pm. Driving and work and driving. And more. D is sick but all I know is that he was home again (as he should be), but he has been on a video game since I dropped S. off at nine - three hours ago. And who knows, or cares, how many hours he was on it before that. Dishes undone, laundry undone, I am responsible for dinner and driving the kids home at night after working a 10 hour day. But he has been staring at a screen for hour after hour. I love him. I understand he is sick. But yes, I am bitter. Thanks for listening.

Three

010312 8:33pm

Well, I must say this for the iPad. It's silent. The keyboard in the text app couldn't be any more silent than this. It's just the soft pad of my fingers touching the screen. I can't quite decide if I love or fear the little auto-corrections, too. On the one hand it can allow me to forge on past little errors. On the other hand, this makes me concerned that I might become lazy in my old age.

So this is my second blog entry created on my new toy, and my third blog entry of the year. And yet, none of them have been posted yet. There's a bit of a disconnect because I don't have 10.5 loaded on my iMac (let alone 10.6).

And yes, the office is still cluttered and unorganized, and yes, I still come home at the end of a too-long workday and indulge in too much eating and relaxing in front of a fire, and too little gym or housework or cleaning. But the one half-spoken new years resolution I am keeping is that of writing/blogging/journalist daily.

Two

1/2/12 spells out a pretty little binary date.

Second day of the year, and although I “accomplished” less today than I had yesterday, I did still tackle the priorities: took Sophia to school, went to the gym, pruned the roses, got groceries. I don’t think it helps anything to list what I didn’t get done every day, so I’m not going to do it. Here. This is me, letting tomorrow’s worries be sufficient unto themselves.

And I wrote. Maybe not the four pages of novel I’ve been saying I must write (first a commitment to Suz and then one to S.) but I did get a couple more pages of the story down, and moved it along however little. Trying to let those characters reanimate in my mind. They have histories that help make them who they are. I think sometimes I just have to let them tell their histories so that I know what actions they’ll take in their “present,” which is the now of the story…

Tomorrow it’s back to work, and back to more of the routine that has been lacking the last two and a half weeks while D’s been sick and the girls have been out of school. S. is back. R’s not back yet. It’s a new year, with new challenges and new hope. Re-reading The Wrong Reflection has got Bradshaw’s voice influencing my own, and maybe even her characters influencing my own too. There are worse things…

New

New Year, new toy. Originally, I wrote these first few posts of the year on my new iPad. I'm transcribing them now (on the eighth!) but am honoring the original dates they were written, to reflect my commitment to writing daily - even if it's just a little bit - this year.

010112
Might as well get used to writing it now, this 2012 thing. And get used to typing on the ilPad, which I'm using for this first blog post of the year. R. Is writing her own blogs post at this moment, too. It's something she does far far more often than I do, but I still have hope that writing daily is a New Year's resolution I'll be able to keep, having done it before, and having profited from it, at least insofar as it has feed the creative part of my soul, which is usually gagged and shoved in a back broom closet to stay out of the way of More Important Things. So I write this now, knowing that I won't transfer it until tomorrow, most likely, but deeming it a compromise that is in keeping with another New Year's resolution of finding more balance in my life. And I must say, too, that the auto formatting and auto correcting that seems to come with Notes on the iPad definitely make things easier and will make them quicker too. And now on to some poetic scribbling, too, before I officially become too sleepy to do anything but curl up in front of the fireplace...

Gratitude

For these I am thankful:

Oak leaves, laugh lines deepening on the faces of my friends, a body that works better than just well enough, the fire dancing in the fireplace, the finches with their laser gun conversations, November 1994 BonAppetit, Pandora riffing off of Dar Williams and Richard Shindell, the doctors and staff at UCSF, the lilt of the hills and language of Wales, Holtz's Jupiter, daughters more beautiful than any Spring I've ever seen, well-brewed coffee, the month of October, a partner who loves me, the key of D, poets who can and do, the One that made it all possible, and the ability to say "For this I give thanks."

One Quarter Year of Silence

July, August, September. They came & went, and I was here, doing something (primarily working, it seems to me. And driving kids around.)

But I wrote so little that it's only the weight of history and old habit - yes, I recall how to ride that bike - that tells me that I'm a writer.

It's an identity that I seem to have set down now for far longer than I'd ever expected I would, even with the new job and trying hard to stay present and available for the girls and D. Because even blogging was enough to satisfy that itch. And I haven't even done that. As is evident to anyone who might have been following this rambling record.

And it's an identity that I'm hungry to pick up again. I was going to start the day of my birthday (45 this year, since you asked). And when that day came and went, I thought of September first. Then October (blessed month during which I always write) began, and the writing didn't.

But I took a day off work today and I've had time with myself, and now I feel I can pick up the pen again. So to speak. I feel a little more in control of my life. Sorting through belongings can do that for you.

Here's a mildly humorous story. I had been very careful not to tell the girls that I'd be taking the day off because in the past, when they've known I would be home on a given day, invariably, one of them had taken ill and needed to come home early. And even a house with a child sleeping in a bed in a room behind a closed door is not the same as a house entirely to oneself. And yet, ironically, in spite of my careful stealth, R. called me shortly before noon to say she was feeling ill. She didn't want me to pick her up only because she hated to call me from work. And I couldn't lie and say I was at work - I just couldn't. So I got her. (I did take about 10 seconds to scream my frustration on my way north on the country road half-hour drive to get her. I don't think anyone else heard. And I actually don't care if they did) And then selfishly ran errands with her completely passed out in the car. She even slept through a trip to the recycle center. And if you can sleep through bobcats backing up around you and hundreds of bottles crashing into metal boxes of thousands more (broken) bottles, you're legitimately sick.

So the girls have visited the chiropractor, S. is rehearsing for Nutcracker for an hour, and I'm once again in the blessed sanctuary belonging to Peet, patron Saint of Caffeine-Fueled Writers. And all is right (enough) with the world. And what isn't right now, will be. Eventually. Even if it's geologically speaking.

