Survivor's Guilt

Tonight S. and I saw the Petaluma School of Ballet's Nutcracker.

It was the first time in 7 years that S. was not dancing, and the first time in perhaps 6 years that I was not in charge of the eighty or so dancers backstage and the moms that help them. It was surreal, and I felt a little bit of survivor's guilt mixed in with my admiration for the massive semi-professional endeavor and my relief at not having to dedicate weeks of my life to all things Nutcracker. It was weird for S., too, who says that being in two orchestras (three, if you count school ensemble) is both less work and just as much work at the same time.

Some of the principals I have seen dance as seven-year old Gingerbreads. They are now Snow, Rose, and Sugarplum, as well as Mothers in the party scene, waltzing around in their elegant Victorian gowns, so very grown-up. Two of them are off to college next year. Several more, the year after that. But they have more poise than most adults I know, and far more discipline. I was very proud of them all, although the pride was laced with a heart-sickness. In August, the mother of one of the most gifted dancers of all passed away after fighting cancer for years with more fierce focus and grace than the best ballerina in the world might have at hand. She was an amazing person. The news of Mandela's death only makes me think that now two incredibly bright lights have left us this year. Who could ever rise to take their places? And how could I ever, ever complain about any hardship or struggle in my life compared to what they endured with such elegant purpose?

Balance Pending

Write daily: check
Work 8 hour days: check. Except for the last two, in which I added 4 hours to the 8, twice in a row. Er.
Work out daily: Nope. Not since Monday. It's a wonder I'm sane enough to write.
Sleep 8 hours per night: mostly, yes. I'm too tired from the 12 hour days to do otherwise, and it's the full nights of sleep that mean no trips to the gym at 8pm.

It was in the 20s this morning, apparently. R. may get snow where she is, further North. Brrrr! As I've said before, makes me want to hibernate.

Sunset in Aberystwyth, Wales August 11th

What a Week

I was so happy to be on time for my mammogram today.

Turns out I was exactly 24 hours late.

Maybe it's not my breasts I need checked.

I've rescheduled.

On a brighter note, the dog's lipoma is apparently just that: a fatty tumor rather than anything we need to worry about. His dental hygiene, however, leaves much to be desired.

Here's who gets to ride the elevator in the department stores in Tokyo. People with one crutch (Tiny Tim!),  disabled persons in a wheelchair, baby strollers without babies and Alfred Hitchcock:    

           

Cold Snap

It's supposed to be cold tonight, by Sonoma County standards. Perhaps into the twenties. We are burning cut-up pallets in our stove to heat the house. It's cheap - free, in fact! - and effective.

The cold makes me want to hibernate. So do days like this, that start with a voicemail at work from a livid customer wanting to sue because of a perceived wrong. Her anger is palpable. I practically have to wipe it off the phone after I listen to her rant. She names me in particular, although she mis-pronounces my name. She nearly mis-pronounces other, simpler words too. She is that furious. She ends her message with "I'll see you in court!" And although I understand her anger and do not blame her for it, I also know how very misplaced it is.

People who have lost data through fate, Murphy's law, Acts of God, Acts of Ex-Spouses, and the failure of technology are often riding the waves raftless in a dark choppy sea of negative emotions. They lash out at the nearest target. I think they are really lashing out at themselves but they misdirect their anger and send it full-force at the very people who are trying to help them. It's ironic.

There were other challenges at work too  today - things that on their own, individually, would have colored the day tricky at best, but which together almost became amusing. I'm sure I'll laugh about it. Eventually.

For now, while I wait for S's Chamber Orchestra rehearsal to finish and wrap up my writing work at Starbucks, I think longingly about the red chintz couch/chaise lounge we inherited from Mom that sits conveniently next to that wood-burning stove. I think I can hear it calling my name from here. The red couch doesn't care about lost data or perceived wrongs. It doesn't want to sue me or my company. It promises only warmth and a place for both Lethe and lethargy. How lovely.

So Much For That

It is somewhat seldom that I buy new clothes. This will not come as a shock to anyone who has seen the collection of items that make up my wardrobe: they are a combination of the following: hand-me-downs from pitying friends or family members with better taste than I, but who had originally purchased with themselves in mind; the remnants of school rummage sales; goodwill items; second-hand store items, and the occasional brand-new piece. I was wearing a pair of pants in the last category this morning; I, who dislike shopping immensely and who has never stepped in a store on Black Friday, suffered a temporary bout of consumerism (I'm better now, thank you) and bought several things the day after Thanksgiving.

