Discovering Jade

Potato Soup

2012-01-14T15:41:00.000-08:00

The weather has gotten unbearably cold and that almost always means soup. I am new to cooking, so my soup-repertoire is a little small. Since I didn't want to eat leftover chili for three meals in a row, I thought I'd work on my potato soup recipe.

Well… it's not exactly my recipe. I did steal it off the internet. I made it really interesting though, by adding cream cheese, garlic, and Italian seasoning.

The recipe is rather simple:

Saute vegetables for the base (I use onions, celery, radishes, and carrot) in butter, in a large stock pot. Add chopped potatoes, garlic, Italian seasoning (I make that myself too!), and enough chicken broth and cover the potatoes; bring to a boil then cook, covered, until potatoes are softened.

Add butter, cream cheese, and milk and mash potatoes. Today, I served my soup with delicious Italian bread and shaved parmesan cheese.

I like this soup a little chunky, so I don't smash the potatoes completely. The first time I made it too thin so I thickened it up some with some instant potato flakes; the last time I made it far too thick and it was more like mashed potatoes than soup. I think it's a good idea to have a little extra chicken broth on hand to thin it out when necessary. The nice thing about this soup is you don't ruin the flavour by experimenting with consistency, so it's easy to make adjustments at the last minute without having to throw the whole batch away.

Snow is in the forecast, so today was a great day for chunky potato soup and a fire.

Tomorrow's menu consists of pork roast and some kind of yummy vegetable, and then I'll have enough leftovers to feed myself for the entire week!

Experiments in chili

2012-01-14T11:40:00.000-08:00

I tried this chili recipe last night, with a couple variations: dried navy beans and 13-bean combination (because I'm a sucker for not using shit that comes in cans); I also used about half a can of tomato sauce, and chopped tomato instead of canned tomato. I'm pretty sure that using the tomato sauce made it a little less 'clean-eating' than the original recipe called for, but I was happy with the results.

What I learned: the beans I used needed to soak a lot longer than I thought. I boiled the beans for two minutes then let them soak for an hour; by the time I used them in the chili (several hours later), many of them were still rather hard and crunchy.

Apart from that, I'd call the chili mostly-successful. This is only the second chili recipe I've made (first recipe courtesy of Bunny, who is quite possibly the best cook I know after my mama) and I'm looking forward to improving it.

Next on my list of experiments: marinara sauce, because pasta is proof of the existence of god as far as I'm concerned.

Hey look, a pie

2011-12-15T22:05:00.000-08:00

Check it out. I did domestic stuff, and it looks fantastic! I don't cook, as some of you know. I have a new need to learn to cook like a grown up -as opposed to cooking frozen not-meats in a convection oven or eating cold cereal while leaning over the kitchen sink- but nearly every time I do cooking I hurt something.

There was the time shortly after moving into a new apartment that I started a fire with butter; I wiped soot off the counters for two months. Or the time I burned my hand grabbing the handle of a skillet that had come out of a 350 degree oven only moments before.

I'm sure I've told you about my childhood, and how food would magically appear in front of me with absolutely no effort or decision required on my part. Until I moved out of my mom's house, food just happened around me (and if you know my mom, you'll know that food happened A LOT); once I was out on my own, pop-tarts and take-out pizza are what happened to me (and my ass).

So now I'm 30-I-don't-know and only just now learning The Cooking. Sometimes it's a disaster, but it often makes very pretty pictures. Oh and in case you're wondering, it's apple pie which I don't even like.

Ugh

2011-12-07T08:14:00.001-08:00

This blog needs an update…

I didn't finish NaNo; didn't even come close. I'm still writing that silly novel though (and by 'writing' I mean 'thinking about writing', or 'not giving it up').

I still have a job, for now. No news on the structure or how future arrangements will be made. So I'm waiting, and I'm not very good at it.

One of my employees passed away a couple weeks ago and I've got odd feelings about it.

Holidays are kind of gross for me. Every year there are things I look forward to and enjoy very much, and every year I fight tears in silent, in-between moments of activity and I don't understand why.

The end.

Write-fail

2011-11-12T09:24:00.001-08:00

Working on a ridiculous novel, and I don’t know where to take it. I don’t pre-write; I’m not adamantly opposed, I just don’t know how to do it. Outlines and drafts sort of escape me. This is what makes me feel like not-a-writer.

I went to an open lecture by a local author a couple years ago, and one of the bits of advice he gave is to get up early on the weekend and write for four hours each day. He said he wrote many novels in 8 hours bits of time over the weekend while maintaining his main career as a lawyer. I was impressed, and did that for one weekend. I got a lot of writing done, and most of it wasn’t even terrible; I didn’t stick with it though, and now I have no novels and a bunch of over-sleeping piled up behind me.

So now I’m working on a silly novel and even something as low stress as a stupid writing project that will never see the light of day is filling me with feelings of doubt and anxiety and failure.

Also, I’m hungry and evidently I can’t write when I’m hungry. Earlier it was coffee that I needed, and before that a cigarette (cause I still haven’t quit, if you’re wondering). Perhaps I am manufacturing reasons why I can’t write.

Is it cold in here? I need slippers…

Lacking momentum

2011-11-08T19:56:00.000-08:00

Writing has a certain momentum, right? Fiction or flash or poetry or blogging… if you don't keep at it regularly the skill to create satisfying prose and annoyingly clever word usements atrophies.

It's disappointing to admit that this has happened to me. I have always gone through phases where I write less frequently, but the times for weeks on end when I'm constantly working on stuff in my head and waking up in the middle of the night to jot down ideas or whole paragraphs always felt like it balanced out the other times.