There's a comfort in the shifting of continents, in theory. The shrug of the earth, settling like a great heavy beast into a more comfortable position. True, in practice, living in Northern California, it's a bit disconcerting. But what I'm trying to say is that forces greater than you or I are not bothered by whether the laundry is folded. And who's to say they're wrong?

May? What May?

May the blog-less month.

June, and rain. D says (pot. kettle) "Don't stay up too late," but then again, I'm slowly carefully re-engaging with my gmail inbox on a daily basis again, and posting here just because I can.

But oh! the rain!

I'll never get my garden in.

Caught up!

There. All caught up after all those bits and pieces of posts. The weight of not having written is just silly.

Saturday night we went to our friends' house for a Sharks game party. Such fun! I can see why those I know who love the game love the game...

Get up. Work. Go home. Repeat with Variations

Back to school for the girls after 2 weeks off.

R. has driven me twice now. Once to the local baseball field with S. & Tango in the backseat, and once to the gym. She's doing well, with only a few jerky starts & stops, and beginner's mistakes. I'm not sure how I'm doing...

Easter miracles

Had such a pleasant brunch at my mother-in-law's!

5 years

The anniversary of Mom's death. Five years later and I still once and a while think with a start that I've forgotten to call her. For so long.

In all of my dreams about my mom since her death - really, every one, as far as I can recall - she is traveling. Usually overseas. Often in Italy.

Good Friday

Every Good Friday, I remember my coworker Ken from the library walking home from the Marin County Civic Center to Petaluma. Along the railroad tracks. Remembering Jesus.

Payback. Yikes

Taking a day off work can have challenges associated with it. Playing catchup.

20 years and hoping for 20 more...

Happy Anniversary, hon.

16.5 hour workday - wheee!

I'm posting this days after the fact but pre-dating it for the sake of continuity. Yeah, that's it, continuity. Not trying to cover for my lapse or anything...

but after working two shifts - 6am-4:30pm and 7pm -12:30am, no wonder I didn't blog. I was trying to get caught up before taking the day off, and I was on a roll!

Whew. Can today be over now?

I'm torn.

On the one hand, each day is precious and a gift and I feel life should be lived to the fullest and I have so very many things I want and need to accomplish today.

On the other hand, I had a hard time communicating all day long, and I have been feeling deflated since 5pm and all I want to do is crawl into bed and hope for a better day tomorrow.

Maybe I need to be more attentive about taking my vitamins every day...

Happy Passover!

Sunday retro

The most I accomplished today was a 6-mile run and trip to OSH. That's about it, sadly. That, and a two-hour nap (after the hour + run)...

The downside, for me, of having a 3-day weekend is that a I invariably want a 4-day weekend.

Somehow, I'm better with only 1 or 2 days off. But I am looking forward to Easter weekend. Just because.

Snow White And Selected Works

Today there are two performances of the Petaluma City Ballet's latest production.

S. dances as a Celtic Maiden in one piece set to Irish music, which has a lot of attitude (we're talking leg positions, not the other kind). Then she's a demon in Snow White, working for the Queen. Very slinky and creepy and fun, she says.

But before that, she's at preparatory orchestra and sectional rehearsal.
I'll pick up R., who has been camped out at a friends house for days, and we'll go home, change, and head on over to the theater. This year we'll miss Petaluma's annual Butter & Egg Days Parade for the first time in many years, but I'm sure it'll be there for us next year.

I'm currently at Peet's, enjoying what is probably the highlight of my weeks: time alone with coffee (still decaf for Lent!) and my laptop, where catching up with non-work related computer tasks - email and the like - and writing (!) are made possible. Such a blessing.

Finished reading Pegasus by Robin McKinley yesterday. CURSE YOU, ROBIN MCKINLEY!

I had forgotten that it's a two-book story. I was in such denial that even two pages from the ending, I was happily thinking that soon everything was going to get resolved. Not. This, I now understand, is one of the great and terrible dangers of reading using your daughter's Nook. Even with little numbers on the screen to say how many pages you've read out of how many pages exist, you aren't holding the bulk of the book on the left with only the cover and a few slips of paper on the right to tell you there's no possible way the story can be resolved before the book ends. Serves me right for not supporting the author by buying her work in paper form.

Now I have to wait until next year to find out what happens to Sylvi and Ebon. Bah.

On a related note, here's a fantastic quote on writing from a Nanowrimo pep talk Robin McKinley sent last year:

Writing can be the worst, and often is—but it can also be the best. May you come out of that month knowing what you want to do next, and eager to keep going. Try to remember the peregrine days on the days that your husband/wife/roommate/dog needs steel wool to get you off the floor. And keep writing: the only way you can learn how your stories work is by letting them tell you. By putting live words together.

She inspires me. So do Laurie R. King, Gillian Bradshaw, Rhys Bowen, and Kate and Julie and Suzanne and Clare. If I remember that, and read not only what they write but also what they write about writing, it'll stand me in good stead.

A room full of no's

Apparently, that's what I got when I called in to work today to see if my department wanted me to come in, after all, because someone else had called in sick.

I could take this to mean they dislike my leadership and would rather have a cat's-away day. Or I could take it to mean they support me in having a day off to relax for a change. I choose the latter.

However, I realize that I carry work and other worries around me almost all the time. So I will need to learn to set things like that down more quickly and easily. And the way I operate, I will have to not worry about worrying to much. Jeez. And how old am I, and I'm still working on that one?

Ack! I'm melting...

What *is* it that makes me wind down so at the end of a day?

I really feel for all the world like my energy is being leached into the earth.

Low blood sugar? Dehydration? Stress? Or just coming down from the (off-the-wagon-confession alert) 2 cups of real coffee I had today.

Whatever it is, I can hardly keep my eyes open, and eating & drinking & going for a walk - not in that order - has not helped. Maybe I just need more sleep. Hmmm.

