Whew

Christmas is over.

I can't say I'm sorry. I know this sounds like a scrooge but I'm not a big fan of christmas on the whole. Somehow, the tidings of good peace and good news get lost when I'm trampled at my grocery store when I duck in to buy a single gallon of milk. Everyone is in such a good mood, the retail stores hire extra secrurity to keep people from "sharing" all their good fortune.

I actually rebelled this year against Christmas for more than just being mean-spirited. I really wanted to see if I could coast through the season and do things that were meaningful to me and those I love -- instead of being driven through the season on a tide of unrealistic expectations and ridiculous credit card bills.

I'm happy to report, that I was successful on both counts.

Of course, the leak in the garage and utility room did put a damper on some of my holiday cheer. Actually that is incorrect. The $900 repair bill to the plumber who had to work all day pounding on the house foundation to repair the leak is what really took some fun out of an otherwise interesting holiday experience.

I put my tree up on Dec 23, a good month (almost) later than usual. And you know what? I didn't enjoy it a bit less. In fact, I may have enjoyed it more, because my entire family actually helped me to decorate instead of the one-man (or woman) show that traditionally happens.

And the gifts? Well, there were less of them this year, that's true. Not necessarily because of less money but simply a desire to give to those that I love and to find new ways to give to others outside of just the one month blitzkrieg. I made a decisioin to start volunteering at a local agency that serves families in some very important ways. If I'm pumped about anything for the new year, it is the ability to use what I know about parenting to assist others.

I guess what I'm saying is that the idea of a holiday is so much bigger than one day or one week or one month. I guess what I'm trying to do is to find that spirit, that spark, that makes life meaningful and worthwhile for more than just while the eggnog is fresh. I find this idea -- the idea of revolting against the "cult of busy-ness" a particularly worthwhile endeavor. The ideas of chasing peace over prosperity, giving of oneself instead of giving another gift, the idea of finding meaning in a world that doesn't always make a lot of sense.

And, I must add here that I am above all and more than most, blessed beyond measure in ways that I too often take for granted. That leak that wrecked my mood early in December? The way I see it, at least I have a house to repair! And the fact that I could take only a few days off for being with those I care about? At least I have a job and income! There are so many wonderful things that I have been given, graces that I hardly noticed at times.

In the new year, I'm opting for less this year. Less stress, less complaining, less worry and less obsessing over things that simply won't matter in a year or two. Something about the middle of life that lets you know the clock is ticking and wasting time on things of small matter is more than a waste of time, it's a waste of heart and soul. Give that time (and heart and soul) to something -- or someone -- that truly matters.

So, as christmas's go, I'll give it about a 6. Lots of room to grow in peace this year.

Meeting John Grisham

John Grisham was in T-Town today picking up the Peggy Helmrich award which has been awarded to some of my favorite authors including Joyce Carol Oates, Margaret Atwood even Neil Simon. I had to watch him from in the alcove, my nose right in the fake evergreen decorations that lined the railing. I was hoping for a signed autograph but he was whisked away immediately following the question and answers.

I found him charming in that genteel southern way that is both enduring and protective. I was somewhat inspired by the fact that of his 18 books published 17 were published by Doubleday who originally passed on his first book, " A Time To Kill", which was rejected by a senior editor there. He said what I hear most writers say, "real writing is in the revisions" and "writing takes discipline and routine", and my personal favorite, "rejection is a part of it".

He also made a couple of statements that I found encouraging. One was, "most great writers are great readers". I think the very reason one writes is because they have been so touched by others who have written.

April 5, Sue Kidd, author of several works will be here.

The deed is done, 50,276 words!

It's done! My first novel -- written, thanks to the good folks at Nanowrimo. I am so excited.

Knowing that a well written novel is not that same thing as a written novel, I am taking the advice of those more experienced than I which means that I am leaving all 80 pages (!!!) in my files for a couple of weeks and then I'll go and start the real process of writing which is the rewriting.

For now, I'm going to sit in the glow of getting this done. This is an awesome feeling.

38,000 words and other such fun

I'm watching David Letterman, my 2nd favorite show in all the world. OK, third...my first being my newly developed addiction to Law and Order (all versions). Next is Jon Stewart and then is David Letterman. I'm ecstatic to report that Oprah will be on the "Superbowl of Love" on Dec 1, really, it's true. Yes, Letterman, after 16 years of paying penance for his bungle of the Academy Awards -- who can forget the amazing, "Oprah - Uma" debacle -- Oprah is finally coming on the show.

I'm a little upset though on the recent phenomenon that I see with all the ads on television. I didn't think too much about Dylan advertising Victoria's Secret. And I turned a blind eye when car companies used songs that I earned good money bagging groceries (a week's salary!) to hear at the OKC Myriad. I guess I didn't think too much about the marketing approach...but that was then and this is now.

Who the HECK suggested that Target would use "Boogie Wonderland" to advertise some of theire retro/shlick ads this season? I'll admit to some heavy metal and I'll come clean on some ELO (which was used for something I saw the other day). But "Boogie Wonderland"? What self-respecting middle age shmuck is going to sit there and dance out to that innane melody while watching seasonal ads for Target? Not me.

It's bad enough that my kids turn to me and ask me, "what song IS THAT?" when Chrysler or "zoom zoom" advertises their stuff? And I admit, it's pretty deft to see that the marketing execs have finally figured out that most of us in this generation listened to more music than we read anything? It's bad enough to see music legends being reduced to advertising pansies and I draw the line at being pandered to with "Boogie Wonderland". I'm initiating a one week personal boycott of my local Target for stooping this low.

Are you with me? I say forget about it if Target has Starbucks and other designer goods. This new gimmick is as bad as that creepy Burger King man. They must go!

34,000 words - we're almost there

My "novel" is now at 34,000 words and I'm ecstatic. I find that working my job, family aroundmy writing really can be done -- I am more of a sprinter, though, doing a 30 minute write several times a day instead of one long sit down. That's also how I work in my job, too, so that must be a rhythm that works for me.

I have been reading along with writing, the memoir "Million Little Pieces". I think reading is an important part of writing, without it, I wouldn't have moments of abject disappointment in realizing that my novel may never approach the brilliance of another. Seriously, writing and reading are two pieces of the same puzzle and they build on each other. Reading a great book only inspires me to want to write more -- not less - so it's a good way to feed the muse when you're going for word count.

I'd like to say something about this book because it is a profound experience for me. The thing about great writing is that it can be viewed on so many levels. The part of this book that resonates so much with me is the author's dogged determination for healing from addictions. There is a scene in the book where he must undergo painful dentistry (is there any other kind??) and he must do it without any kind of painkillers or anesthia since he is in rehab. This is a graphic piece in the book and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone that has a squemish stomach (or has nightmares of their dentist).

What is profound to me about this scene is the willingness to which the author subjected himself so that he could find wholeness and healing. Literally being strapped into a dentist chair, with no anesthia and no painkillers while he undergoes two root canals.

The reason this book has such a profound impact upon me is that I talk to people everyday who claim that they want their lives to be different, that they want it to change 0r they want to change. I often say that, too, and yet I have to ask myself, am I willing to undergo the transforming power of change to get there? Change generally happens when there is only enough pain to force the change to occur and generally not until (speaking personally).

I have to admit, I probably am not and the courage to which the author applies to the process of health and wholeness is inspirational to me.

The book offers a profound insight into addictions of all kinds and I am more convinced than ever that most of us, including myself, have our own "drug of choice" to which we are faithful.

I am not sure yet if I agree with all the authors premises or if I agree with him totally on his position on God or a "higher power". I do think the book offers some interesting questions for those that are courageous enough to ask them about the power of change, the power of healing and what we do to find these transforming qualities and what we do to avoid them.

Nanowrimo...crossing the great divide

For those waiting in anticipation (hi, mom!) I have now crossed the threshold...am at 32,000 words.

I actually am doing it! A life long dream of getting a novel, getting the "bones" on cyber-paper. I cannot begin to tell you what a great feeling this is for me!

My characters continue to morph and change in front of me. I didn't see the relationship between my protagonist and her neighbor. I didn't know that there would be a murder right smack dab in the midst of the first half of the book. And I have no clue what the ending will look like yet, but the structure is there.

I owe a lot to Jordan, my friend/mentor/editor at large is the fact that she has really guided me in this process. She suggested the outline, she reminded me about nanowrimo when I had almost decided that writing was just a thing I'd do "someday".

I'm not writing an acceptance speech here, but it feels great to get off center, to face a fear of a blank screen and just move foward. Yeah!

I celebrated today by going all out -- bought a book from A BOOKSTORE...no amazon, no library, just plunked down my cold hard hard earned cash and bought it. I feel like such a groupie, too, because I bought "Million Little Pieces" by James Frey. I always feel like a bit of a cheat whenever I buy an "Oprah's book club" piece, because it feels so "trendy". Actually, though what attracted me to this book was the prose, I picked it up before it was "christened" as an Oprah pick and read the first chapter and was hooked then, thought I'd wait for it at my library but bit the dust on it today.

This weekend, I plan to write another 15,000 words and be finished (I can't believe I'm saying this -- ) MY FIRST DRAFT.

And, before I get too cocky, I should remind myself that writing is rewriting and that the real work has not even begun yet.

16,000 words and counting

I just passed 16,000 words on my novel for Nanowrimo. How is that an outline can be rattling around in your head for months, years and a simple goal -- that of simply putting words on a paper/screen -- can create things that you never knew were there.

My characters seem to be taking on their own lives. One of them just murdered another one of the characters (and I kinda like that character so it was kind of sad). Funny, she didn't seem like a murderer when I first met her..

And so it goes..now I understand better when I hear a writer talk about their work how characters do emerge from their imagination and begin to live lives that are discovered as each word builds on the next.

I have no illusions that my novel is anything but a learning exercise, that it is a story that most in the writing world might look and give a chuckle. Hey, that' s OK...just getting this far is a huge step for me and I look forward to seeing what my novel turns out to be. This is fun, plain and simple.