Having carefully removed not one, not two, but three tags this morning just after 5am in the sleepy dark, I set off to work congratulating myself for not having missed that third tag.

I missed the fourth.

You know, the long strip of tape that runs down the leg with the brand and size printed on it for such cheaper items as one finds at Kohl's?

I had been at work nearly four hours before an employee, bless her, politely pointed it out to me. True, I'd been mostly alone or sequestered in my office for that time. But still.

Another day started with a dose of humility.

Beginnings at the End

Re-beginning the on-again, off-again practice of daily writing. December. Month of leaves giving up on the idea of sticking it out with the tree, of glaze-eyed flight-or-fight consumers propelled by greed and vanity (I must succeed in this purchase while someone else fails). Month of crisp nights and seeing the stars. As good a month as any to be a writer, even one who is falling asleep at the keyboard!

October Hearth

I am home from my travels, safe and sound and grounded, and grateful for both the survival and for homecoming. I may have sadly ambivalent feelings about my house, the Winchester Mystery House North, with it's various mostly-finished remodel and home-improvement projects a reminder that things never seem to get completed, but I am grateful to be back there nonetheless, with my family and some semblance of a routine.

More importantly, as truly wonderful as the four trips (10 plane flights!) I've taken since June have been, I'm grateful for the ability to focus once again on my writing - both the poetry and the prose.

My current goals are to make notes toward a new poem daily, to work on revising poems weekly, and to focus on the re-write of the novel at least five days out of seven.

I recently overheard someone (perhaps on Fresh Air?) talking about creating a "cocoon of creativity" - a time and a place that is sacred, or at the very least devoted to one's work and protected from the distractions and intrusions of every-day demands. The space is important - a room of one's own - and I have that. I have my own office, with a computer and walls lined with books, and a place under a cantilevered desk where the dog likes to stretch out and sleep. The office has a door, and a window with a view into our unfinished cement courtyard and its reflecting pool, water plants, rock.

What's lacking, still, is my scheduling of a time in which to create. Here are the options I must chose from: before 5am on mornings when I work early, or after 9pm on days when I work late and D. can home to supervise S's homework. Neither is ideal, my desire to be a writer has joined forces with my impatience with my own whining and excuse-making. Besides, this post (which I started weeks ago) is a prime example of making due between the cracks of Life. I can write while S. is in rehearsal for one of the two orchestras in which she plays. I can write in bed (and have begun to do so almost every night). I can write after working out at the gym. And on those mornings when I don't work early.

Here's the street where the heroine of my novel lives in Aberystwyth, by the way. It's one of the spots I scouted out while there, and I found it after I had nearly given up on discovering the row of stucco houses closer to downtown that I'd imagined. But this works, I believe. Not a place she'd want to live forever, but good enough as a room to rent while she gets her feet under her.   

At the Airport Again, Bound for Tokyo

With all the travel I've done lately, it seems surreal that I'm about to get on a plane again for another (very long) flight, this time to Narita. It should be the most exciting trip of all this year, and in many ways it is - I keep having to pinch myself to believe it, and I'm so very grateful for this opportunity ,afforded to me by our Japanese clients and the owners of my company who have supported that relationship for the last ten years. But on the other hand, I haven't yet had the time and space to write about my big Wales adventure, or the amazing weekend I had in Colorado with my family (both adopted and biological). And whether I'll have time to do that kind of reflection and review while going to, or in, Japan is questionable. But hope springs eternal. And in the meantime, I'm taking mental and actual notes and lots and lots of pictures. October and November may be quite the months for retrospective travelogue writing.

Diplomacy dictates silence

Besides, no one wants to read a blog that's just a rant about first world problems every other day. But suffice it to say that while my personal life is going well, and most aspects of my professional life are highly satisfying, there are moments (sometimes several) some days (fewer than half) when I just frankly don't know how I got myself into this position. Golly. Going to bed grateful that tomorrow is Friday. Happy Friday Eve, and happy birthday Mark, and happy day after your birthday little Miss A. who is now 9.

Tomorrow I'm looking forward to the Rose Ceremony at S's school, a big tour of guests at work, and the dinner with friends in the evening. Tonight I'm looking forward to sleep.