Will try to take tomorrow off work. In theory, I'm really doing it. In practice, it will be challenging.

Rite

R's just gone through a little modern rite of passage: she's passed the driver's permit test.

As she pointed out, I seem to think it's a bigger deal than she does.

Before the test, R. seemed so young. The DMV clerk sounded a little skeptical when asking for her age. But as R. stood in line to have the test graded, she looked so grown up, with her short spikey hair and modern-cut glasses, her brown leather jacket brightened by the colorful scarf she wove at school last semester.

I'm stealing a shot of hers to show the scarf. Without the leather jacket, hair & glasses like they were, you don't get the full effect. But I love that scarf. And the kid's not bad either...

Ganging agley

Well, that's embarrassing.

Makes me think of Burns.

I'm writing this Thursday, but am pretending it's Tuesday. Who's fooled, and who's the fool?

Walking the Talk

Here's where the tricky part of commitment comes in- sticking to it when you'd rather not.

So I will stay off the caffeinated coffee until Easter,
I will post this entry as part of my daily writing exercise,
I will go to the gym now, at 8:35 at night, for my 20 minute workout.

Where there were shoulds, let there be wills.

Belated Birthday Shout-outs

March 31st: D's sister and my biological father. (Um. Not the same person.) It always makes me smile that my first (birth) name was the same as that of my sister-in-law, who shares a birthday with my birth father.

April 8th: Two important friends: B., whom has the audacity to be living and playing all the way on the other side of the map lo, these last several years; and E., who has returned to southern California to start a whole new chapter in her life.

Four significant people in my life, and only one of whom I was able to (or managed to) wish happy birthday on said person's actual birthday.

And I don't think any of them are reading this blog! But I'm putting well wishes in writing and out into cyberspace anyway. As my beloved maternal grandmother always said - a phrase I have since made my own - "And many happy returns of the day!!"

Catch up - already!

Posting Friday's post Saturday and Saturday's post Sunday - doesn't bode well. But it's not enough to daunt or discourage. Onward!

I managed to get a chunk of yard work done today, although it barely put a dent it the weeds. R. asked me, "Why do you like to weed so much?"

"Really?" I replied. I mean, who doesn't like to weed? What's not to like? But I guess she was serious, and just as there are people who like to iron (I'm thinking of you, Kate) when I can't fathom ever liking to iron, apparently there are people who don't like to weed.

D. painted a wall in the livingroom he's been meaning to paint. We're working on the long checklist of things to do to get the house in order. It's a great feeling, working together toward a common overarching goal.

Fell asleep while the family watched Tales from Earthsea. I remember those LeGuin books being so very important to me around 8th or 9th grade. I loved them. But now, I can't remember the plot, the characters, the setting.... Maybe this is because I did not re-read them. But it was interesting to note that things that one can love can be forgotten so thoroughly.

Also, not knowing how closely or remotely the film followed the book means I don't have a way of knowing whether my inability to recognize the story was due to creative license or to early Alzheimer's.

Friday Retro

(posted Saturday morning...)

Yesterday's writing was only what was done at work, so the creativity was within the scope of business. Which is not to say it didn't engage some of the same parts of my brain as novel or poetry composition does.

Had a traditional Friday family movie night (we rented Tangled). And unlike many Friday movie nights, I stayed awake for the whole film before the inevitable snooze on the couch.

The rain that had been forecasted was mis-forecasted, thank goodness. I'll have a dry(er) garden to tackle this weekend. Looking forward to getting something significant done!

Friday Eve

The downside to posting late at night is that I've usually spent my quota of optimism by then. Left home at 7am, returned him at 9pm. Nearly 12 hours at work. I left with things still undone. But I love my job, and especially my new position. And I did make it home in time to check in with the kids on homework, distribute vitamins, tuck S. in, encourage R. to finish the project due tomorrow.

Going to bed "early" so I can get up early and do the things that I just can't face tonight, but which must be done before I leave the house again. Still won't get 8 hours of sleep, but it'll be nearly that. Hooray!

Is it Gratitude if there are qualifications?

So I'm grateful for every day I have here (ie., on this earth), and today was certainly not the hardest day I've ever slogged through.

There were even many little blessings: laughing with D. at the end of a long unload of our respective challenges, hearing about S. choreographing with her friends (to Laura Veirs' Wide-Eyed, Legless, nonetheless!), seeing R's cute super-short hair cut, and knowing that as frustrated about school as she may be (and oh, how she hates emails home from teachers with their concerns!), she is not giving up and not backing down.

But still, this is a day I'm happy to put to bed!

Tuesday Bricks and Birds

Left home at 7am, got home at 9pm. A long day, and not without its challenges. But I'm home, and there's that "Big Horizontal" piece of furniture that I love so dearly around this time of day. I love you, bed.

But it's telling (to me, anyway) that my first thought upon coming home, besides, "I'm done," is "I have to write."

So even though my daily creative writing snippets are no more than a few lines, and these blog entries are hardly more than that, I feel like I'm building brick-by-brick - okay, actually pebble-by-pebble. And you have to start a foundation somewhere.

Or, as Anne Lamott would say, "Bird by Bird."

Whirlwind year

This year has probably brought more changes in the first few months than any year I can remember. And it looks like the changes are still coming.

I suppose, as they say, even good changes can lead to stress. But so far, even though my head is spinning, I'm kind of enjoying the dizzy feeling that comes with it.

Hang on - wheeeee..!

Sunday driving

Beautiful day, but I spent more of it away from home than at home. The gardening, what there was of it, happened yesterday.

Today it was like this: get up, take the dog to the dog park, then me to the gym, a haircut, the grocery store, Peet's, home to pick up R. and D., R. to riding, D. and I up north for a drive. Then home briefly again, started a water change for the 400-gallon tank, off to get R. from riding, drop her off at home, down to work for an hour or so, home. Dishes still undone, writing put off to the end of the day.