November Novel Writing Month

I'm in the run for the annual NaNoWriMo http://www.nanowrimo.org/ this year. Last year, I found out about it too late, but a great writer friend of mine reminded me! The idea is to write an entire novel in one month...no editing, just writing. This is a great way to get past the "what do I write about" stuff and so far I've already got over 5,000 words (50,000 words needed). My goal is to have 10,000 words by the end of the weekend.

Because of this and other writing goals, I probably won't post much, but I'll let you know when I ass the finish line.

The Spirits in the Sounds

I remember being warned by well meaning, devout people that spirits lived in some forms of music. I remember being told that certain songs, when played backwards, gave homage to spirits that are evil.

I think they are wrong. I think that all music has some spiritual connection and that, on certain fall days - or any days -- a song, a soundtrack can touch me in ways that nothing else can.

I was out today on deliveries, while the trees snapped with color and the smell of fall was everywhere. I am listening to the "Elizabethtown" soundtrack and the sense of journey was so present in those moments that I yearned for the road to take me wherever it may.

There is a sense during Fall - the season of transition that calls out to me for change and renewal. And yet, deeper still, is the call of something that is unchanging, for something that never changes. Those two tensions evident in the changing of the leaves and the pursuit of traditions and holidays, make this a time of year that is perfect for reflection.

I am taking a few days off this week after a hectic schedule. Today, I luxuriated in an afternoon nap and felt not the least bit guilty. I read for hours, listened to music and then reluctantly, did a few things that had to be done, like those deliveries. And yet, even in that sense, I was enjoying the drive, enjoying the thoughts and promises of new things to come.

I see the changes in my children as they play basketball and finish homework. They are real people now, with lives that don't always include me. I find that fact both refreshing and terrifying, that someone whose once existence depended upon me is now happily eating Cheetos with friends, playing video games, not even considering me in the least. Such is the life of a parent when Cheetos is a higher priority than mom or dad.

And yet I find great satisfaction in this, too. Like a sense of "hey, we did it. we raised somewhat normal, adaptive human beings -- all from a few things found around the house." There is a sense that we're at a wonderful crossroads that will yield both new things and new directions.

What I'm reading

http://www.rillaaskew.com/works.htm

I picked up "Fire in Beulah" by Rita Askew at a weekend conference. I was drawn to the book because of Rita, who I heard speak at a writers conference at University of Tulsa. The book is about the Tulsa Race Riots and although the story is fiction, the historical aspect is not. As I'm reading the book I see the streets and parts of Tulsa that are all too familar for me which allows the book to resonant with me in a special way. I'm excited to have briefly met Rita (she signed my book for me).

But what makes this encounter truly special is that I shared the book with my 15 year old daughter who has been studying the Race Riots in school. It was very special to be able to give my daughter the view that this really did happen and there are people who researched it etc. It gave my daughter a sense of reality that perhaps is missed from textbook lectures.

I could say more about the conference, but I'm still mulling it all over. I'll try to write more on it later. It was a fabulous experience for me, but that sounds so trite, doesn't it?

Fall weekend happenings

I just returned from shopping in my small Okie town. We are now officially on the map since we have an Old Navy, Pier 1, Target and a plethora of other fine shopping establishments in our small town. 20 years ago, this town was a corn field. Now Starbucks has taken up permanent residence so civilization is here to stay.

I'm elated, though, at more than having twenty stores within a five mile radius of my home. Something amazing has happened, I am now a full 2 sizes smaller than I was this time last year. It was not necessarily intentional but a fair amount of energy has gone into wondering how I, someone who has never had a weight problem, had ballooned up to a double digit size. Once last year, I walked past a mirror and shrieked. I thought I had seen my mother through a window, but it was just me in the mirror. That's when I knew something had to change.

My mother is a beautiful woman, but who grows up saying, "I want to look JUST LIKE my mom??" Not me. I still see myself as a skinny, smart, dweeby kid. The last two adjectives still fit, the first one...not so much.

I started thinking what could have caused this weight loss (since I'm always looking for a way to make a buck, who knows?) but I couldn't come up with much. I have traded in my boxing gloves for walking shoes and instead of kickboxing twice a week on lunch hours, I walk every morning at least one mile. This is not a nature walk but a survival skill....I detest everything there is about mornings, so having an objective upon awakening is a good thing. After stumbling around in a coma, starting the tea or coffee brewing, I hit my residential street in somewhat of a foul mood. By the time I return from walking, though, I'm a civil human being and somewhat able to face the world (more or less).

The other thing, is a strict schedule that I've imposed upon myself. Like an athlete that is stretching towards the next level, I have been attempting to stretch outside of my comfort zone in my own business, which means sticking to a more rigorous schedule. I've been working with a business coach and when asked to adhere to the schedule I originally though, "no problem." I'd been doing this work for 13 years and felt like I was working. But we are all masters of deception and I am the Queen of Self Deception and found that I was THINKING about working far more than I was actually working (a common problem in Self Employment Land) This weekend marks a halfway mark through this exerices (120 days) and I am rewarding myself by taking a few days off, attending a writer's conference and most of all, spending time with my kids on fall break.

I like the metaphor of the corporate athlete a lot and have been inspired for some time by the book "The power of full Engagement" by Tony Schwarz. A lot of what is shared in that book has been somewhat revolutionary for me. I am learning the power of nurturing what fills me (especially since I'm a hard core introvert in a line of work that is people-rich -- and not always people-friendly). Writing, yoga, walking, taking time is as important or more so for those of us who may push hard for big goals. I think it's far too easy to forget that and feel that we just must redouble efforts and push harder. That, I have found, is a sure fire map to Burnout, USA and I'd prefer not to visit there much.

So, the realization that I'm enjoying a splendid fall weekend with the things and people that I love -- and have dropped two dress sizes -- is definately a time to celebrate.

Pass the chocolate cake.

Elizabethtown

http://www.elizabethtown.com/home.html

"Elizabethtown" hits so many points that it almost feels like two movies, hinged together.

The movie transports me back to the ruckus in my great grandmother's kitchen with goofy cousins and old men and the yearning to be a part of this chaos, this family and know that you are not and that you may never be.

The movie transports me to times when success was all that mattered and failure was non-negotiable.

The movie transports me to times when the long journey ahead offered no company, no calm, nothing but grief and the "deep melancholy of what all this means". (quote from film).

To say I liked this movie is to say I like chocolate -- which is true but not fully. I LOVED this movie..I loved the simplicity of it, the music and the way it dealt with the themes of death, failure and renewal in straightfoward ways.

What I loved most is that it resists temptation to spiral down into maudalin themes of "home folk" and the such. It doesn't offer a lot of answers because, I believe, the answers lie in the journey which we each take and with which we each see differently. "We all have different versions of him" was one of the many great one-liners that permeate the film.

I can't wait to get the soundtrack and relive it.

What does a Marching band have to say about leadership..?

After a long day of traveling, teaching I drove to Arlington, TX to see my son and his High School Marching Band ("The Pride of Owasso"!) compete in the Regional Finals. Somewhere between when I graduated from High School and my kids entering High School, marching bands have transformed themselves from two-bit half-time shows into first class entertainment and high art. The pudgy baton twirler has been given up for the acrobatic flag corp, marching has been morphed into athleticism and John Phillip Sousa has been discard and movie scores have been added. I never imagined I'd hear "Fly Like an Eagle" on a football field. I cannot imagine what that means for those of us who rocked out to Foreigner, Tim Nugent and Meatloaf. When one's youthful music becomes fodder for the high school marching band, I think it means only one thing -- you be old.

It was the perfect transition from focused teaching to coming home to a new week. My mind was treated to visuals that are unmatched. And it got me thinking..

What happens on the marching field between the confusion of transition to the neat form lines and that of a perfect one-two step? What happens between the movements from bold brass to soft flutes? What happens between the note and the silence?

What does this art form teach me about my world? So many things. For one, art is so needful in a rough and tumble world. It soothes, it jolts, it focuses, it comforts. It makes life rich and soulful. The more techy we become, the more I believe art wraps us in meaning and in truth.

Next, it teaches me that life is one of contrasts and textures. Brass played long and hard is simply tedious. Add the cadence of percussion, the visual of a waving flag, the form becomes a message, a phrase lived, a story rich with meaning.

It also teaches me that life is richer simply because of these contrasts. The line on the field may dissolve into confusion, then resolve itself into neat formations that could not be formed if the disruption of the band had not thrown itself into chaos. Confusion before clarity.

And it teaches me that silence is not to be feared. It is the pause, the moment before harmony, the moment before movement.
Regional Finals, Arlington, TX

Justice

My hope in televised programming has been restored -- "The Simple Life" has been cancelled. I don't have to see Paris Hilton turning her nose up at washing dishes or taking out the trash. What a relief.

More room for the good stuff...more room for "Law and Order" reruns.

Fall Clean Up

It began with a simple wish -- I just wanted more room in my closet. After several trips to Goodwill, where I left who knows how many boxes of clothes, shoes and other such truck and days of cleaning and vacuuming and cleaning some more, my house is now unreocognizable.

Can a simple wish change a life? I've reorganized my personal closet and getting it ready for painting. I've cleaned out bookshelves, transformed my dining room into a room that I'd actually enjoy eating in. I'm tuckered out and ready for a good dinner and a nap.

It's strange to think that I can go through my life in a semi-coma state, not really noticing where things accumulate, that I can't find my shoes, that I seem to be missing something. Maybe it's me missing from my harried, scattered life.

A few days with a vacuum cleaner in tow, I've taken out bags of garbage, bundled up old books (I'll go through those later and figure out what I really want....and I've sworn off Amazon for a bit...I've got a great library just a ways down the road and a new library card -- any book I want is within a day or two away and its FREE!).

The seeds for this were laid a few weeks ago when I started making space for things meaningful in my life and for getting rid of things that are just worn out and past their time. During this military operation (my husband and kids ducked out and would return from time to time to see if the coup were still in operation)...I found some real treasures...photos of my kids that I had forgotten, things made by my grandmother that I'll never throw away, books that I had missed.

