Two Quotes of my Week

I came upon the following quotes in The Artist's Way. They kind of say it all, don't you think?

"Often people attempt to live their lives backwards: they try to have more things, or more money, in order to do more of what they want so they will be happier. The way it actually works is the reverse. You must first be who you really are, then do what you need to do to have what you want." Margaret Young

And then there is this:

"We are traditionally rather proud of ourselves for having slipped creative work in there between the domestic chores and obligations. I'm not sure we deserve such big A-pluses for that." Toni Morrison

Enjoy your weekend everyone.

A Reminder

I glanced at a picture of a bus roll-over in Florida in the newspaper Tuesday morning and then turned the page thinking, “I don’t want to read about that.” Later a friend called with the news. A woman that I have known and enjoyed for more than twenty years was on that bus. Seriously injured, she remains in a hospital far from home. Her husband, who I met for the first time two weeks ago, lost his life in the accident.

I don’t know—it’s just that when you take a vacation with your husband, you have this expectation that you will both come home. But sometimes, people don’t.

As I perused my regular blogs today, I realized that at least two of my “daily reads" have experienced losses recently, and may well be thinking the way I am right now. It may be a cliché, but I’m going to say it regardless. Don’t ever forget that life comes hard and fast and unexpectedly.

Make sure to tell the people you care about that you love them. Today.

Middle Passages Who?

Some of my regular readers will recall that I am slogging my way through The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron. The daily requirement of this process is to write three stream-of-conscious pages each morning, first thing. I give myself a "B" with regard to my dedication to this practice. Though I don’t get to my morning pages every day, when I do, I love them. It’s self-indulgent and over-the-top rewarding to write whatever you want for a half-hour each day. And while I give myself a lower grade, say a "C-," in completing the ongoing lessons in the workbook, I’m OK with that too, because regardless of how my report card reads, the coaching still gets to me.

For example, today I was playing catch up with the assignments in Lesson Five. At the end of each chapter, we are supposed to reflect on the week's progress. During this check in, the first thing the author wants to know is how many days we completed the morning pages. At the end of this chapter though, she tagged the following language onto that query:

“Have you discovered the page-and-a-half truth point yet? Many of us find that pay dirt in our writing occurs after a page-and-a-half of vamping.”

Curious, I flipped back three pages and read what I had just written. At the page-and-a-half spot, here is what I found:

“I owe so much to Middle Passages. It pulled me up when I could have crashed way down. It kept me going when I had no idea what to do. It’s funny though, to talk about a blog like it’s a third party – when, in fact, Middle Passages is me. All me. I wrote it. I dedicated myself to it. It is by far what led me to were I am today. But here's the thing. It wasn’t some other person who wrote all those blog posts – it was me.”

I do, in fact, think of Middle Passages sometimes as living, breathing being, so it's helpful to remind myself that the one in charge of the inhaling and exhaling is me. Middle Passages didn’t keep me going. I kept me going. As my daughter used to say when she was small: “I do mom. I do myself.”

Like a toddler, I still struggle to make sense of this new life of mine. But similar to my then little girl, I’m figuring it out because "I do."

Oh, right.

Note to self. It’s me on the other side of them-there fingertips.


How about you? When you write stream-of-conscious, do you discover a page-and-a-half truth point?

Dipping My Big Toe in

So, last week I left town for a total of two days—an afternoon, a full day in the middle, and a morning on the back side—yet for some reason, I feel like I’ve been gone a lifetime. Perhaps it has something to do with returning home at the end of last week to—gulp—work. Don’t worry; it’s the same old deal. I’m still here trying to network my way to a productive freelance business-writing business, and since I was away for a portion of the week, I entered the house Friday afternoon feeling guilty enough to jump right into edits on a brochure project that has been trickling along (not by my choice). Then I granted myself a weekend off.

I dove head first into yesterday after receiving word that my proposal for a good-sized job has been accepted. Then came a networking call to learn about a specific business network, after which I began writing a new brochure, featuring the resume writing portion of LCS Writes. A kind friend told me if I create the piece, he’ll display it in the lobby of his employment firm. As I muddled through all this, I asked myself, “What about Middle Passages?”