Sept. 4th Live

I was asked to try the new masseuse at our Chiropractor's office at a special price. Am so glad I did. I cannot remember or even imagine being more blissed out by a massage. Wow. I wish I could say the total relaxation and sense of well-being lasted without interruption all day, but I did go to work after the massage, so...well...it didn't. But for the first time ever, I can see that it would be very wise (and *lengthen* my lifespan) to have regular massages. Never thought I'd feel that way!

Sept. 3 Retro

Here's the memo I made for myself on my smartphone to remind me September 3rd what I wanted to say about the day:

Work stress is probably shortening my life. There must be a better way.

Sept. 2 Retro

Here's the memo I made for myself on my smartphone to remind me September 3rd what I wanted to say about September 2nd:

I had such a massive to-do list for to-day and I nearly got it all to-done. Here are excerpts, in no particular order:
Study Japanese
Weed front yard
Weed back yard
Transplant grasses
Vacuum
Clean bathrooms
Clean bird cages
Clean kitchen floor
Laundry
Write condolence card
Emails to 5 different friends & colleagues
RSVP to party
Stats for work
Blog about trip
Work on Novel
Pledge paperwork for S's school
Organize laundry room
Switch girls' closets
In addition, I went to the gym.

Sadly, I saved the novel and blog for last and they were not crossed off my list at the end of the day.
That is not the best prioritization. But still, it felt good to get so much accomplished.

Sept. 1 Retro

Here's the memo I made for myself on my smartphone to remind me September 3rd what I wanted to say about September 1st:

I had a dream about a kids' video game/quiz that would be called, "Sit Down Town."

I think the title was to encompass the idea of kids sitting down and focusing but on something interesting the way "downtown" can be interesting.  The game was to be all about current world events, including horrible conflicts in the Middle East. There would be an option to update via a sync daily, so the kids could test their knowledge of how poorly human beings were treating each other, real time.

Even while part of my subconscious was plugging the concept, another part of my subconscious was thinking, "This will never fly. It's too intelligent and too dark. And the title doesn't quite work, either."

Three Days

Blessed with 3 days of not needing to go to work, but for some reason at the end of the first of these I am not feeling that lovely euphoric freedom that usually accompanies a long weekend. Is it because I didn't have a glass of wine tonight? How sad if so!

But on the other hand, I am very tired and very sleepy, and D. guesses it's because all week I'm wound up so tight that when I'm not faced with a heavy burden of work outside the home, I just collapse. Hmmm. But I look forward to what will be the biggest chunk of free time I'll have all month tomorrow and the day after. The second half of September promises to be very busy indeed. So I have time but this pressure to "make hay" as well!

Putting the Week to Bed

Nearly all week I worked 6am-6pm. This is not a boast. This is a confession of having already fallen back into the habit of thinking I need to do it all.

This three-day weekend, I will not be working, apart from the highly anticipated yard work, house work, writing, exercise, and catching up with friends. And maybe some genealogy. And studying Japanese. But that's it.

And I'll start by going to bed early. Writing this tiny blog post feels like the most important part of my day. Necessary and satisfying. That's the weight I am giving writing.

Here's a picture sent to me by one of my travel companions in Wales, Jerry. It's me, writing, at a place that has inexplicably huge meaning for me: Dinas Bran.

47 + 1

Today the course of a conversation required that I say out loud how old I am. It was the first time I'd done so. "47."

It sounds frighteningly close to "50" to me, and even though I know 50 is the new 40 - or younger! - I live with existential crises and morbid thoughts of mortality close enough at hand on a regular basis to feel a twinge of panic at the thought.

Not only have I clearly missed the opportunity to be much of a prodigy at anything, I am getting dangerously close to being behind schedule for even some kind of late-blooming life achievements. I don't really want to make Colonel Sanders be my benchmark for personal, professional or artistic success. I have a memory of my father using him as an example of someone making good after the age of 50 - he was 62 when he franchised KFC - but then again, my father was not a shining beacon of accomplishments either.

So I'm currently working close to half time (12 hours a day) and am also writing. Maybe only a little a day, but - say it with me - "incremental progress is progress."    
      

Birthday Post

I did not write a Birthday Poem, a la Dylan Thomas.
But I did check in to say :
still here, happy, working

There have been major ups and some significant downs of late, but I'm
happily working
happily here

Posting from the Eisteddfod

This represents the best wifi I've had in 10 days. So instead of spending a long time writing, I'm going to take advantage of the connection and only post a picture. Here's a shot from Wales.