My office and home are once again a refuge, peaceful and clean. What's more, very little of it was purchased new..mostly it was digs from around the house, moved around, cleaned up made useful once again.

My mind is still whirring away on ideas for new color in the bedroom and ways in which I'll use the new space cleared out with all this cleaning madness. But for now it is just a refreshing feeling. Wood that is clean, floors that are sparkling and a closet that I can truly walk into and find things. I don't want to press the metaphor but it is almost a spiritual feeling -- a sense of a newness that is ordered, neat and purposeful.

Soul Food

www.route-66-diner.com

I didn't intend to take the whole day off. It was just a lunch with Dan but there's no way I can return to work now. Not after those cinnamon rolls. Not after the lunch I just packed away.

The Route 66 Diner is located, not surprisingly, in Tulsa's Route 66 district. Fresh bread is made everyday and eating it is a spiritual experience. This is the kind of bread that should be served in churches, although the yeast thing would drive some of my holier-than-thou friends nuts. (note -- did you know that the whole thing with yeast in the bible is the idea that sin causes us to go outside our boundaries, like dough rising, hence the whole unleavened thing. After today's bread, I say, what kind of a God wouldn't eat bread like this???) I remember when I was a kid, eating my grandmother's baking and I would find myself humming, the food was that good. As I sat today in the cool autumn air, finishing off a slice (more like a a slab) of that great bread I felt like that kid again, coming in after playing outside, eating something that was both soulful and sinful.

After the lunch I couldn't focus, couldn't concentrate. I indulged other appetites. I stopped by the library and checked out two new authors. I stopped by my favorite florist and found candles and I am content this afternoon, in the lingering scent of fig/olive and the remains of a cinnamon roll to simply loll through the afternoon.

Girl at Cafe

I'm sitting here at a local restaurant stop and I have given myself a 30 minute window to write for 30 minutes. I people watch and I see this lady sitting near me and I want to write about her...she is reading a very large book, it looks like a bible and my mind goes to work on all the assumptions that I have about someone that would read their bible in a coffee shop over their lunch hour. They are not good assumptions, I'm afraid and I am embarressed by my own cynicism. I feel guilty so I ask her, "what are you reading". Maybe she knows what I'm thinking? So I try to be nice, to assuage my guilt in some tangible way. She smiles up at me and says, "The book of Matthew" and I cringe. I am torn between two very distinct possibilities -- either I play dumb, like someone who has never read the bible for myself or I try to disarm her with intellectual questions. I find I am a bit put off by her saying, "the book of matthew" in such a matter of fact way. What if I was someone who just landed on earth and didn't know what a bible was? What is the book of Matthew? Why would one read it..? Who is Matthew? Why did he write a book..??? My questions start and I am again, feeling very sad that I am so cynical of someone who clearly is having a great time. I'm getting all worked up for truly no real reason.

She then says, "reading the bible helps me stay calm"? Oh yeah? I am tempted to say, just to be crass "I feel the same way when I take a Tylenol PM late at night?" Should I say, "what do you need to be calm about?" or do I just let it go? So many questions, so little time.

I find it is times like this that my sad bias towards those that would read their bibles in broad daylight astounds even me. I wonder, "was I ever that smug?" Did I ever have a time in my life when I had so many answers? Probably. And that's exactly what is bothering me, I think.

I am bothered by my lack of answers on faith and the cosmos. I am bothered by my lack of faith in so many things. I am most of all bothered that I can create this whole scenario about a poor girl who just is trying to find some peace at her lunch break. Symbols are powerful things and there are few things more symbolic to a recovering fundamentalist than a big bible. I have this theory, the bigger the bible, the smaller the mind.

None of this is fair, I realize. I am reacting to 40 years plus of brain wiring that has suddenly, at age 40, come unwired, blown a fuse, or whatever the technical, electrical terms would be here.
40 years of bible toting, bible banging, bible-throw-it-down-your-throat-until you puke. I have become innoculated, unable to read it myself for the sheer emotion that seeing a bible brings to me. I have become, comfortably numb in this post-faith state that I find myself in these days.

I want a God that is so big that he/she/it cannot be understood and that I can spend the rest of my life ponidering the many things about it/him/her. I don't want pat answers. I'm tired of cliches. Don't give me a 3-point sermon or 7 steps to anything. I want to think, to ponder, to reflect. Most of all I don't want to spend time with those that live in bi-color -- black or white-while I dabble in the deepest recesses of gray.

I've been thinking a lot about the hurricane survivors. I've been thinking about how hard it is to start a new life.

I know that my life cannot be in any compared to their lives -- lives of upheaval, suffering and renewal. Yet I cannot help but think about the themes that run through all our lives, the themes of courage and the will to start again.

Mostly what I have are questions. Questions such as:

1 - Why do some people stay?
2 - Why do some people go?
3 - What attitudes keep people/us/me stuck in places that will never be the same again?
4 - What attitudes allow people/us/me to move forward with lives after all has been lost?
5 - Why do some people insist on trying to recreate that which can never be again?
6 - What kind of loss is there in standing and fighting? What is gained?
7 - What kind of losses are there in moving into a life that is new?

I watched the Truman Show over the weekend and I think this movie has a lot to say about recreating one's life. At some point we each have our own limit that we must move on...but how do you do that? What is the cost? What is to be gained? Each of these questions must be answered individually, they cannot be answered en masse.

I read this quote today from "Fearless Creating" and it seems to fit these questions:

"Not many men are prepared to face the challenge of themselves, to assume the full responsibility for thier own existence. Rank concluded that there were three levels or styles of response to this self-challenge;

the first, and most common, was simply to evade it;
the second was to make the effort of self-encounter, only to fall back in confusion and defeat (the person arrested in his creative development this way Rank called the 'artist-manque');

the third, and much the least common, was that of carrying the confrontation through to self-acceptance and "new birth". These three attitudes or approaches correspond to Rank's three types o fhuman character: the "average" or adapted man, content to swim adjustively and irresponsibly with the tide; the "neutortic" type, discontented alike with civilization and hiimself; and the "creative", the twice-born (as represented in the ideal types of Artist and Hero) -- at peace with himself and at one with others."

What is really illuminating to me is that in most christian literature the idea of "twice-born" is not at all a new concept, and yet it rarely has been connected to that of creativity. Go into many churches and what you see is bland uniformism. Creativity creates anxiety it seems in most of these places. And yet creativity, that of imagining and sustaining a new life is the most creative of all endeavors, yes?

Memoirs of a Writing Group Newbie

I arrived late, relieved to see there were fewer present than the week before. My newly put together "writing backpack" that has my journal, my laptop and all things writing. Kind of a writing costume, I guess, for this new part of the journey.

I tried to not show how intimidated I am, how strange it felt to be with others that just want to write and do it well. I thought of my essay, tucked into my bag, wondered when -- of if -- I'd get it out.

After writing exercises, which I finished early, a sure sign that I have no idea what I'm doing, I drew curly-ques in my margins, just so I'd look busy.

Then, time came for reading original work. In a moment of adrenaline rush, I volunteer, mostly just to get it over with.

I heard my voice and heard my words, which is wierd since most of writing is done in the interiors of the crevices of ones head. I felt sweaty, kind of sick, ready to go.

I finished and fidgeted a bit, having more quesiness in my stomach than I ever remembered. But I had done it.

Time for comments from the group. I looked at my feet, breathing heavy.

I remembered a few of their comments - mostly all kind and reassuring. But the real triumph is having the courage to create something and then share it. And have it received.

The Fickle Gardner

I stooped this morning with the late summer sun beating my back. In spite of my jug of tea, my mouth was dry, thirsty. I cursed the bermuda with its long zipper-like tendrils growing literally over my everygreen shrubs, hiding them, concealing them, draping them in its green arms.

At spring break, I was out here toting hoes and garden tools ready to embark on this new journey. My plans were clear, my faith secure, my heart open to the beauty that would soon be mine. As I went about my work, I marveled at the spring miracles and each new leaf, each new bud was a thing to be celebrated.

Now, after weeks of sapping 100 degree heat, I look at my garden from the cool of my porch and say, "Maybe tomorrow I'll go into the garden."

It's not that I don't love my garden. It's just that it hasn't quite realized my original expectations for it. The weeds,particularly the bermuda grass, continue to plague me. Each day I have weeded only to see more weeds the next day. Did I miss some warning in a garden magazine: NOTE: Weeding bermuda actually creates more bermuda. Forget your high-minded ecology. Just spray the stuff and be done with it.

There exist big gaping holes in my garden border where I thought there would be color. I understand now where I should have planted a shrub and should not have. The pavers that I worked so hard to level now appear as if a small earthquake has shaken them from their original space. Moles have feasted on the grubs and have made my clean-lined path look like something from a Dr. Seuss book, all lopsided and topsy-turvy.

I lamented the holes from some unknown pest that has devoured my sweet potatoe plants. I languished at the sight of my pond, scummy and green. The bright left over blooms of my roses aren't as alluring as I picked off the spent blooms and brushed them under the plants.


Whereas before I jubilantly looked forward to each new day, the heat and the weeds and the bugs have taken their toll on my passion, made me cautious, stand offish. I don't drop by as much to see the objects of my affection. I don't bring it new friends or water it like I should.

Like a fickle lover, I dodge my responsibility, play coy.

I'm like the bride who, after the honeymoon, is upset to discover that her new husband would really rather watch ESPN than "The Notebook". What really did I expect? That my garden would have no weeds? That my roses wouldn't wilt from the Oklahoma heat? That my pond wouldn't need cleaning out after months of standing in the piercing sun?

Yesterday a friend gave me a copy of one of my favorite gardening magazines. I sadly took it and laid it on my table, next to my unwritten novel and the books I've been meaning to read. I leafed through it but had to put it down, the pain was too great. It was like reading a Harlequin after just filing for divorce.