However, the resolve for changes brought on by the good weather and April, is still there. Thus the writing, the gym, and a stick to healthy eating for today. I know all these will be a one-day-at-a-time thing. So, for today: check! done.

Q1

I'd never thought in terms of quarters before. I've never had to. Now, as a manager - and a sales manager, at that - Q1, Q2, Q3, and Q4 have been added to my regular vocabulary. Or at least the idea of them has.

Eventually, I may be able to stop counting months on my fingers to reckon when one Quarter ends and one begins. But for now I have to subtly move my fingers as though I were playing scales on an invisible piano while I think January, February, March. April, May June. It's the little tick I've been known to have when calculating how much sleep I'll get if I go to bed right now. D. has teased me about it for years. Fingers are handy, this way.

It is April. The rain has stopped, at least for now, and all the green blooming lift of Spring is evident everywhere: bursting up from the cracks between paving stones, and topping the trees along the streets in clouds of white and pink, and completely taking over our back yard. I can't fathom how much weeding and garden preparation lies ahead of me. And coming home when it's nearly dark during the week doesn't help. The few times I've arrived at the house when it was still light out, and not raining, I've grabbed the dog to take him to the dog park or have launched into dinner preparation.

So I've got this new lifestyle in mind: writing daily, getting the family to sit down to a healthy dinner before 7pm, regular visits to the gym, gardening. And I've decided the best strategy for make this lifestyle possible boils down to regimentation. Regimentation and revised priorities. Okay, so the two strategies for making this lifestyle possible are regimentation and revised priorities. And accountability. Three! The three strategies...well, at any rate, those are among the elements that I believe will make the difference between meeting my goals and just talking about my goals.

April Again

Okay, so no one said this would be easy, in spite of the ease with which I'd envisioned it: just start writing. Daily. As a practice.

In order to reach the goal of being a published professional writer (be it poet or novelist). Make writing part of each day. The start of the day, even. Something that happens from five to six before it's time to awaken the family and start that headlong hurl into the next fifteen hours.

But last night was a hard night, with nightmares and midnight anxieties. One of the dark times of the soul, for the few hours that it lasted. And so rising at five seemed, if not impossible, than at least very difficult.

So I told myself I would write tonight. And this, at least, I've done.

Where Things Stand

...or sit, or stagger. Take your pick.

But the current surface-skimming state of affairs - or at least what comes to mind - is this matter-of-fact update:

D. works.
I work. I drive - about 100 miles a day during the work week.
The girls are in school.
R. plays soccer and rides when she can. She also volunteers with a local equestrian therapy center.
S. dances, and was just put in a good role in the Nutcracker. She also continues to make progress with her bass, that fog-horn, cow-lowing instrument that I've come to enjoy listening to while I fold laundry.

I don't write as much as I long to, and lately I feel that this not-writing-ness is less a casual burbling stream outside my window than a full-throated river quickly gaining speed as it crashes toward the sea of Lost Opportunity. And I'm tired of walking along it or sometimes putting a toe in the bracing water. And I don't want to build a bridge. Instead, I want to dam it and channel that power into words on the page, words on the screen, and Something of Worth (intrinsic worth, mind you - not just that false worth suggested with capital letters). Otherwise, what's the point?

Worse than writing without any spirit in the words, worse than writing poorly, is wasting the drive to write.

I think I want the writer's life. I could be wrong. But I'd like to test the theory more than I have in the last year, anyway.

Hurry up and Wait

I realize that saying how long I worked today or how little I slept last night is a symptom of insecurity. It's fishing for sympathy. So I'll temper it with lack of detail. But I'm starting to feel it, here in the coffee shop with my writer pals, trying to remember the plot of that old novel that needs finishing...

Someone observed last week that my "self-awareness" was so extreme as to be crippling.

So is shyness or claims of introversion a manifestation of narcissism? Self-exiled in self-involvement? I think maybe yes.

I miss Wales with an physical ache. The Welsh call it hiraeth. Heart-sick homesickness, even if its for something that isn't technically your home. Writing something set there both helps and makes it harder.

But I have these characters in limbo between plot points who I feel have been looking up at me expectantly over crossed arms, occassionally checking their watches and sighing heavily. Like, Hel-LO? Remember us?

So I'll see if I can move the ahead a couple of squares on the board.

Bird by bird.

Fallen but Rising

Last week I was hit hard by a fresh reminder of how we are all, to some degree, morally compromised. Flawed, yes. And sometimes really ethically broken. But also, even the best of us, scarred by a thousand little cuts--nicks in our integrity. Does this make us human? Or keep us from being human? Or is it the recognition of it, and how we respond to that, the test of the caliber of our humanity?

I spent a couple of days feeling old and as in mourning. I think it was over the loss of another layer of innocence. Is there any going back?

But this is, after all, a time of change for me. After a year plus being dormant in so many ways, I feel new things coming. New and good, slowly building up like green seedlings pushing through the damp dark earth toward light. Have I said this before? If so, I hope I can attribute it to the cyclical nature of things rather than neurosis. I'd rather believe it's a valid rebirth happening, and not same-old-tune mutterings like a drunkard's forgetful promise.

(a piece of garden, 4/09)

Does this count as redemption?

There's something like absolution (although self-given) that comes with deleting the worthless placeholder posts from last month.

As always, taking the pressure off of myself for not blogging daily leads to a higher likelihood that I will blog. And so removing the reminders of where I fell short of my own standards feels like me forgiving myself and erasing a poor record.


The weather is wet and cold and oddly autumnal for nearly mid-May. It's wonderful weather if one is inside. No need to water the newly planted garden today!

Ballet & Bubbles Press

Check it out!


http://www.petaluma360.com/article/20100305/community/100309717

And this is Wednesday

Having posted daily recordings of nothingness, while the days themselves have been anything but...

It's Wednesday. D's truck ("Big Blue") is currently broken down and will need to be towed to a repair shop.