First Welsh Weekend

It’s a good day when you’re awakened by the sound of sheep a few yards from your window, complaining about whatever sheep complain about at six a.m.

I suppose this wouldn’t always be the case, but if you happen to be sleeping in a three hundred year old farmhouse in North Wales, the sheep are a lovely alarm.

Our journey to the farmhouse was (at moments) stressful but (overall) uneventful. We’d landed a little ahead of schedule, and after grabbing bags, getting some of the local coin, and – for those of us with the need – purchasing some coffee, we headed to the National car rental location by way of a bus from the airport to “Car Rental Village.”

The weather was beautiful. It was likely in the upper seventies, and even with a little cloud cover, it could easily have been a July day in Northern California. After they’d issued us two snazzy Volvo’s (leather seats, bells, whistles and – we’re officially here! – left-hand drives, we waited briefly for the eight member of our group to join us. Susan was coming from Scotland, and intrepid traveler that she is, managed to get the train to the airport and the bus to the car rental and find us sans cell phone.

We drove to Chester, and while we’d hoped to get somewhere closer to the castle, ended up having lunch at The Boathouse, a restaurant on the River Dee. We had a lovely late lunch and then half the group started out for the farmhouse and Wales while the other half spent a few more minutes both seeing Chester and gathering some basic groceries, the fear being that the local grocer in Bala might close at 5pm.

I was in the group that left Chester first, and after a slightly harrowing trip along the fast, tight, winding road that the Garmin nav-sat suggested (which conflicted with the printed Google maps directions the restaurant staff had kindly printed for us), we made it to the house and met our hostess. I felt for Jerry, the driver, who was jet-lagged and driving on the wrong side down roads that would have been challenging even on the right side of the road and not after 14 hours of travel. 

But we arrived safely thanks to his skill, and after dropping off bags and settling in for a few minutes, headed into town to grab a bite and have a drink. We ran into a local woman sheering sheep in a field, and I couldn’t help but stop to take a picture. She had a son with her – maybe ten years old – and she was issuing instructions to him in rapid Welsh. I made my first foray into speaking the language by saying “Thank you again,” after snapping some shots, and she asked where we were from (“California!”) and asked why I spoke Welsh. I told her it was just an interest I had and she said, “Well, I’m a Welsh teacher, so that’s brilliant!” Lucky for me that this was my introduction into trying to put the hours of study to practice! She was used to hearing learners stumble through the words, no doubt.

We also passed by our comrades as they drove past on the way into town. They’d had a harder time of it from Chester, having been lost between Wrexham and Llangollen more than once, so they took a few more minutes to settle in before some of them joined us at the White Lion.

Those of us who’d been out walked back to the house in the warm night air under puffy high clouds made gloriously orange and pink by the sunset. The lake was beautiful, and I was in Wales.

Back at the house, exhaustion trumped jet lag. It was dark, though warm (we slept with the window open), and I slept well.

The second thing I was aware of in the morning, apart from the sheep, was the smell of coffee. I showered, had breakfast with those who were up, and after spending some time settling in, we had a morning writing session. Terry described the exercise of listening to excerpts of what some of our comrades were reading and then doing some free, or automatic, writing as “priming the pumps,” and all I can think is that my pumps are plenty primed.

After we wrote, we figured out what we could of getting wi-fi from the caravan park next door, and then headed a few yards down the road to the local narrow-gauge railway for a trip down the eastern side of Lake Bala. We arrived at the last stop, in Llanuwchllyn (there having been only one other, smaller, stop before that) and because we had about an hour and a half to spare, we walked through the town to the pub at the other end. Just past an old church and its nineteenth-century cemetery and graves, we converged upon The Eagle, where they were not serving food until they realized there were eight of us, and then they offered to do us some sandwiches. The choices were ham, cheese, shrimp or tuna on white or brown. (The “brown” was wheat.) Because the girl behind the counter had been speaking Welsh, and at the encouragement of my colleagues, I ordered my sandwich by asking for “caws” on “brown” with “dˆwr.”