Four years ago I began in earnest to create this illusion drawn from the pages of glossy photos that seduced me mind, body and soul. In the throes of such passion, I did not stop and think about watering requirements, drainage needs, sunlight hours. My heart was set on some eden-like moments, where I would walk through my lovely garden and point out the objects of my affection, like a boy at the prom with his beautiful date. It was all about appearances and ego.

Now, four years later and in the throes of a late summer heatwave, my daylillies need dividing, my grasses are a mess and my roses need deadheading. I wonder through this garden of mine like a lover betrayed. I'm jealous of its lackluster blooms. I'm weary from its incessant needs. How could it need this much work? Where is the beauty that I thought would be mine? Where is the joy that I first knew?

I have on my desk a photo of my garden from four years ago. In it, the water birch is tiny, hardly able to be seen. There is no pond and no pergola. No roses, no shrubs. Only a small
dark ribbon of fresh earth where my dreams warmed in the pale spring sun. The rose arbor stood tall, erect but bare. It is on days such as this that I pull out this photo, remembering those early days. Like a old woman remembering her wedding day, I know the rush of new love is now long gone, like the wind in the dustbowl. It was not meant to last and perhaps this is the most difficult of all the cosmic laws of love. That slightly crazy-love is like the cast on a broken arm, holding two pieces together until the right growth can bind them together never breaking in that same place, never letting go.

Thought for today

"If you don't work at your art because you feel like a beginner or because the work frustrates you, I would ask you to stop using those facts as excuses. If you believe that celebrated artists are not beginning for whom each new creative project is a trial, now is the time to reconsider. You will remain a beginner and find the work hard until you die: you need no longer feel sad about that. So will ever other artist: you no longer need envy them their supposed maturity or ease." -- Eric Maisel, from "Fearless Creating"

Blogging at Panera

Since Panera has free wi-fi, I've started hauling my laptop with me on appts and stopping at lunch time to write. I'm motivated to do that today after having some good interviews this weekend with some people that helped me fill in the gaps on some facts that I needed.

I had an opportunity to interivew some Tulsa Co. Sherriffs this weekend while going about some business. It was kind of a fluke, but since one of my novel characters is a narcotics officer I thought it might be good to interview a few, since I don't know any. I never really thought about it before -- I've never thought about what a sheriff does in his or her line of work. I've never thought too much at all about police work. So when I had some time to talk to a few of them on the Tulsa force, I found out a lot about the work of Sheriff's and narcotics officers. I also made that discovery that most writers must make and that is that my own life is so incredibly boring (in a good way, I guess) that I'm drawn to those whose lives are different than mine. I think that must be a quality of a good writer -- finding novelty in others lives that are different than their own.

I always feel like I have to somehow explain to those that I'm interviewing or researching in this process -- that yeah, I'm writing a novel but y'know, I'm not a REAL WRITER, I'm just learning how to write by writing...I don't know why I feel that I have to qualify myself like that, I guess I'm afraid that someone will think that I'm impersonating a great novelists or something, or worse that they believe that I BELIVE that.

What I'm finding is that most people aren't so impressed with the fact that I am writing but are very much impressed that I find them interesting enough to ask questions about what they do, what's an average day like, what do they like best, etc. Come to think of it, if someone asked ME those questions, I'd be kinda impressed too.

So here's my announcement to those that care -- I know I'm not all that in the writing world. I'm learning. I have so much to learn and yet the process is becoming more real to me every time I stay with the structure that I'm imposing on myself.

After cleaning out my office and making room - literally and figureatively -- I've also looked at my daily calendar and moved some "non-essential" (read: BORING) meetings off my calendar and started spending that focused time in writing. This is where the laptop and Panera come in handy...instead of traisping all the way back home, I just turn on the laptop, have lunch and do what I came to do.

Which today is blocking out chapters 4 and 5 of my great American Novel. I'm learning how to find a form that works for me at this point which is to write and when I get stuck somewhere, I start writing down the questions that I need to answer for that scene to take form and flourish. So my notes look pretty garbled but when I do that, it starts creating the characters and their actions.

The best writing advice that I've received so far is to "think like I'm watching a movie". In other words, if my story were a movie where would I start the action, where would the scene take place. This has been so helpful and yet it seems so obvious. THANKS JORDAN!

The advice also has helped me while watching movies to find ways that the writers may be moving their story forward. It has kind of made watching movies and TV shows a little less fun to watch, because now I start finding all this stuff that they (the writers) could do and not do to better the story. Not surprisingly, I find is that the best written stuff allows the viewer to get past the mechanics of the story and become more involved in the story itself.

So, onto chapters 4 and 5.

100 Great Movie Quotes

I spent late last night recovering from a long day at a vendor show. I could blog on this subject for an eternity -- the times I've done shows like this, how to do it, what NOT to do. Yeah, maybe that would be a good topic to discuss.

I arrived home late and was looking for something to help me wind down. Bravo (www.bravotv.com) had the perfect solution - 100 Great Movie quotes

AFI: 100 Years...100 Movie Quotes.

From DeNiro's "You talkin' to me?" to Hepburn's "You do know how to whistle don't you..."
there are a million quotes that we toss around that come directly from the movies. Funny thing, though, of all the quotes the most quotes came from one movie, "Casablanca" which is why it is sometimes called the best written movie of all time (I could disagree on a million points but I'll save that, too, for another blog time).

The thing I found interesting is that so many of the quotes that we "remember" weren't in the movies at all. Or they weren't in the movies as we remember them. Example, "Play it Again, Sam" is actually, "Play it Again, will you Sam?" or something like that. And yet some of the original "quotes" are burned into the American psyche and we remember them a certain way -- a way in which they were never said.

I loved this walk through the movies and enjoyed especially the comments made by some of my favortie actors and actresses. I spend Sundays writing, reading and watching movies - its become a new kind of religious experience for me. Which is interesting, because so many of the best movies deal with themes that often are associated with "religion" - redemption, salvation, evil and good.

I'm off to see "An Unfinished Life" and I'll share my thoughts on this movie later.

What passes for normalcy...

Seems we're back to almost normal now. The headlines are less about Katrina and more about Britny. Even some of the lesser riske stars are getting some press.

I sometimes wonder what we really mean when we talk about something that is "lifechanging". It seems that I find a way back into my rut quick and easily even though major things have happened. Seismic shifts have taken place and I too quickly yawn and want to flip the channel.

While there is a sense of resiliency in the fact that we can bounce back, it kind of chills me too, that we can so easily become absorbed in trivialities. As if the "new" has worn off and we are looking for the next big "thing" to submerge ourselves in.

I tried to watch the hearings of Judge Roberts but in all honestly, I just wanted some good mud-slinging. I kept hoping that the "unflappable" Roberts would stand up and say to Senator Kennedy, "Nonya beeswax you Boston Bean". Since he kept his cool and didn't say too much of anything, it quickly became academic and I moved onto other more important things to watch, like the 92689 episode of "Law and Order". I think I sometimes feel more affection for the characters on the show than people I really know.

Why I love Jon Stewart

Jon Stewart embodies the very reason that comedy is essential...he can make you laugh when there is so much to think about and ponder about. His antics on his "Daily Show" are a great night cap for me, forcing me to make sure I'm in front of my TV at 10 PM just so I can see who he is making fun of on a particular night. I'd like to meet him sometime but I'd be afraid to -- for fear that I'd end up as the punchline in a fake news segment.

Tonight Lewis Black is making fun of evolution...it seems to be the theme the entire show is hitting on this week. I'll save my comments on what I believe but I have to say, even if I don't agree with the politics, I am always laughing -- which is the genius of the show. You can laugh at yourself and your own politics which keeps one from taking anything too seriously. always a good thing in today's political climate.

The other reason I love the show is because the writing is well done. Which I think is what also makes comedy "comedy". Timing, well thought out lines is writing at its very best. If its funny, it's probably well written. At least that's my opinion.

Redemption

Working through some details of a the "Creativity Book" by Eric Maisel, I am finding some interesting fodder for my current project. OK, I'm going to go ahead and say it, my current creative project -- (aren't all projects somewhat creative? I dunno.) My novel.

There, I said, it. Ta dah.

Why is so hard to say that? I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I remember breathing. And yet, taking that simple step, simply saying that seems huge to me. So let me try it again.

(Breathe).

I'm writing a novel.

There. I said it again. Double ta dah.

Actually, it might be closer to the truth to say that I'm learning to write a novel, something that I've spent a good part of my life wondering how to do. I often would get to the end of a great read and think, "how do they do that? how did they put all those ideas, all those thouhts together and come up with this story?"

As it turns out, that is the great mystery, the thing called "process" to those in the know about writing. Which is why books like Maisel's are so great..they teach you ideas on how to do the creating.

One of the exercises asked, "what word would best describe your current creative project? find it and post it on your whiteboard and use it for inspiration". Words do create energy (hence the recent debate in the media -- refugees vs. evacuees) so posting a word on a whiteboard seems innocent enough until you start playing with words and shuffling them through. Words like "create" have a different essence to them than words like "abandonment". Words create energy.

The first word in describing my current "project" that I stumbled upon is the word "redemption". Which leads me to a lot of questions, questions that are good to ask. Like what is redemption, really? Is it the same as forgiveness? And what, really, is forgiveness? Is it selective remembering? Or not remembering? Or is it forgetting?

Having been raised in a fundamentalist religious environement, I am poorly prepared to address such questions. Ask me where a bible verse is found or who was the fattest king in Israel or what is the name of the place where Jacob wrestled with God -- I can go on all day. But ask me to talk about the sutff that really matters -- the stuff like forgiveness, redemption and all that such truck, and I'm as blind as they come.

Which is why this theme seems so important to me. Hey, by the time you've reach 40 plus, you're probably in need of a little redemption and a whole lot of forgiveness. And if you're not in need, then you probably need to give it a little, which brings up a whole 'nuther ball of wax...if you can't receive it, you probably can't give and on and on we go.