The girls are playing violin and bass in the livingroom while D starts a fire.

I haven't looked at my personal email in days and haven't logged on to FB for probably weeks.

By the time the sun sets, I'm done.

But I think getting back into running 3-4 times a week will help. It's been way too long, and my plans for walking and running without the benefit of a treadmill (and all the reading I can get done while on said device) have come to little.

Sad but true.

The change in the time on Sunday will mean it will feel like 4am when I get up in the morning Monday-Friday, but it will also mean more light late in the day, so more time to run and to take the dog to the dog park before my energy completely wanes with the setting sun.

Sunday, more cleaning, Moon Circle

Saturday, spring cleaning, Alice

Friday!

Dydd Dewi Sant 2010

Happy St. David's day, one and all!

Brought daffodils, scones, muffins & Welsh flag to work today to celebrate.

Another afternoon of running around and evening of caring for the family. But in spite of some bumps along the road, we're all well and reasonably happy. And overall, very silly.

Dydd Dewi Sant hapus iawn i chi!

Diverse day

Got up early, took dog to dog park, went north to help lay Marley floor for dance competition, came home & made breakfast, gardened, went to friends' house to watch the hockey game, went north with the girls in tow to watch 2 hours of ballet competition, dinner out, home, bedtime routine, bed. That's all.

Saturday, actually Monday

Two days after the fact, but let's pretend it's Saturday night. This is ironic, because Saturday was the day in the last week or two when I have done the most actual writing. And yet, in spite of working on a poem for an hour or more, I didn't post here. Until now.

A Tree Falling

Another morning-after retropost.

So this has been interesting. I'm tempted to feel like this has become a private journal, and that no one else is reading it. Which means I may be more inclined to bare my soul and less inclined to care about grammar. No, actually. I'm sure I can't stop caring about grammar. Even fragments are intentional.

"Intentional fragments" - I kinda like that.

And of course I re-read and edited this. It's a wonder all those hand-written journals from my younger years aren't full of crossed-out lines, or scratched out pages...

Mundane marathon

The litany of the day:

Got to work just after 5am, worked 8 hours, picked up S. from her ensemble class after school, took her to bass lesson, picked up other people's children at their school, dropped them off at the meeting point in town, got home, dropped off S., took the dog to the dog park because he was CRAZY from being inside all day, picked up S. for violin, took her to class, took her home, dropped her off, ran back up to her school for a mandatory parent meeting, got home at after 9pm, consoled sickly R., heard a bit about D.'s day, collapsed!

Thank goodness the violin+bass lessons are short-term. S. is quickly on her way to only bass.

I think the highlight of the day is proving my tested theory that one can fit a quarter-sized bass and 4 children + driver in a Prius. :)

Aren't you hungry? Aren't you tired?

My family must bear the burden of me asking them why they haven't gone to bed yet when I'm tired, or asking them what they'd like to eat when I'm hungry.

Interesting that I seem more ready to transfer my needs to them than to acknowledge them as my own. What's that all about?

Wordle of Set Down This

Inspired by Suzanne's entry. Here's a Wordle of this blog. Hmmm. I'm not sure if it only looks at recent entries - I am guessing that's the case. It's nearly 10pm now, and the kids are just (finally) in bed. I haven't completed my chores for the day, but 4:40 comes so early...well, it looks like I've been brought low by the mundane again. Fighting off a sore throat, feet chilled because my office is the least insulated room in the house, and the wood-burning stove is not nearby. And I'm ready to call it a day without having written poetry or finished the laundry. However, I did put 89 miles on my car in the normal course of the day. And I worked my eight, got the dog to the dog park, delivered various children (mine and other's) where they needed to be--on time--,attended the Board meeting, supervised homework, made S. lunch for tomorrow, listened to violin and bass practice, critiqued R's latest story, balanced the checkbook, paid the bills, replied to a couple of emails.

I'm sitting here telling myself that this, too, has its place in the Significant Work of the world. Its place and its time, and its own grace as well.

One step forward, one step nowhere...

Getting back to writing daily is a stumbling process right now, even with my youngest asking if she can write for 30 minutes while I write for 30 minutes.

But when 30 minutes don't come until 9:30pm, sleep trumps scribbling. At least, it should for her. And it did for me.

Another day, another opportunity to move in the right direction...

Time is so weird

Funny. How late it is seems inherently tied to how tired I am.

11:45pm can seem not late at all if I happen to feel wide awake, whereas 7pm can seem like the wee hours of the morning if I'm sleepy. The latter is usually the case, and in general, I do "shut down" after 8pm. Tonight, ironically, is an exception. I won't be so chipper when my alarm goes off in 5 hours, I'm sure. But it's been a good day. And by "good day," of course I mean "productive day" - a satisfying combination of duty and pleasure, and of the pleasure that only comes (for me, anyway) with duties having been done fully and in good time.

One can only hope that one sleeps better when the chores have been completed. Because one certainly sleeps less.

offline today

I spent the whole day sans computer and didn't miss it for a moment.

Walked the dog to the dog park and back for the second day in a row. It's nearly 3 miles and that makes for a 2-hour venture if we spend more than 15 minutes at the park, which we always do.

I could get used to daily long walks. Really I could.

A year ago

It's the one year anniversary of my father's death, so of course I've thought about him a lot today. I'm not ready to write more about it. Some deaths don't lead to poetry for a long time, I think.

But I did start to write an ekphrastic poem this evening, as I'm now part of an ekphrastic poetry group.

Part of the jump-start process. Day 3 of Lent.

Feb. 18 2010 retro-post

At 12:30am, in bed, I thought "Oh no!"

Day two of a renewed commitment and where were my 30 minutes?!

So I lay in bed and meditated - really - until around 1am.

It also occurred to me that:

1) the red chaise sofa is entirely too comfy, especially when next to a fire in the wood-burning stofe, and its siren song of sleep is overwhelming. The time I would have spent writing was lost in its chintz arms.