We ate and walked back to the train, taking one of the windowless carriages as our own, with Terry asking how one would say it’s the “bards carriage” in Welsh. The local older woman who was manning the counter at the shop and café at the train station was unsure about “bard” and had to even ask for the word for “author” – (awdur). This even though she and her young red-haired assistant had been speaking rapid Welsh to one another!

The train ride back was pleasant, the sound of the cars rattling along the tracks putting one of our party to sleep. A few of the poets, led by Terry, played around with the rhythm (duh-duh-duh duh DUM, duh-duh-duh duh DUM) by saying, “We’re riding on the train, I hope it doesn’t rain, it’s such a lovely day, even though it’s not May. What else can we say?” etc.

Back at the house, some napped and some of us tried to access the internet yet again. I went for a walk along the lake and into town while a few people worked on making a lovely dinner of two whole chickens, salad, broccoli and (it turns out we all had some) wine. I took a picture of the table, it was that lovely, and asked if all the cooks would marry me.

After dinner, it was late enough for bed.  The bat that had come in during the night and crawled into a pocket inside Susan’s suitcase was released into the wild. We’d been told by the house owner that hundreds of bats would come out and fly around the house at night, and when one of us had asked where they lived, she’d said in the walls of the house! This makes more sense when you realize that the walls are three feet thick in some places.

After the excitement of ushering the bat out of Susan’s room was over – I missed that part of the action, as I was finishing the washing up of dishes - I scribbled then slept.

[If the internet connection were not so spotty, I'd be filling this post with pictures. As it is, I will have to fill in those pictures later, I suppose.] 

The Beginning

I’m writing this while on the plane to Atlanta, en route to Manchester airport and from there, to Wales. I’m listening to Antje Duvecot singing “Reasonland,” and thinking of two days ago when Clare and her beautiful family came over for dinner, and we hung out in the livingroom afterword, singing and playing instruments to and with one another. S. gave a bass recital of sorts – basically, she was practicing for orchestra camp, and it occurred to me that we should have company over more often. It encourages the basic practicing that should happen daily anyway!

But even if S. hadn’t picked up her bass and played for us – though I’m very glad she did! – it was amazing to have Clare and her daughter harmonizing together like angels, and to see both of the twins playing guitar. We had two guitars out. Clare played some Antje Duvecot songs – figuring out the chording as she went, because she’s that good. And we all sang “This Land is Your Land,” together, with those of us who could harmonizing. As I think back on it, I realize that the dads (D. and Tim) may have stepped out of the room for this display of old-time fun, but it just makes me so happy to know that there are still families in the world who sing together, and to know that we are not too self-conscious to be one of them. It makes me think of a nineteenth century salon, something that encourages the pursuit of art.

In contrast, here I am wearing blue ear buds that are connected to a Macbook Air, typing away and listening to iTunes. I’m not usually someone who is “plugged in” while on a plane, but I have the great fortune of no one in the seat next to me so I don’t feel as much as usual that someone might be looking over my shoulder, judging how I turn a phrase! And I’m writing. Writing! Something I hope to do for the next three weeks extensively. God willing I will have both endurance and inspiration enough to fashion some poems and re-write my novel. While studying more about Dylan Thomas, sightseeing, and working very hard to speak and understand as much Welsh as possible.

This scribbling on the plane, in fact, is a sign (to myself even if no one else ever reads this blog) of my commitment to write. I won’t be able to post this message until I’m back on the ground with internet access, but there’s no reason not to write it. I’ve had my nap and snack and now I’m hoping to stay awake for the balance of this flight (another hour, I believe) and then sleep on the next leg, over the Atlantic. We’ll arrive not long after noon local time – which I think is GMT + 1. But I slept little last night, and I’m sure the two hours I just drooled on myself from SFO to here were not too much to keep me from sleeping again soon. I tend to be rocked to sleep in moving vehicles of all kinds, anyway.

[tried to upload a picture of the view on the approach to Atlanta, but the wifi connection is not cooperating yet!]

Hello from SFO

Our dear friends Kate & Becca used to tease that "I'm at the airport" was code for needing to run away or check out. It was short-hand for admitting that it was time for a break.

Well, I'm at the airport. But surrounded by fellow travelers who are equally excited about this journey to Wales. And at the risk of seeming antisocial, I'm just posting this quick entry that the trip has begun! More soon...

testing...testing..

So this is a test of posting to my blog from my smart phone, if only to say that this time next week I'll be quite close to landing on Britsh soil.
 Hooray!

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...