Whether my novel ever sees the light of day or not, these are the kinds of questions that I find fascinating and that I hope to write more about.

Blame it all on "Law and Order"

It's Monday afternoon. There's a pile of papers in my in-box. And there's a smaller pile in my "out box". And there's an entire checklist on my datebook, that may well stay "unchecked".

For the obsessive compulsive executive, that's as close to a suicide statement as any...leaving unchecked things on a checklist...what?

Sometimes, it just seems that no matter how hard you want to work, the things that distract you are the simplest...a not-too-hot-for-a-change Monday afternoon, a book that's half-read and my personal favorite, spending hours on the "Law and Order" web site. What is it about that show that has me so hooked?

I still have a long way to go before this day is over but something about 4 PM pulls out in me the worst...I get bull-headed (more so than usual, thanks) and outright possessive of my hour and a half that I can sit here and do next-to-nothing and call it "working".

It doesn't matter how much I try to plan my day, 4 PM signals in me the end of the "first half" of the day and the start of the "second half" -- the half that I must feed my family, get afternoon rituals (kids to work, practice, etc) and oh yea, finish out whatever wasn't accomplished during the first half of my day...which today is, not surprisingly from this blog entry, close to nothing.

I am amazingly creative at avoiding work. I can make lists with the best of them. I can plan all sorts of activities in the act of organization. In reality I am creating nothing except a way to stall, a way to plod, a way to self-sabotage on things that truly, truly need my attention.

A seminar to plan that is less than amonth a way.
A class tonight that I'm in no way prepared for.
Appointments tomorrow that I can't even begin to imagine how I'll get it done.

What it boils down to is simply this - procrastination is fear incarnate. Fear of ______ you fill it in -- but whatever it is -- fear of moving forward, fear of checking things off a list, fear of getting something done and finding that it wasn't that hard, and oh, after all, there's 20 more just like that to do...

Fear, pure and simple, is at the base of all the distractions, sidebars, excursions and second lattes.

As much as I don't want to admit it, I'm simply afraid of not knowing where the next lead is going to come from, the next idea, the next inspiration. I find the more that I plod around on cop drama web sites, the more I can hide behind insipid "information" about who is getting married, who is vacationing in the Carribbean and who is planning to be the next guest star.

Diversions as they go, are simply meant to keep us from tackling the big work that is calling to us from those in-boxes, work that when faced probably can tell us a lot more about ourselves than most psychiatry appointments, work that can keep us focused and balanced and all those things that we say - I say -- I want for my life.

Then again, an hour to simply veg may help the synapsis in my brain start firing in all the right ways so that I can be perfectly brilliant at tonight's class, more than prepared for tomorrow's appts and maybe even excited about the new inspiration that starts to creep out at me from around the edges of my work-fried brain.

Creative mantras for everyday use

I'm still enjoying the book, "The Creativity Book". Here's an excerpt from today's reading, which include some phrases that can be used as everyday mantras or affirmations:

"It's all right not to know"
"I can enter the chaos and create there"
"I am prepared to work blind"
"I can move forward without a destination"
"What I need is inside the darkness"
"I would love things to be easy, but I prefer truthfulness"
"To create, I must embrace bewilderment"

from p 113 "The Creativity Book" by Eric Maisel, Ph. D.

Taking inspiration

While listening to the radio today, I heard stories of people in the Gulf Coast region that are determined to rebuild their jobs, their homes, their lives.

At first I scoffed at this. And then, I took inspiration from it.

This is not to say that I understand, really, on any level what the people in that region are going through. My life has had its share of disappointments but I've never had my entire home, job, life taken from me. So these comments aren't in any way meant to minimize the pain of those who are rebuilding lives.

But who among us has not had something that was once precious to us that was then taken or destroyed? And, (and this is where I take inspiration) many times, I just give up. Say, "it's too hard" or "it'll never be the same..".

And both statements are more than true. Rebuilding is hard and it will never the be same. That is hardly the point.

What is the point? The point is, I think, hope.

It is uncanny that over the weekend - a weekend filled with so little hope from the Gulf States, that I saw my favorite movie of all time, "Shawshank Redemption" -- a movie that portrays hope in such a way that every time I see it, I cry. And my favorite moment? That would be when Tim Robbins' character says, "The way I see it, you either get busy living or you get busy dying."

When I remember those lines -- and see the courageous people that are doing just that -- living, that is, -- I am challenged to look at my own life, at my own failings, at my own disappointments. Some things can never be repaired, it's true. And some things can be rebuilt more beautiful and with more soul than ever before.

Sunset on the summer

I sat in my pergola tonight until dusk, reading a book after weeding (always weeding!). I spent the weekend, and I do mean SPENT. I did next to nothing except rumble around in my head, reading, writing, organizing my office, making plans for some new renovations for the house and garden.

Dan kidnapped me late today and we say the "Constant Gardner"...and I took a chance and posted my review at my favorite movie web site -- it was accepted (I'm not sure if this is a big deal or not, but it always feels good to get an "acceptance" something!) Here it is if you'd like to read it -- http://imdb.com/title/tt0387131/usercomments-78

I went to library and checked out two more of Joyce Carol Oates books, "Tatooed Girl" and "Broke Heart Blues". Both appear promising in only the way that Joyce Carol Oates can be.

I am also reading "The Creativity Book" by Eric Maisal and am finding it a great way to start my day. Actually, I am finding after I walk, eat, I come right to my office and read then write for about an hour before starting my "real" work day.

My office is more appealing to me now than ever before. I have arranged all my writing books, gardening books in one place in my office so now they are a part of my work routine as everything else. I also invested in a new white board which has some key work routines on it along with the 30 chapter outline of (dare I say this...my novel). My goal is to write each week on one chapter and then go back and start the endless rewriting and refining.

This has completely jazzed me...and I'm looking forward to a creative fall.

To my friends at CNN

For 25 years, you have been the eye on the world. You have reported everything from assinations, to massacres. From famines to celebrity. From new found fame to classic wealth.

For most of that time, I've been a faithful friend, enjoying our moments together, often turning to you when I felt I needed comfort or information.

I feel, today, that you have failed me. As I turned off the coverage of the hurricane (finally!) I shook my head in disbelief. Why would you do this?

Why would you exploit the men and women of the New Orleans/Missippi region for your own gain and political agenda? Why would you use this opportunity to create more unrest in an already battered place?

Somewhere along the line, we have to start asking the question, "What is opinion and what is fact?" Somewhere along the line we have to start being critical thinkers again and get on with what is important -- which is providing healing to those who suffered this tragedy and those who have sat somewhat helplessly by.

Here's my question: What could possibly be the motivation of our government to keep aid from the people of New Orleans and Missippi? Isn't that what a good criminal lawyer would ask if he were trying a case? It seems to me that we have already issued the indictment without even so much as a public hearing.

I was encouraged by the interview with a mega-church minister, himself black, who was asked to comment on the comments made by Kanye West. This "interview" was so leading (the corresopndant kept asking questions such as "Aren't you mad it took so long.." and the man being interviewed said, "Yes, I'm furious. But I'm not so mad that I'm going to jump to accusations and assumptions until I find out what went wrong. Something surely went wrong, but we don't know yet where the system failed and that's not the point. The point is to get these people out and to get them help."

Between Christian Amanpour and Anderson Cooper's "coverage", good critical thinking and judgement have gone out the window. They appear to be more interested in laying blame than in being creative on helping discover where the system needs to be repaired. Their logic appears to be, "We have a white president and these people are black, so it must be his fault."

I personally have a lot more questions about the state government of New Orleans than I do of the federal government. Where were you when your state needed you? Where were your evacuation systems and relief systems? If the state -- the first line of defense in any tragedy -- gives way, then mobilizing a federal relief aid is logically the next.

How many times have we had a chance to prepare for such a crisis? How many times have the systems used been put to the test for survival? How many times have we dealt with the reality of problems of this magnitude...and here's the big question, "now that we see the defects, how do we fix them?"

And again, the question, "What and who would gain by ignoring people at a time like this?" What agenda would be served? Whose career (except those of the resporters) is being helped by such thinking?

Are there clearly mistakes that have been made? Surely. What I find amazing is that we're not asking the question, "how did anyone survive at all?" Given that we have not one, but possibly three tragedies of nature, how did those who survive do so?

I find the reporting that your correspondants are doing, CNN, to be sloppy and self-serving at a time when we have neither the patience or time for either.

The Creativity Book

It's raining here today. I am torn between starting a new gardening project, or cleaning out my closet.

Both, according to this great little book, both are creative, spiritual endeavors.

I've learned something this past year -- that as long as I focus on what some might call "the creative life" things in my life appear to move along intrinsically, organically. Things just seem to flow and are easier.

This book, by Eric Maisel, Ph.d, is a series of ideas and suggestions to direct some in their creative urges, whether that be solving company staffing, world hunger or writing a novel.

Towards that end, I spent yesterday in my office doing some massive cleaning out while at the same time freeing up some space for the creative part of my life -- writing and gardening. Where there once was scattered papers and unused space, my collection of books on writing and gardening now sit. I've taken some pictures that I may post, may not.

What came later, though, was truly inspiring. The act itself gave me room to breathe and therefor I sat down and wrote several pages on simple office organization -- something that I'm good at doing anyway, but never had "gotten around to" putting my ideas on paper. This may be used later for training or sharing with others. I find that most professionals suffer from mismanagment of two things -- time and money. And it is precisely those two things that we want to understand better because the "how we invest or spend" these things can tell us a lot about ourselves.

Why do I spend the first part of my day doing this rather than that? Is that congruent with my declared values and goals? Why or why not? These are tough questions, not for sissies.

Truth is, making room for the things in your life that matter can be convicting. Do I keep my never-listened-to collection of Dan Fogerty tapes out of nostalgia or do I make room for that book on better senetence construction? Which one is more a part of my life NOW and which is just a testimony to a life lived in high school? And why is it so *^&( hard to let go of those things that I know -- I know -- I won't use today, tomorrow or in 6 months.

