Maybe

Two nights in a row of going to bed at 7:30. We'll see if I can't be fully well by Saturday. Especially because my dance card is full and there is no spot for waltzing with the flu. There are poems to send out, the novel to polish, Christmas pictures to print, a tree to get, and at least 2 social engagements on the calendar for the weekend.

Nope

Been fighting off a bug since Sunday. Determined to stay healthy. Even if it means every sentence written has an "I-understood" lack of Subjects for the grammarians out there. Don't have time to be sick!

Two Weeks to Christmas

And I've been asked a few times -  by well-meaning co-workers and chipper grocery cashiers, primarily - whether I'm all ready for the holidays. 

Um, no.

On the contrary. 

But apparently, no one is planning to postpone Christmas just because I'm busy and it has snuck up on me with even more sneaky yuletidy stealth than usual. So tonight I took down the string of orange lights that was on the house (Halloween did not sneak up on me) and put up the cold white LEDs. I have Christmas cards, but no pics of the kids picked out or printed. I have about 4 presents, mostly stocking-stuffers. And I have the consciousness that in two weeks we'll have a tree and presents and the other trappings of the holiday. Surely that counts for something. 

Maslow Was Onto Something

I really do agree with Maslow's hierarchy of needs. In spite of my previous post wherein I spouted the importance of lofty things in one's life, the reality is that it's the rare soul who can focus on the betterment of humanity and the spiritual benefits of good poetry or art while suffering from cold feet and eyelids that weigh more than Maslow himself.

Which perhaps is a cop-out for why I am not writing a witty or insightful post tonight. I'm sleepy and Sonoma County is (at least by Northern California standards) bone cold this month, and dark at 2 in the afternoon. I am still struggling to be gone for work for fewer than 12 hours each day. I realize these are first-world problems. Even as I write them, I am abashed. Where is my discipline? My backbone?

S. is completing applications for a local Waldorf High School, and among the questions on the forms is a prompt to use three words to describe her. Discipline comes to mind. Determination. Focus. Maybe even ambition. The girl knows what she wants, and she wants what she wants, and she doesn't want substitutions. I think this is less a millennial attribute than it is a second-born Leo trait. If one believes in such things. Regardless, even while I pray that she cultivate more empathy, humility and flexibility, I envy her vision and drive.

Speaking of which, time to pick her up from Chamber Orchestra rehearsal!

Success

I was ready to go to bed by 8pm tonight but stayed up to help S. complete an essay for school on "success" in particular as it pertained to Edison and Tesla. She was so so so tired and really required some help to rally, but she made it. It's not the best thing she's written, but it's done.

You've got to love any essay that starts by saying that success can mean so many things, from fame or fortune to getting married or adopting a puppy "or, in my case, finishing this essay on time."

I consider it a successful day if I have solved problems at work, helped customers and staff alike without too many of either being left by the wayside, and have also written, exercised, spent time with my family and done at least some of the household chores. That's a successful day. But days like that piled on top of each other may not add up to a successful life. The missing factor for me is reflection and clear vision, expressed in thought or poetry. If I die and the customers have all been helped, my body is toned, the dishes are done, the blog has been posted and my family is happy and healthy - well, it'll have been an acceptable life. Maybe even a somewhat worthy life. But not, I don't feel, one with deeper purpose or true success. It will not have really served the more important goal of having left the world better in any real way.

The irony is that by spending my time succeeding in the above small victories, I have no free hours to accomplish the greater ones. And here I am writing about reflection instead of stepping away to reflect. Ha! Silly me.

Anchors Away

The company Christmas party was last night: a four-hour tour on the San Francisco bay in a Hornblowers Yacht with two or three floors of parties happening (our group occupied only one). It was probably in the low thirties when we walked from our hotel (the Hyatt at the Embarcadero) to our boat, glammed up but freezing. The boat had a live band that did eighties covers, which meant that even though it was as loud as any band and difficult to hear apart from the bass and high notes, I knew every song. We didn't dance - we never do - but we did enjoy good food and good conversation at a table with other wall flowers. After 15 years at the company, I have known so many of the other senior employees for so long, there's a comfortable familiarity there, and we really did have a very enjoyable evening. The Bay Lights installation was amazing (and one can re-watch the pattern at their web site). The walk back was even colder but a hot bath cured my oncoming frost-bite.

We'd kenneled the dog and S. had been at a friends, so we'd left the birds and rabbit in a house with no heat. While S. and I saw the Nutcracker matinee (a different cast for Clara, Snow and Rose), D. brought the house up from the 46 degrees he found it in. It's supposed to get to the 20s tonight, so we finally pulled out a space heater as well.

I'd come home cold, tired and hungry - a dangerous combination that led to pizza (which I hadn't had for months) a glass of chardonnay, and a "nap" on the red couch that lasted all night. The household chores and cleanup I'd wanted to do were left undone, and I just pray for a productive evening tomorrow, after a full day of work !

Post Early, Post Often

Back at my Saturday Starbucks while S. has rehearsal for Rep. Orchestra, in between trips to the bank and getting gas and a birthday present for a 14 year old ("Anything Iron Man, Mom. Trust me.")

A young barista has admired the Torchwood symbol and my laptop, and we've chatted about Dr. Who. At first I was flattered that he assumed I'd be hip about the series. Then I admitted that while I'd followed Torchwood, I was not caught up on Dr. Who. And I admitted that the laptop had been my daughter's. "I figured," he said. My feeling of being flattered was replaced by disappointment. Oh well. Maybe I can't pass for hip after all.

I seem to be having a hard time focusing at all these last couple of days. It's like my brain is, well, jumpy, and won't settle.  I'm anxious and scattered and worst of all, I don't know why. Maybe it's pre-holiday stress starting to bubble up, or nervousness about the company party tonight.

My mother's mother used to tell a sorry about my brother Andy's childhood tendency of excitability. He'd run to my parents, this little red-haired freckled boy wild about something he found terribly interesting. He'd be bursting to share whatever it was, his little face lit up with excitement. My father would invariably say somewhat crossly, "Now, simmer down. Simmer down." And once my brother's spirits had been sufficiently quashed, Dad would apparently say, "Now, what did you want to tell us?" And by then, Andy would just mutter, "Nevermind."

My grandmother told this story as an illustration of the faults of my father, I think. And to express how it broke her heart and, she thought, deeply affected my brother. I get that. I feel that life often takes the thrill out of us, making us learn that there's something wrong with enthusiasm.

So while I wouldn't want something like my father's voice telling my brain to "simmer down," I do wish I could channel Pema Codron for a day or two.

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.