Phone interviews take preparation though, so I jotted down questions for a scheduled conversation with a resume candidate—followed by a trip to the post office to open a business PO Box. Then it was on to more back-end work—writing proposals and invoices and updating spreadsheets, after which I conducted the actual phone interview. It all has to take priority.

I had a dread, when I took a short break last week that it would be difficult to dive into the Middle Passages routine when I returned, and I was right. As a result, yesterday’s post was a poorly edited regurgitation of one of my first essays, written when I was just beginning to understand the phrase “compelled to write.” Today’s post is that much worse.

Bear with me as I rediscover how to swim.

A Stranger in the House

Our cat will turn seven next week. In a rare display of tolerance she allowed herself to perch on my lap as I sat in front of the computer this weekend, which reminded me of this early piece. Today folks, you get an edited "oldy but a goody." It's fun to see how my writing style has changed. Oh, and as feline demonstrations of affection go, the four of us manage, although wouldn't you know, both my daughter and the cat practice the art of ignoring each other.

A Stranger in the House (March 2003)

My mother was allergic to animals. At least that’s what she told us so straight- faced that I was an adult before I realized hardly a sniffle ever announced itself in our home. To her defense, or maybe to her credit, Mom didn’t like animals, but with six vocal children expressing a chorus of desires, her disingenuousness was a way to shut us off at the source, as it were. We believed we couldn’t have animals in our house, and therefore rarely asked.

Aside from a goldfish that went belly up I never had a pet, and my early exposure to animals was decidedly not positive. During a first shining moment of independence, my mother considered five-year-old me responsible enough to walk a bottle of vanilla to Mrs. Wiegle’s house, two doors down. Chest puffed, I marched down the street and encountered Brandy and Benny, the Wiegles’ Golden Retrievers, who knocked me down in what I recognize now as tail-wagging friendship, but which that day sent me stumbling home wailing in fear.

Then there was Pluto, another Golden Retriever who terrorized the asphalt playground at St. Paul’s School. I never had first hand experience with Pluto, but often witnessed him lunging at my horrified schoolmates, tearing their brown bag lunches away with his teeth while I cowered, invisible I hoped, against the brick wall around the corner.

To add insult to injury, Jenny, a black lab, and Patty, a black lab Irish setter mix, moved in across the street. Territorial with regard to their own yard, in addition they adopted mine. So I spent years cutting across my front lawn on the way home from school screaming “Jenny, Patty!” in a panic as they tore across the street at me, growling and barking. Name recognition always worked, but that didn’t stop my unmitigated terror each afternoon that perhaps one time it wouldn’t.

Is it any wonder that as I write this, long grown and married, with an only daughter approaching her teenage years, that our house has been empty of all but human inhabitants?

But that is about to change. Under the desk in our kitchen today rests a litter box filled with the prerequisite 2 inches. Food dishes are tucked in the corner, and Periwinkle, a 9-week-old white and tabby mixture, waits for us to drive her home from the animal shelter. Our daughter lay awake in a frenzy of excitement last night, overjoyed at the idea of a pet of her own. As I write this though, I sit contemplating how, in spite of my dread, I allowed this decision to be made -- made the decision really, that our family will welcome another member. And what I have figured is that while a kitten may upset the flowing rhythm we have developed in our home, inviting one to move in has to do with love and compromise, highlighting the way raising children requires us to become more in life than what we’ve been so far.

You see, our daughter has beseeched us for a dog. “Everyone has one,” she says, and she’s not far from wrong. Our cousins who live next door got a dog this year; her best friend did too. All the neighbors have dogs, and this year in school, when she was requested to write an essay about her “family” she was the only one in her class without a pet.