There is a spiritual element going on here, no doubt. A sense of cleaning out one's life to make room for the new. Truth be told, the "ramp" to this place has been filled with a lot of tilling of spiritual soil to get me to even look realistically at the cluttered part of my life (metaphorically and literally speaking).

I'm learning to limit spirituality to things that go on in church building or doing one's "quiet time" is to limit a holy foce that can wreck spiritual havoc (cleansing) in my life. If God isn't a part of order from chaos, peace from fear, calm from anxiety, then I don't know really what He or She may be a part of.

For me, God is in the details -- the order on my desk, the cleanness of my closet, the whisper of comfort.

Thoughts from a CNN Hostage

I feel that I need a big sign, "HELP ME" as I sit in front of the endless interviews.
The unfolding disaster of Hurricane Katrina has transfixed me and I've been at times
amazed, saddened, horrified and angry.

Amazed that an entire city can be gone in a matter of minutes. As helicopters drop 3,000 pound sand bags by broken levy, I can't help but think that these look like croutons dropped into a soup bowl.

Saddened that lives are gone for too much water and for not enough.

Horrified that a place I visited as early as January (I walked from the convention center to my hotel, eating at Emeril's and visiting the Southern Art museum) is now completely gone.

But I am angry that some would believe that because they are black or poor that they are being neglected or ignored based upon the facts that they are "not white or rich". I find that accusation mean-spirited and lacking in reason. Which is fine -- I wouldn't be reasonable if I hadn't eaten for five days.

The idea that government on any level -- local, state or federal -- can be the end all for people in times such as this is simply unrealistic.

For all the strategic planning, for all the programs, meetings and official people cannot legisilate human kindness, caring, love, hope.

What I find reassuring is where government, the cold, sometimes heartless entity, may have failed it has given opportunity for the human touch -- the soul of any city -- to rally.

Disasters of this magnitude cannot be fixed, strategized, made right by the likes of military and programs. It can only be cushioned by those who have the willingness and the boldness to venture forward.

"I am not in need" --- Carbonleaf

I awakened with the days usual thoughts -- what would we have for dinner tonight? What times would the kids' practices be over? How many phone messages need to be returned and how will I get them done? How can I get the house cleaned?

Ad infinitum, a magnifying glass on the trivialities of my life.

My house isn't under water, so what if it is dirty? My cell phone works as does my home phone. Clean water flows from my plumbing, I have a shower that works. There are 3 grocery stores within a five mile radius of my home, not to mention a squillion eating establishments, so eating is clearly not a problem.

Most importantly, I am not in a hospital sick and I can work and provide for my family.

As my favorite rock band says, "I am not in need.." I clearly am not. Isn't it strange how I lose sight of such simple, everyday blessings.

I am working on some ideas to donate to charities for the hurricane relief effort. www.networkforgood.org through my own sales.

Adrenaline Junkies Unite

It's the proverbial "month end", which in the sales industry means that we're all huddled over laptops, with phones in ear, reaching for that elusive scoreboard that will confirm our commission checks.

After 13 years, I am now firmly a recovering adrenaline junkie. I have ceased to find my "hit" by waiting until the last minute to try to work one month of effort into a 3 hour, no sleep, nail-biting day.

My recovery has had moments worthy of any addict who goes "off the wagon". The sleepless nights, the anxiety, the worry. All those things that give the appearance of importance dissolve into the meaningless abyss once you figure out that you don't have to live by the clock. You don't have to give your soul to chasing numbers and figures. In fact, when you do, you cease to exist in any measureable way and you lose whatever ground you've fought so hard to find.

The funny thing is, that once you realize that your life isn't about the scoreboard any more (and in reality, never was) you begin to loosen up and actually enjoy what you are doing. It's one of those life ironies -- the more you loosen up, the more you do better.

For me personally, I've discovered that I can keep a workable (translation -- functional) schedule, doling out my activity in bite size pieces and actually enjoy my work and the people in which I lead.

There's a lot more I can say about this but as any recovering junkie I'm still learning how to much to show, how much to tell. Since trust is a big issue for many of us, whatever "trash" we're into, I'm learning how much I can safely say. As with any dependency, just admitting that you're hooked is more than half the battle. For me, I was hooked on the sense that I was actually doing something, when in reality I was procrastinating, doing sloppy, careless work, all for the rush of going into motion and doing a yeoman's work in a matter of hours.

It's not been an easy recovery. Is any recovery easy? I find myself in my daily walks (for now, I have a daily schedule that includes walking (alone), eating (oh my gosh!) and spending time with those that I care about and actually seeing them sitting in front of me, instead of the haze of my ragged agenda floating somewhere in the bubble above my head.

For what is this journey to recovery anyway than simply trying to find significance. For the adrenaline junkie, it's the significant in doing..."if I can just do ____" then surely I will find (security, relationships, meaning). It's the constant doing, doing, doing until the fire slowly ebbs out of you, frying your brain, your life, your very soul.

I don't anticipate an easy road ahead. There's always the illusion of adding heaps of stuff to my schedule in the anticipation of getting more of "whatever" it is that I think that will be accomplished.

Now, accomplishing nothing is the greatest feeling of all.

New Orleans

I've been to New Orleans too many times. I was there in January of this year in fact. As I watch the footage on CNN I see some of the places where I've stayed and visited and it makes the disaster a bit more personal.

Some pundits are predicting, now with the levy breaking, that New Orleans will be something we study about in history classes. Some are blaming the erosion of the "wetlands", some are blaming the president. Seems everybody has a comment.

I don't have my profundity to share. Just the realization that my life is suddenly less complicated when I see the families who have lost everything. I wonder what I can do -- besides some hallowed prayer -- for those that have lost so much.

Moments of Reassurance

I remember working until 2 a.m. once, stuffing envelopes getting ready for this event. I remember wondering how many people would even come. The event went off OK, but lots to improve and do. And I remember doing it again and again and again, constantly trying to improve it, seeing small progresses then steps back. Over and over and over again.

Today, 4 years later, I went to that event, the one that was literally birthed at my dining room table those years ago. And I saw 350 people and an event that quite literally has a life all its own. Most importantly, I attended that event and simply did that -- just attended. The event, the project, ran on its own steam with other very capable people being charged with its care. It is, alive and well and doing better than ever.

Its gratifying in those moments to stop and remember, even when no one else may recall, how something may have started. Just an idea that became energy and then motion, involving others and becoming real.

It made me stop and think -- how many current projects do I often wonder, "will this EVER get done?" Will I ever see success in this endeavor? Will it ever be finished?"

Today, I saw a glimpse, a hope. I heard a whisper that reminded me, "just keep going."
It confirms my suspicion that all great endeavors begin as a flash, first in the mind then in reality.

Or maybe, creating in the mind is the reality. Whatever the case, it was great to see something and to know deep inside, there is a part of me in this thing and a part of it in me. For me the definition of a true leader is how well things go when they are not around.

Today, that was very, very good to see.

Memoirs of a Techno-Geek

It's sitting in a FedEx Box, wrapped in bubble wrap, packaging slip on top.

The description reads something like, "Treo 600..." but it really is much more than that.

After months of trying to make a large laptop and cell phone work, I decided to take the plunge into the hand held world of palmpilots. I was blissfully happy downloading my email during long meetings, taking picture of my kids when they weren't looking, getting "IM"s from my husband as he drove home. I even could download my books from audible AND put my very own music on the playlist and use my walk time as my music time.

One small problem. The real reason that I purchased the device -- that is, for a usable working phone -- was not working. By "usable working" phone I mean by that that I could simply hear the other person and they could hear me.

Generally, my cell phone conversations would go like th is:

Ring, ring.

(them) "Hello"?
(me) "Hello"?
(them - more loudly) "HELLO?"
(me- stupidly) " CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
(them - more loudly than before) "WHO IS THIS?"
(me - really stupidly) 'CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW" (I'd say this while I was juggling my headset, driving down the road, waving at the cop that was just pulling out to give me a ticket for going 75 in a 45.)
(them ) "click". (as in "I'm hanging up now")

If I did get through, there would be an unbearable ringing noise, loud as a siren, in the background. So the above conversation would be peppereded with,
LOUD RINGING SOUND LOUD RINGING SOUND LOUD RIINGING SOUND....

which, of course, made it very hard to carry on any kind of conversation.

One good thing, my cell phone bill dropped dramatically. In fact, my cell phone carrier called just to see if I had lost my cell phone because my bills were cut in half.

This gave me a great opportunity to explain to the non-English speaking customer "care" person about my communication challenges.

(me) - "I can't hear when someone calls me"
(them) - "Can you identify any broken or rattling pieces on the device?"
(me) -- "nope".
(them) - "have you dropped your phone or hit it against something?"
(me) - slowly, carefully. "not at all".
(them) - "please answer the following questions, taking your time, answer carefully.."

To which I was submitted to no less than 40 questions regarding all types of communication "issues". I gave no less than 7 "id" numbers, my birthdate, my age, my hair color, possible blood types and mother's maiden name (I think that was her maiden name).

After about 30 minutes, I was told that they could not help me, that I had to "migrate" to another phone carrier because my original phone carrer -- AT&T -- was no longer.

me - "But my bills say your company's name. My money goes to your company".
them - "Yes, but to purchase one of our phones we have to have you 'migrate' to our company."

me (stupidly) -- "So let me get this straight...my money goes to you, my bills say your company's name, but I can't get a replacement phone from your company?"

them - "That is correct. You must migrate to our company."

me (even more stupidly) - "How do I do that, exactly?"

them - "We don't know."

After another day of such conversations such as this, a "replacement" phone arrives in my mail with a ream of paper about the size of the Dallas phone book with specific instructions on how to return my device, which I gave to my engineering husband who spent 3 hours stripping my personal information from the device.

9 months of calls/emails/IM's -- all stripped in about 3 hours. Erased. Gone. Out into cyber town.