2) my life at the moment does not lend itself to contemplation. I must change the configuration. But it probably can't be done in two days. Three or four may be required.

Ash Wednesday

It's Ash Wednesday.

Although nominally I'm still an "Elder," I've been away from the Presbyterian Church for about six years now.

But Lent brings out the wannabe ascetic in me, and for the last couple of days, I've been thinking about what, if anything, I might give up for Lent. I stopped eating poultry in October, so giving up meat of any kind is already taken care of. I could give up fish, but that's no real sacrifice. I've already had chocolate today. And coffee. So too late for those two old favorite candidates.

But really, I know that this year it's not what I need to give up. It's what I need to take up again.

As in, Time.
Time to reflect.
Time to write.

30 minutes a day, minimum. That's my commitment for the Lenten season this year. Me. Alone in my office, 30 minutes every day. Writing. Or meditating. Or praying. The sacrifice of giving myself over to quiet or creativity. Or both.

Blogging more often may keep me honest. You'll notice, perhaps, that I offer no "oh-my-goodness! It's been months since I added a blog entry" apology. (Um. Except for that.) I don't have time for the posturing of regret, that's why.

But here's something I wrote January 16th that I wanted to post. For the record.

It takes a certain amount of ego to be a writer. Or at least, to be the kind of writer that puts her writing out there, for world consumption—whether that is in a blog, or in a poem or essay or novel. It takes enough ego to assume that what you have to say is something that other people want to hear. Or alternately, it’s just as possible that it takes enough ego to not care whether other people want to hear it or not.

Yes, there are usually other forces at work: a love of words and language, for example. Or the drive for examination and reflection, for observation and expression. There’s often a low-level, basic need to use the written word to process one’s thoughts and understand the world.

I’m certainly compelled by this last source of motivation. Writing frees me of the weight of input through the release of output. It clears my brain of clutter and allows me to breathe. It doesn’t mean the rest of the world wants or needs to hear what I’m putting in words. But this worry over other people’s reactions has dictated so much of what I’ve chosen not to do or say in life, I’m starting to feel that no only is it high time I left that concern behind, but in fact I have some making up to do. And an unknown, but certainly shorter-than-before, time in which to do it.

I’m also driven by that love of language. Not so much individual words (although some of them are quite nice) but how they can be used. The right turn of phrase—something unique and startling—can do wonders for me It can make me feel as content as a cat in a slant of sunshine, or as thrilled as John Muir at the top of a tree in a lightning storm. It can instill in me a deep and profound hope in the whole future of the human race.

I’m writing this now because for weeks I’ve been forcing the Muse, bringer of the mood and vision that brings me offerings of insight and vocabulary, to get in line behind everything else. I’ve been moving my hand in a dismissive wave to direct her to go and wait behind the others. Behind work, shuttling children, supervising homework, making meals, offering moral support for the family, going to meetings, paying the bills, walking the dog, sorting socks. The list is extensive, as the Muse could tell you. If I allowed her to speak at all, beyond whispering that the way the winter has exposed hidden bird nests in bare branches warrants a poem, or that walks in the open air are key to a healthy soul.

Certain themes repeat. Like a little string of notes, a melody strung into every movement of a symphony, there are phrases that surface in one’s life that are only distinct from what has come before by the altered circumstances around them. The tug of war between what is necessary because of practical considerations and what is necessary because of spiritual and creative hunger comes up again and again for me. Obviously, someone has to do the dishes. And obviously, even with others helping, sometimes it has to be me.

But because I believe denying myself whatever drive or gift is my birthright may well lead at best to a wasted or bitter life, and at worst to a fatal implosion that will take everyone around me down with me, I’m going to stop and look at the naked nests. I’m going to walk in the open air. I’m going to write.

Halloween / Nanowrimo Eve

At the cafe with a writer buddy, after a morning where it seemed everything was conspiring to challenge me. Every task felt difficult and cumbersome. I think I simply slept too late and waited to long for that first cup of coffee, and as a result was running behind and with a headache for three hours.

But the dog has been walked, the food boxes have been delivered, the daughters have been dropped off at their respective locations. R. is doing her weekly volunteering stint at a therapeutic equestrian center, S. is dancing, and D. will probably be putting more mud on the walls in the entrance way.

And I am (in theory) focusing on writing. With a cup of coffee.

It's a beautiful October day, clear and not too cold. Halloween has almost always been my favorite holiday, and I would normally be full of Fall euphoria. But any light-heartedness has been tainted by the sobering news of an H1N1 diagnosis for one of S's closest friends from dance (they even share a locker, which I've since wiped down). I've also just had news of two deaths in a local family from the virus as well. It's easy to brush it off until it hits so close to home. But this is, as I say, sobering.

On another note, tomorrow (well, midnight tonight, actually) Nanowrimo starts. The goal: write 50,000 words toward a novel in 30 days.

Why? Because I writing is satisfying for me, and I like to do it. And I clearly like a challenge like this. There's also the possibility that I can come up with something worth editing and sending out into the world. And besides, if I can jump-start the habit of writing daily, after November I can apply that same time and discipline to poetry. I also have this crazy naive notion that poems will come as I work on the novel. I do believe that creativity breeds creativity, and that opening up oneself to the Muse pays off.

Sure, I don't seem to have the time or energy for such shenanigans. But it's only one month, and it's this type of forced time-constrained focus that enables me to drop away the unessential busy-work that otherwise consumes my weeks.

I've started reading The Four Hour Workweek, and although I'm not far into the book, the concept of changing how I look at what I do with my time has already inspired me.

So I'm going to do this. I'll keep track of word counts here, which means that Nanowrimo brings the added benefit of me blogging more often, and keeping tabs on a more regular basis with my FB and personal email accounts. If I'm not on the computer, I'm not online. And if I'm not online, I'm disconnected and behind in correspondence. Sometimes that's just what I need as an overwhelmed introvert. But a month of reading and responding to messages instead of shoving them under the cyber carpet won't do me any harm, either.