Unlike my mother but considering my dubious history, I dealt with this situation honestly. “Sweetie, Mom’s not much of a dog person. But even if I were, you know we can’t have a puppy. Dad and I both work full-time and the house is empty all day. There is no one to train a puppy. ” She accepted this, albeit muttering, “Why did I get stuck with this family?” unaware that her comments were not falling on deaf ears, so to speak.

At ten-years-old, most days she is my friend, walking hand-in-hand across parking lots and shopping malls. But there is evidence of puberty stalking her -- insecurity with regard to how to respond to the teasing of her peers, hair-trigger emotional outbursts caused by imagined slights. I am reminded of the ancient saga of my own teen years, tantrums and fist poundings into a pillow. Would it have made a difference if I had my own someone to love unconditionally through that challenging time? It’s too late for me to know, but our daughter is going to get a chance to find out.

With no siblings with whom to share the burden of parental focus, it’s clear she needs an addition to her team, an evening up of the sides. And while a puppy is out of the question, our overwhelming desire to see our daughter grow up confident and secure dictates that we engineer a concession.

A cat, based on the feedback from those who know far better than we, is at least an easier proposition. And while it took a year to step out of our comfort zone to and arrive at this point, perhaps the gift we give our girl today may also be a present to ourselves. Periwinkle will be our daughter’s cat, but after one visit to meet her as she somersaulted across the shelter, I'm pretty sure she'll take hold of all of us, inflating the love that we currently share.

It's my sneaking suspicion that since cats delegate emotion in minute doses, what they do bestow touches their owners that much more. Sure, puppies are warm blooded and generous in their devotion, but the affection that cats deign to bequeath may be treasured more for the infrequency. For our family, a trade off of sorts--tongue lapping love and messes on the floor, or purring acceptance, and claws sharpening on the living room sofa. The sofa bit not withstanding; this controlled type of love seems right for us.

So, change is in the air, and yes I’m a bit uneasy. I can’t deny that I am eyeing our pristine furniture and the kitty litter scooper with angst. But there is nothing in life that we do for our children that doesn’t force us to grow.

The smile on our daughter’s face as she danced around her room last night made it clear that in spite of my pains, this growth spurt will be well worth the trouble.

Until Monday

I'm taking a break from blogging for the next few days, so here is a winter scene to carry you through.

I'll be back next week.

Turning on the Internal Editor

I didn’t plan on entering but I was stuck for a writing topic. As I perused a few blogs, I realized it was that last day for Carol’s and Simon’s writing contest, which involved a choice of prompts. Why not take their ideas to see what I could generate? Thus, two weeks ago, I wrote a short story including the number two, the word poison(ing) and a beach scene, not intending to forward it anywhere. Late in the afternoon though, I thought: “Heck, why not?” and pressed send. After that impulsive gesture, I took another look and recognized that that I had failed in my proofreading due diligence. Chalk it up to a lesson learned.

In spite of my self-criticism, every time a story comes out of me, it’s a victory, and I want to extend a huge thank you to Carol and Simon not only for offering me the tools to generate the piece, but also for taking the time to critique the thirteen stories they received. Click here, and here if you want to read two of the fantastic winning entries. Below you'll find my edited and improved (I think) submission.

In case you are interested, when I told my husband and daughter about the topic of this piece, they expressed horror; claiming that these prompts stimulated some kind of latent sick-o tendency in me. To tell the truth, I feel a little odd about it too.



The Sting of it

After two hours on the beach, her skin itched, and she was pretty sure she’d contracted yet another case of sun poisoning. Looking down, she noticed a line of welts traveling up her arms. The tops of her thighs were covered with a pink patch of bloated hives. “No fair, no fair,” she thought. “It’s mid-July. It’s only my first day at the beach all summer. Doctor’s orders, I lathered up with the sunscreen I snagged off the counter in the kitchen, not once, but twice—this new stuff smells terrible. For crying out loud, I even wimped out and parked myself under this umbrella.” Not one to take medical warnings lightly, aside from staying out of the sun entirely, she followed the rules.