My whole life is on a SIM card that can be sent back and forth like a hand me down. My life electronically stored and packaged. (For those of you who don't know what a SIM card is, it's what the cops on "Law and Order" people use to track down the perp's phone numbers, addresses, information.)

I'm not sure how I feel about being able to trade out my life electronically like a battery. What implications does this have for us? Can we create alternative personalities, plugging them in and out whenever we need to? I'm not sure how I feel about the 'electronic' age in this regard.

Where everyone knows your name

I've been redefining my schedule. With kids now fully into the back to school routine, and Dan no longer working at home, I've found myself with some very quiet mornings and a chance to redefine how I approach my day.

What is surprising is just how hard change can be, even for someone like myself who often gets a bit antsy when too many things stay the same for too long. I'm always thinking about painting a room, moving things in my garden, changing things up. Such is the blessing -- and curse -- of being an INTJ..our mantra is, "things can always be better".

I use to laugh at my grandparents when they would take trips. They'd pack up and make a dash for the door only to rush back home so that they could be home before nightfall, so that they could be in their own home. "Why?' I would ask myself. "Why would it be so important just to get back to the same old thing?"

I'm beginning to understand. I find myself having to work hard to find new places to have lunch with new friends and seek out new places to write during my morning and afternoon time that I have now set aside for writing. (Nestled firmly into the routines of work, rest assured.)

Yesterday I drove across town looking for some new stomping grounds. I guess I'm searching for that place that is familar yet different enough each day. I was searching for a different palette, I think, from the same-ness that seems to be rampant in my small corner of the world. The same bland taste of lilly-white-same-ness in the homogeneous white Midwestern part of the world. I feel like I'm drinking flat cola and munching on stale chips. Practically the same, but not altogether pleasing either.

And yet as I settled into my morning cup of coffee at a "new" location, I yearned for the old. The predictability, the sameness, the meager friendliness of the staff at my "home" coffeeshop. Benign neglect is sometimes preferred over outright rudeness.

I strolled some new locations, meeting some new people even running into some old friends. It was all the same and all different and I felt off center, out of balance, out of sync. I couldn't wait to arrive back home in my dishelved office with phone calls to return, tasks to do.

So today, I'm going to try it again. I'm going to force myself to continue finding a new "routine" that will be both stimulating and challenging. The very reason that it is hard prods me on to do it again until it isn't so hard the next time. I don't know where I'm going to go yet. Maybe I won't until I get there.

I know that I'm just too young to be so set in my ways.

Joyce Carol Oates

I'm reading "I'll take you there" by Joyce Carol Oates (http://www.harpercollins.com/authorintro/index.asp?authorid=7275) one of my all time favorite authors.

When I read her stuff I am both amazed and disappointed. Amazed that someone can write with such conviction resonance. Disappointed that I think "can I ever, ever write like that?"

I find myself also wondering, "how many pages did she write to get that one great scene? how many times did her editor say, 'again and again'? did she ever suffer from fear of writing someting that seemed too close to her, too personal?"

Reading a book by Joyce Carol Oates is for me like drinking a long, tall glass of water. It both refreshes and renews. She's on my "would love to meet in this lifetime" list.

Broken Flowers

If you like happy endings -- or at least endings that are resolved, crisp and finished, make no plans to go see the new movie by Jim Jarmusch, "Broken Flowers"(http://www.brokenflowersmovie.com/home.html) starring Bill Murray.

On the other hand, if you enjoy watching a movie that requires thought and attention to detail, then don't walk, run to see this.

Not a movie for the MTV generation. Not a lot of action or skin or even a lot of dialogue. Ain't it cool?

In fact, most of those in the crowd in which I was viewing this movie with - we were down in the lower part of the theater with "Dukes of Hazzard" still queing up lines and lines and lines of those 25 years and under--- stomped out of the movie quizzically. Some were even angry. One guy even commented, "8 bucks for that?"

Maybe we're too focused on seeing movies that figure it all out for us and leave us with a finished ending. But Bill Murray's last two films, including "Lost in Translation" have a lot to tell us about the unfinished business of mid-life and aging. That is, there is a lot left to be discovered.

For me personally, I loved the layering of dialogue, visuals and cinematography that create the story for me to unwrap and delight in. I loved that Bill Murray's character doesn't act as much as he reacts to life and all that it has given him. I loved mostly that I left the theater trying to figure out all the clues and if I got them all or not.

What I figured out (what I think!) is that the 5 women in the movie represent the 5 decades of a man's life (50 years, which I imagine is what the age of the character placed by Murray). Sexual conquest, intellectual pursuit, partying and rocking, drugs and love, and of course, death, which conquers us all. Don Johnston/Don Juan/Don Jonson -- itself a comment on a man's life -- illustrates a man's life lived for all the things that create a sense of completeness, but at the end it is his shell of a life that creates the chaotic pain in which we see Murray's character. I'm not much of a philosopher but that's my report, Sherlock. (see the movie to understand this line.)

There are some amazing one-liners delivered by Murray that are gems. Unfortunately, most of them are given away in the Trailer so that when you see them in the film they lack the punch they could have had.

Still, I'd recommend "Broken Flowers" to my artsy friends. For all the others, there's always Dukes of Hazzard. Sadly, there seems to be few in-between choices.

Trading Spaces

I drove past my old house the other day.

I drove past really slow to see if I could see the landscaping that I had done with the kids when we lived there. I slowed down almost to a stop and even considered peering into the kitchen to see if the same color that I had painted (red) was still there or not.

Sometimes, I think about old places that I've lived and I wonder about them. Is there still pieces of me left there, strewn all about, waiting for me to come back and retrieve them?

Moving is a big job. Not so much the physical aspect but the emotional as well. For awhile you don't live anyplace. You have parts of a life in one place and parts of a life someplace else. For a while you live fluidly, unconnected, strewn apart.

It's sometimes nice to consider where I lived and why and what I was doing when I lived there. How old were the kids? What did we do for dinner? Where was the furniture placed? Where we live molds our lives as much as anything. Molds our thoughts, too.

Not one time have I ever considered moving back to where I have come. Not one time have I ever thought, "wow, I'd really like to move back there". Not once. Even though the memories and the times shared were good ones, I'm most glad to be here, now, wherever this place "is".

I think that transitions teach us that we move forward into the unknown with a certain amount of gratitude that we're at least moving towards something, away from something that we once were.

But sometimes, there are situations and people that want us to stay in our old 'houses'. They might even want to drive us to the door and say, "get out and live here NOW!" I've had that sense at times with relationships and others...that their version of the past was so important that they wouldn't allow themselves -- or anybody else -- to move on.

To those situations and people, I am learning to say, "I don't live here anymore. You can stay here and we might can revisit these times, but I don't live here anymore. I'm moving onward."

I'm learning there is great freedom in that ability...to simply say, "No, I don't know the future as well as the past but I know that I don't live there anymore." Sometimes it allows others to move forward. Sometimes it makes them put down roots even more strongly.

It doesn't matter. What is important is that the journey forward begins and continues.

That was then, this is now. And I don't live there anymore.

Comedy Night (repeat)

I spent Friday Night doing what I love -- working in my yard and watching great comedy. Only, Comedy Central saw fit to rerun one of my favorites and then spend the rest of Holy Time (the time on Friday that is usually reserved for great stand up at Comedy Central) by filling time with South Park. I don't get those little stupid cartoons. I guess I'm not evolved enough or something but they can never, ever, take the place of great creative stand up.

So I got to watch one of my all-time favorites Adam Ferrara (www.adamferrara.com) do his bit. I've seen it probably 20 times but I love it..he always makes me laugh. I love it that he can make me laugh about potpourri ("it's a bucket of mulch, lady!) and hanging pictures. Anyboy can go for shock value...Adam uses everyday things and makes me look at them in new ways which is what I love about great comedy...if it can make you laugh at your life, and mostly at yourself, then it's done its job.

As for Comedy Central, here's a tip -- if I don't get my stand up back on Friday's, things could get really ugly. Some of us comedy-addicts need our weekly fix of funny people like others might need drugs or liquor. So I'm warning you, take off the dorky kids and let the deranged humor of real people rule.

Take a picture

I want to hurry and write this down before I forget. I want to remember these moments before they slip through my fingers.

I want to remember that it is 7:05 and the sun is still warm. I want to remember the steamy mist off the bermuda from rains that came (finally!). I want to remember the cat lolling on the driveway, rolling, then turning. And the dog, Princess, anxiously walking from Ellen and then to Nathan and back again. Princess always can tell when something is up.

I will remember Ellen, her long hair pulled back, new chocker necklace displayed, striped shirt, so pretty. I will remember Nathan, strumming his guitar for a brief minutes, singing in that voice of his, the one that he has used since he was just a small boy. Now its deeper, huskier, a teenager's wistfulness coming through.

I will remember Eggo waffles, with syrup and peanut butter and white, cold milk. I will remember the too-sugary smell that threatens my already jumpy stomach.

I'll remember the faces of my children, excited but pensive, wondering what this new day -- this new year -- will bring them. One more chapter in their short lives already being written, already being etched into their memory.

There are moments as a parent that you have to wonder, "can I do this? Can I nurture another human being through the ups and downs of keyboards and braces, first days of school, breakups with girlfriends? Can I hold their hands when the fever spikes and the friends don't call? Can I celebrate the 3-point shot along with the goal that was great, but just a little too late?

Being a parent is allowing another human to take up residence in your life, forever altering your view of the world and showing them yours, knowing full well that they may take your view of life and keep it, discard it but in all liklihood change it. Its making yourself open and vulnerable to your own faulty ideas about love and life. Its having your own life rewritten each day by the questions and thoughts of another, while you struggle with answers that you thought you had figured out.

Parenting is, most of all, a path that you take to give life to another while redefining your own. It is all at once giving everything you thought you had, only to discover that in the giving you've grown more, lived more, loved more than you ever thought possible.