How long, how long

What a tremendous and unprecedented hiatus. Even knowing how busy I've been and having decades of first-hand experience with my propensity to procrastinate and withdraw, I'm amazed at the extended blog-silence.

So much has happened since June. Time marches on, moments well worth recording come and go, and I think, "I should blog this. I should write about that." But as someone once told me, "'Should' implies a negative," and the moments remain unrecorded. Many will be forgotten, unless they surface at a random time and are written later. Not that writing immortalizes, anyway. Certainly not with the volumes of thoughts and musings and personal histories being poured onto virtual pages. Who would read it all? Who, in the long run and the scheme of human history, will care?

I've been well, but overwhelmed. Something about shifts in schedules - my own and the kids' - and about new stresses (private high school expenses, heavy workload, puppy, home remodel, being part of 3 carpools) and the loss of old coping mechanisms (I miss the gym!) has lead me to retreat and avoid the computer entirely. I hardly read friends' blogs. I have a FaceBook account but don't sign in very often. I get up, go to work from 6-2, drive kids (my own and other peoples') from place to place from 2-6, then do dinner, homework supervision, dog walking, chores. And I call it a day as early as I can, avoiding anything extra.

But I've always had resurgences of creativity in October, and I'm well into the month and looking forward to participating in Nanowrimo again in November.

I don't know how I'll write 50,000 words in a month. But I know I do well with outside accountability when it comes to writing, and I know that writing does me almost as much good as regular exercise - keeps me sane and stable, helps me cope with stress. And creativity breeds creativity. And writing puts me online, where reading and writing blog posts and being inspired by, and connected to, friends, can happen more regularly. These are all good things.

I may not write posts as frequent, insightful, compelling or moving as those of my friends (see links on sidebar), but writing is how I process thoughts and feelings, and not processing thoughts and feelings is so detrimental to my health. So here's to pulling myself up out of isolated silence and back into the world of words.

This week and next

As I was telling a friend today, the last week in May and first two weeks in June are always brutal. This week, R. is in Oregon (Ashland and whitewater rafting) with her 8th grade glass. At work, I'm doing the crazy Dance of Many Fires to Put Out while we transition to the new database. By the end of the week, I will have worked 11 days in a row, but at least I left early today to see S. perform in her violin recital. Saturday S. & I will go to a mother/daughter gathering for the 3rd grade class. (It's a Waldorf school, remember, so this is called a "Moon Circle." In the afternoon, I expect to spend time writing with my writing pals (after much too long a break!).

Saturday also would have been my dad's 73rd birthday. I'm already thinking of Grandma, and how hard the day will be for her. I think mourning my father has been this huge process running in the background. It's hanging, and I can't seem to force quit or fully start it. (Sorry. Geek mode.)

Next week will be full too: graduation, 3 ballet performances & R's ballet recital. My sister will be in town, which is great. It's the first time I will have seen her since before the surgery, though, so I'm also a little nervous. I'm looking forward to showing her that I'm completely fine, but I'm afraid she may be looking for signs that I'm not. (If you're reading this, J, I'm doing great - honest!).

It helps to know the language

When my family and I watched a version of The Railway Children some time ago, we laughed long and hard at the children trying to communicate with the Russian soldier who turns up in their village. In an attempt to identify the language he's speaking, one of the kids says in a slow, clear delivery: "Are...You....Welsh?"


But I love this BBC story from Halloween last year:





As the article states:

The English is clear enough to lorry drivers - but the Welsh reads "I am not in the office at the moment. Send any work to be translated."

When officials asked for the Welsh translation of a road sign, they thought the reply was what they needed.

Unfortunately, the e-mail response to Swansea council said in Welsh: "I am not in the office at the moment. Send any work to be translated".

So that was what went up under the English version which barred lorries from a road near a supermarket.

"When they're proofing signs, they should really use someone who speaks Welsh," said journalist Dylan Iorwerth.

I should say so!

Why, hello there

As arbitrary as a number on a sheet of paper (or a screen) is, the beginning of a month, after such a long time silent, seems like a good time to take up keyboard and post some kind of communiqué.

Even if the message is nothing more than "Hello again."

I'm still here. Still alive and well, even if the last few weeks I've felt that writing online (and often, even being online) was more than I could manage.

But without further apology or ado, I'm back.

Here's a picture from the family's trip to Canada in April. Much of the trip was spent seeing wild and rescued animals. We went to two wildlife sanctuaries:
Pacific Northwest Raptors and the North Island Wildlife Recovery Centre

Here's one of the employees at the Raptor center with one of the many birds that live there:



We also spent time at World Parrot Refuge, home to over 700 parrots with the idea that the birds should not be pets but should be allowed to flock in huge cages together. They give you earplugs when you first enter the facility, and in the one hands-on rehab area, one of the birds is quick to pick them out of your ears.



























..

April Eve

March and April are the months for poetry contests, and I am scrambling, just a little, to send out a few things here and there. Thus the earlier-than-usual dragging myself out of bed today.

R. has been accepted to both schools to which she applied, but one was too far out of our budget without a ton of financial aid (which was not forthcoming), and the other only means some small but worthwhile lifestyle changes. Not eating-Top-Ramon-every-day sacrifices. But just paying attention and spending as little as possible on anything not truly necessary.

I received my father's death certificate, the coroner's report and some of my father's writings from my brother. It took me two weeks to work up the nerve to open it, and I've only read the first part of the coroner's report. I'm not pushing myself.

On a much lighter note (and what wouldn't be a lighter note than that?) I also received two glossy-covered copies of The Pinch, in which my "award winning" poem appears. It's satisfying, seeing it. Not thrilling. Just satisfying, like stepping back, rake in hand, to see the yard has been successfully cleared of leaves.