So far this summer, her favorite time of year had included overtime hours at the office, a business trip to Seattle where, of course, there was no such thing as sun, and two weeks of unrelenting rain once she returned home. For the last fourteen days she had slogged through the damp and mold of her beloved season, longing for a hot, dry Saturday afternoon by the ocean. The striped-cloth beach chair that her husband called the “PTC,” (Professional Tanning Chair) waited in the trunk of the Toyota for a day when the schedule remained clear—and the sky did too.

During the rain, she had planned the trip in her mind. She’d pack a small lunch, slice some fruit and throw in a hard-boiled egg and a bottle of water. This healthy snack would justify the two dollar bills she’d jam into her pocket, in anticipation of the ice cream truck’s arrival. Grinning, she imagined herself as a giant among a snaking line of clamoring toddlers; Goliath surrounded by a swirl of jiggling Davids, waiting their turn at the open window. The little ones would struggle to select from “Bottle Rockets” that would smear their faces blue, triangular cupped “Snow Cones” and classic orange “Twin Pops” that would dribble down their chins.

Shifting her bare feet side-to-side on the hot tar behind this pack of indecisive children would only enhance her afternoon indulgence. She could almost taste the extravagance of her unhesitating selection; vanilla soft-serve between two gooey chocolate chip cookies. The treat would begin to melt by the time she traipsed over the scalding sand back to her spot. There, she’d lean back in her canvas chair, gaze out to the ripples reflecting on the ocean, and lick the edges of her confection as it dripped in the heat.

Yup, she’d had it all planned, but now that she’d finally made it to the beach; her skin was mounting a full-on revolt.

Adjusting the tilt of the umbrella so that it sat directly over her head, she turned back to the novel that had engrossed her until the itch became too distracting. “I’m just going to ignore it,” she muttered. “I’ve waited too long for this moment, and darn it, the ice cream truck hasn’t arrived yet.” The teal sea swished and whispered as the tide measured its way in. Hard-packed sand in front of her of lay frozen in washboard ridges shaped by the previous high tide. Dollops of drying seaweed fanned out like undisciplined hair through which blue mussel shells sprawled with open wings.

Trying to ignore the torment that tracked like ants up her arms, she closed her eyes, listening to the beach--the lull of the ocean as it inhaled and released, the bleat of the lifeguard’s whistle as he waved his arms at the children clambering on boulders lining private property. Behind her, the indistinct muttering of a radio offered company to the teenage couple reclining sided by side on a bamboo beach mat.

The warm breeze played soft fingers through her scalp, and darn it, she so wanted to enjoy it. But the tingle invading her thighs like a swarm of biting mosquitoes began to crawl down her shins. Grabbing her towel, she pressed it to her flesh. Rubbing it across her burning legs she fanned what had been a flaming itch into searing pain.

Slamming her book shut, she tossed it into her bag and stood, folding her towel. “Perhaps if I ran into the ocean,” she thought, but the idea of salt adding its fire to the hooking burs now jabbing into her skin was too much. “Fine--I’ll go home. Man, this is unbelievable. I’ve never had sun poisoning as bad as this.”

Folding her PTC and tucking the umbrella under her arm, she picked up her canvas tote and turned toward the car, gasping when the chair scraped across her ravaged legs as she squeezed through the opening in the boulders bisecting the parking lot and the beach. Heaving the gear into her trunk, she opened the car door and sat, barely noticing the scalding seat--her vision of a day at the beach steamrollered by a compelling need to stand under the healing flow of a cool shower.

Driving with one hand, she scratched with the other, her arms, her thighs, the back of her neck, even her cheek. She could feel welts rising on her throat and chin. Accelerating through a yellow light at the state highway, she raced the three miles home. “Speed limit, be damned,” she panted, as she jerked to a stop in the driveway and leaped out of the car. Vaulting up the steps, she flung the screen door behind her as she stepped into the kitchen to the bemused face of her husband.

“Hon?” He asked. “Did you see a bottle sitting on the counter? The container for the drain cleaner sprung a leak. I put the goop in another one so I could treat the clog in the outside shower, but now it’s missing.”