I will remember my kids today as they drove away, resolute and happy as they embraced a new year of their lives. I stood at the top of the driveway a little too long, tears forming as I knew they would -- as they no doubt knew and even counted on. I will remember Nathan saying, "Hey Mom, it's the first day of my SENIOR YEAR!" and his smile when he saw the tears coming. Isn't it every kid's longing to simply matter to their parents? To know they'll be missed terribly while at the same time knowing their parents will probably catch a few more minutes of sleep, go on with their day, be OK, even relieved a bit?

These are the moments, the pauses in the symphony of life lived with others, that we know that the rhythms of our lives are in sync and in step. That despite the colic, the worry, the questions and the concern, the harmony of lives lived together hits that resonant chord..."this is how it is suppose to be."

I will remember this moment, along with all the others, and cherish it forever.

Writing is a lot like life -- most of it is bad copy

http://www.courant.com/features/lifestyle/hc-gina0815.artaug15,0,4793580.column?&track=rss


This article is so good and so reassuring to people like me who are trying to find their way in the writing "world". What resonates with me in this article is how much writing is like so many other things. For example, if I were asked the same questions about why I do what I do for my "day job" I'd give very similar answers. Writing is a discipline, an art, something that has to be crafted every day.

Great quote on the Art Life

“As Stanley Kunitz once commented, “The poem in the head is always perfect. Resistance begins when you try to convert it into language.” And it’s true, most artists don’t daydream about making great art—they daydream about having made great art. What artist has not experienced the feverish euphoria of composing the perfect thumbnail sketch, first draft, negative or melody, only to run headlong into a stone wall trying to convert that tantalizing hint into the finished mural, novel, photograph, sonata? The artist’s life is frustrating not because the passage is slow, but because he imagines it to be fast.”

By David Bayles & Ted Orland

From "Art and Fear".

Great new life mantra

This came from some discussions at our new church -- I really like it:

God is Good

People are Wierd

Love with Abandon

.

Movie to see: "Beautiful Country"

Attention to detail, irony and compassion, beauty and human fraility all mix together to create the film, "Beautiful Country" http://www.sonyclassics.com/beautifulcountry/frame.html

It's not going to get major kudos from hollywood elite, nor will it garnish praise from reviewers. But a good story -- along with a director with an eye for what makes a scene "sing" -- will always win my praise.

I think what makes this story so compelling is that it touches a central core that is so deeply engrained in all of us -- the search for self, knowing where one is and where one is going. Those issues are only answered when we know in some part from where we have come.

What I sincerely appreciated about the film is that it was both beautiful and deeply true to its characters. The actors look and act like real people...I am not reminded that I'm "watching a scene". I also appreciate that each character has a heady mix of good and bad, beauty and ugliness, hope and hopelessness. This is a film that resonates and rings true.

Gardner's Journal: The Mundane

Now is the time of the year when all the "un-glamorous" chores have to be done. Weeds have overcome some of my garden so I spend about 30 minutes in a.m./p.m. digging them out, swearing all along that I meant to plant something there. Nature truly does hate a vacuum and what's not planted upon or in, will surely be rabid with Oklahoma's finest bermuda.

August heat is zapping a good part of my yard but perennials and roses are thriving with regular watering because of the energy saving mulch. It's a pain to do, but it sure makes for easier gardening during these hot, hot months.

Overall, I'm pleased with my garden this year. I will plant some additional shrubs and trees in late October and November and I'll put some mums out in some of these places that are sporting weeds right now. I did at least 3 new gardens this year and have plans for additional ones later in the fall. The more "fun" work of digging, planting and creating.

Still, I have to ponder this mundane maintainance. It's truly the biggest part of gardening...not all can be creating and digging and plunging into the earth. In fact, that part of the job -- though exciting and fulfilling -- is a very small part of the gardening experience. Without the mulching, the watering, the weeding the is little of gardening left. Those that don't enjoy these humble chores truly don't enjoy gardening. It's the stuff that makes gardening gardening.

And, it is revealing how much I can get done in 20 minutes blocks of time when I really put my heart into it. Sometimes, the sheer volume of work can be overwhelming. I stand in the middle of a puddle of weeds and sigh, not sure where to begin. The truth is, you begin where you are. You kneel and go to it. And after a few minutes, maybe 20, you've made some serious progess.

This simple reality is remarkable. What can seem to be too big can truly be done in smaller bites. Paying off bills. Remodeling a house. Rebuilding a relationship. It's not the big stuff that really matters -- it's the day to day stuff that seems to hold things together, keep the moving, keeping them healthy.

Peter Jennings -- I'll miss you

I just learned that Peter Jennings, one of my all time favorite television personalities died today. Here's the whole story --

ABC News Anchor Peter Jennings Dies at 67

I have often punctuated my day by being near the TV at 5:30 just so Peter can give me, as he calls it, a "rough draft of history" for the day. There was something curiously comforting about his style that no other anchor I can recall. He was dashingly handsome, winsome in his ways and just plain street smart. I didn't know until today that he started broadcasting without a degree in high school or college. Yet, he has said that every day in his adult life he learned something and for that, I love him. That quality, his ability to search and ask questions, gave him the resonance on the air that book smart anchors lacked.

He was the one I turned to during national crisis, his reporting during Sept 11 was particularly reassuring to me because I knew that whatever he knew, he'd tell me. He was always someone that I would have enjoyed simply sitting down with a cup of coffee and talking about ideas.

Wonderbras, High Heels and Second Chance Gods

I just finished my once a year shopping trek. I have this theory that the reason God made the internet was for people like me who truly truly dislike the entire shopping experience. The parking of the car, the walking through over-full department stores, too-cheerful sales associates and most, most , most of all the dreaded fitting room.

I have arrived at that station in life when I can no longer deny the importance of a good fit and the wonderful affects of good underthings. As I now rapidly approach that amazing period of one's life that is so affectionally called "mid-life", I find that I pay more attention to garments and what they hide or change than I do about color or style.

My children, who usually accompany me (much to their dismay) on these fated trips are armed with the "Frump-O-Meter"...which is a sliding scale that determines how "frumpy" a garment or outfit may make me look. A "10" on this scale means I look like my mom on a bad hair day and a "1" means that I look like I could pass for a mere 35.

It wasn't always this way. I was once a care-free shopper and could, quite literally, but something right off that size 2 mannequin and wear it and look great. Now, I walk by those same mannequins and wonder what their mothers would think about their daughters showing off all that, uhm, plastic. I use to be able to shop for shoes with careless abandon, reveling in how high the heels were. Now, heels more than 1 inch threaten my balance in such ways that I fear for those standing around me. The "Frump-o-meter" is tough in this shopping category. It's just hard to imagine feeling beautiful in no-nonesense navy naturalizers, no?

The sales people don't help at all. I have recently left a "boutique" (translation: no sizes under 12 need shop here) in tears because nothing would fit. The stretchy halter dress that looked so adorable on the model rendered me a pear with a black rubberband stretched across its middle. It was too ugly to even contemplate leaving the dressing room. When I asked the sales person (who was a cute little size 6 at most) about the sizing of the dress, she replied, "A different style might be more forgiving." Which begs the question, "For what am I being forgiven and why?"

I think, though, there are other things at play here. Deeper things, more sinister things. I think for all this energy in trying to look young, I am really trying to make do. Make my life something it is not, make myself something that I am not anymore. I am no longer 21, thin as a rail with my life ahead of me. And with that realization comes more than a bit of regret. Regrets of roads not taken, regrets of roads that were. Perhaps the greatest understanding is that no one -- NO ONE -- gets to 41 plus and says, "wow, my life is perfect and I wouldn't change a thing".

I've been contemplating these life changes for some time, reading lots from those that are way more intelligent than I and have come up with little on the philosophy of life. In fact, I have come up with little on life at all. Which is the trouble -- what kind of philosophy is it if it is only good for the first half of one's life? If ever there is a time for a "do-over" a re-take or just a good old-fashion DELETE, it is at this stage of one's life. Did I really take the teaching option instead of the literature courses? Why didn't I travel to Spain with the Spanish Club when I had the chance? Why did I care so much about getting through college instead of just immersing myself in the experience of learning?

I find myself thinking a good deal about God these days. I wonder if He thinks of me. It's doubtful..what am I to Him? Why would I even register to Him with all the holy rollers doing all that good work out there? Moreoever, why would he care two figs about my life when there are far greater situations in the world. I'm no world traveler but one doesn't have to go far to be rendered speechless by the sheer luck that one has been born into by being a citizen of the US. I don't have stuff in my water. I don't have machine guns posted in my community. I don't have to cover my face with a cloth. I can write whatever I please here on this blog and all I'll get is benign neglect or a random curt commetn or two. Not like I'm taking my life into my own hands like in some countries.

I think I would like to get to know a "second-chance God". Y'know, someone that's been there with you and knows that you really don't do your ab crunches like you should. Someone that knows that secretly, you'd rather watch another re-run of "Law and Order" than go have quality time with your husband. I'd like to sit down and talk to a God who knew you in high-school and yet finds you remarkably more interesting now. I'd like to know a God who remembers the mess you've made of your life and saves the finger pointing. I'd like to get closer to a God that just celebrates when you make it out of bed to church instead of the one that I think I know more, which is the one that scowls because your twenty-minutes late.

If there is ever a time in one's life where a second chance is in order, it's now. It's here. I don't need a litany of the sins I've committed, I've got those engraved into the crevices of my soul. I don't need a checklist of the things that I've NOT gotten around to do, the weariness in my day reminds me all too quickly of that. And most of all, a second chance God wouldn't encourage me to "keep the faith for the sweet by and by". Y'know, I'm running out of time and I just might not make the sweet by and by. Whatcha got for me now? For here? For today? Tell me how to pay the mortage, get the kids to school, find dinner and some peace.

I left the mall with my meager purchases. Shopping use to bring such pleasure and fun. The cruel trick in life is that when you do finally have the funds to buy what you want, you realize what you want isn't in the store, on the mannequin or in the window.