The Recrudescence of Routine

So it goes after big events; the resumption of the quotidian seems anticlimactic.

I donate a kidney.
My father dies.

Well, and the kids go off to school, and I go back to work, and the meetings are scheduled, and it rains, and the days grow longer, and the bills are due, and the clean laundry must be folded and put away.

Except that I want the experiences of February to have made a change that stays with me in some tangible and obvious way. So I've made this new commitment to myself as a poet, and I start each day by reading poetry, then writing something (notes toward a poem or a first draft). I sweat the small stuff less - this will take concentration and practice - and I honor other people more, and I am grateful for the many gifts I've been given, without feeling the need to protest that I don't deserve them or must return them. The giving is an expression of the gift-giver, and it's not my job to determine my worthiness to receive whatever I am offered. I am humbled, and grateful, and thus I learn a bit more about Love.

Good news, bad news

The really good news is that the kidney transplant surgery on the 10th went very well. Apparently, my left kidney paid attention to all the pep talks and heartfelt conversations I had with it, and it went to work right away as Mark's new kidney. He and I are both recovering well and getting better every day. I came home the 12th and he went home the 13th. My other blog has more details. Yesterday, which was a day that lasted a year, we went back to the university medical center for our individual checkups, and the doctors agreed that everything looks fine.

However, while we were at the medical center, I also received a phone call from my sister with the very sad news that my father had passed away. He died early yesterday morning. The circumstances of his death and of his life, combined with what he did and more significantly did not believe, all suggest that there will probably not be a service. But I still wish I could travel now (it's too soon after surgery according to the doctors) so I could go to Colorado to be with my 96-year-old grandmother and my brothers (my eldest brother just flew out to be with my older brother).

I had the good fortune of speaking to my dad the day before he died. We'd only seen each other 3 or 4 times in the last 25 years, and only spoke on the phone once or twice a year. But he'd heard about the transplant and called ostensibly to talk about that. And we'd said all the important things you hope to say to, and hear from, a loved one before they die. So while I'm mourning the loss, I'm also grateful that he'd called me. It's more complicated than that, of course. It always is. And I'm writing about it elsewhere. But this is how I'm recording this fact, for now. I hope that wherever Dad's spirit is now, it's at peace.

The Season of Preparation

It's raining, but there have been recent days of spring-like warmth and sun, and that coupled with circumstance--new President, upcoming surgery, deadlines for High School--has pushed our household toward the work that comes with, and brings, hope.

We've eschewed the local public high schools for R. in favor of two private high schools, and the related applications, essays, paperwork and financial aid applications have taken time, as have interviews and visits and the SSAT test one of the schools required. We'll have to prepare our taxes within the next week to meet a deadline for "individualized tuition" for the schools, because we simply cannot afford either otherwise. Fortunately, we've been told both schools are helpful in this area.

We've also tackled various projects at home. One of these projects is the ever-popular “We’re going to clean our rooms!” game my daughters enjoy in which they pull everything out of closets or off shelves and put the gazillion resulting toys, socks, hair-bands, pens, scraps of paper, gum wrappers, beeswax sculptures, rollerblades, homework assignments, Legos, Barbie shoes, scissors, Polly Pockets and books in huge piles on the living-room or bedroom floors, thereby illustrating the dictum that is the sister to “it’s always calmest before a storm”: “it’s always messiest before a mess.”

But after several weeks of to-be-sorted piles in every corner, and a trip to the hospice thrift store with a carload of donations, things feel a bit cleaner. Costumes that had been put in the attic have been used for J's recent birthday party and then put up in the new garage storage area. Christmas things have been put away, finally, and also in new lighter boxes--rather than the historically interesting but very heavy WWII medical chest we've always used. D. has started, and finished, a new walkway in the front courtyard. Progress.

On an unrelated note, I’m seeing dogs everywhere I go. Lots of people walking dogs in the teasing sunshine, dogs in cars with tongues lolling and tails wagging, dogs in the laps of patrons sitting in coffee house patio. The girls and I have started asking about another dog, thinking about taking the plunge into being a dog-owning family again. The one year anniversary of Albion’s death is approaching, and as sometimes happens, I was aware of it subconsciously before I realized why I had suddenly started to think of him and miss him. But D. is nowhere near ready to open himself up to the potential heartache of loving another pet as much as he loved Alby, only to lose it to its shorter allotment of years. So we'll stick to the current more-than-sufficient menagerie of 2 big outdoor hutched rabbits, two noisy indoor caged parakeets, a spoiled rat who spends her afternoons on R's shoulder (or in her shirtsleeve, nose poked out), and the 400-gallon fish tank. The corey catfish have been laying eggs, and D. devised a way to save them from the two giant greedy koi (who are not pescavores but like eggs). And now we have a couple dozen of the tiny things in a nursery, getting bigger every day. Maybe Spring is not that far away after all.

New Year, New Post

Rather than the contrived and apologetic back-dating that would mean I had a fake entry to show for January 1st, I'm writing the second day into the month to wish one and all a Joyful, Healthy, Prosperous New Year.

This year I will write more poems.
I will spend less money.
I will take more time to be alone and contemplative because it feeds me.
This year I will donate a kidney to a friend. And recover. And celebrate his recovery.
I will laugh more and fret less.
I will be grateful for every gift, large and small, understood and mysterious.
This is a year of change, but all of it
good.


For those who did not receive a Holiday card from us (yet), here's a link to the picture we sent out this year. It's a change from tradition because D and I are actually pictured, and the girls look rather silly. I've been calling it "goofy but happy" and it's from our trip to Vancouver Island in June. This is from the ferry ride back to the mainland.

And by the way K & B and Tom, if you're reading this... I believe you have moved (not together, but separately) so here's a public appeal (although I know an email to each would have sufficed): I need addresses from you guys so I can send a card your way. Please and thank you.

Blessings and warmest wishes to all. Here's to 2009!!!







Wind-blown self-portraiture at its best.