Up until a few weeks ago I was writing almost daily. Nothing earth-moving, and nothing worth sharing, but I was doing it. Usually while I did other morning-type business, which is the best time to spend a few minutes focused on nothing else because you're stuck in a 3x4 room, but whatever.

And then I made the mistake of verbalising it. I told a friend I was "writing more", because I was all pleased with me. And then, suddenly, I didn't write more. I wrote less, until I was writing nothing at all. This comes at a really gross time for me, because I was sort of preparing for NaNoWriMo and I was pretty excited for it. I've never participated, and the last two years something ridiculously unavoidable has come up and prevented me from having the emotional energy to do it.

This year, I just got lazy. Oh, I'm busy for sure and there are 42 other things that need my attention, but I really could have made time for it if my words hadn't dried up and blown away like one of those annoying weeds I used to make wishes on as a girl.

So I'm checking out the website and drooling over Scrivener and following the Facebook blah-blah and wishing I could find words that wanted to come out of my head.

I quit

2011-08-27T08:31:00.000-07:00

So, I'm quitting smoking. Again. I'm a little pissed off about it too. I stopped smoking several years ago and managed to stick with it for about five years. Starting up again is the thing that pisses me off, though truthfully I really enjoyed smoking for this past year.

I think I'm genetically predisposed to do things that are not good for me. I do okay most of the time; I don't put really bad things into my body and I'm somewhat health conscious about what I eat - save for a weakness for those little chocolate frosted doughnuts from Hostess. You know the ones, they're bite-sized and leave your mouth feeling like you ate melted wax?

Unfortunately, I'm also genetically predisposed towards being lazy, which means getting less exercise than I should. So the result is that I sit around eating little doughnuts and smoking cigarettes.

So, quitting smoking. Wish me luck. Or maybe start saving coins to donate to my family for funeral expenses just in case I throw myself into traffic over the stress of it.

Yesterday

2011-08-19T22:07:00.000-07:00

I stayed home yesterday so I wouldn't have to be around anyone else. I worked; I ate food that I didn't taste; I did laundry that I refused to fold. I thought about getting my life organised, but I couldn't find the motivation for it.

I was mostly okay. After all this time, it's easier to put my mind on other things. The pain is there, but it's easier to ignore. My sense of loss is numbed. What's left is sadness and confusion. I have gotten pretty good at dealing with that sadness and confusion though, so I felt okay.

And then I had a dream last night. In it, we were talking about his suicide. He told me everything; he explained the why of it all, and how he came to make that decision. The things he told me eased my mind, and helped me gain some perspective on how that affected me.

I woke up sobbing, and completely unable to remember the details of what he told me. Those answers I've craved for so long, that I felt like I had for such a brief moment, were gone. The clarity of the dream left me and what I found in its place was a bitterness I haven't felt for a long time, marked by a need for answers that I thought I'd put behind me.

And today I'm feeling all the numbed confusion I felt eleven years ago, when I woke up the day after to realise that my husband was dead and I didn't know why. My brain knows it was eleven years ago, but my heart feels like it was yesterday.

Unplanned

2011-07-05T08:15:00.000-07:00

I did an unplanned run last night. I think those are the best kind. I have been away from running for a couple months, and have been smoking more and more, so planning running is becoming less appealing for me.

So last night when I had a sudden whim to run, I didn't talk myself out of it. It was just starting to cool off from a very warm day; fireworks were ramping up, despite most of them being illegal in my state; I'd had a couple days of heavy food and more alcohol than I normally consume, so it was really past time.

I asked The Roommate along, because it's always better with a buddy, and we set out on a run one minute/walk two minutes pace. We kept that up for a mile, then decided to take the rest of the exercise at a slower, more relaxed pace (on account of the smoking).

One of my favourite things to do is walk through neighbourhoods and imagine my life in the houses I see. I fantasize about where my furniture will be, or the room devoted solely to my knitting; I imagine myself in an overly-large kitchen, drinking wine and cooking pasta for one, and not sharing my space with another living being. I never fancied myself such a loner, but I find that when I'm constructing my life in my head there isn't anyone else there.

My life so far is as unplanned as last night's run. I'm not sure if I'm doing it right, and it doesn't always come out precisely how I want it; but I feel content for now, and that's something that feels a little new.

Reunion

2011-06-05T13:30:00.000-07:00

I went to a family reunion last weekend. The concept of family has always been a bitter thing for me. My mom and I left ours many years ago; I didn't keep in touch with them, and when I did have contact it was fraught with emotional pain.

This reunion was particularly emotional; most of the people there I hadn't ever met, or I'd last seen when I was small enough that I don't remember them. With one exception: my aunt Donna.

Aunt Donna was my favourite growing up. She was a teenager when I was born, and I was her baby. We were close my whole childhood, until we weren't. I missed her, and I didn't even know it until I saw her again.

She's really amazing, and she's still my favourite. Or she's my favourite again. Aunt Donna is beautiful, inside and out, and I am quite thankful that she is in my life again.

The rest of the family is lovely as well. I have rarely felt so loved and accepted, so immediately at home as I did when I was with them.

Vomit, poetry-like

2011-04-21T08:04:00.000-07:00

I was looking at my analytics data and I saw a hit on my blog that made me giggle. Someone (after my own heart, I might add) Googled the phrase "vomit haiku"; they landed here - and immediately bounced, no doubt utterly disappointed, having found neither vomit nor a haiku.

This is for you, unknown vomit poetry seeker:

Regurgitation
Clever little bits of life
You sought, so I wrote

I wish I was a fire engine

2011-04-20T20:58:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling restless tonight. I want to run again, but ... (this is the part where I launch into my complaints) - I'm exhausted, my ankle hurts, it's late and I should get up early tomorrow, I have work I should be doing right now.

There's more, but I'll spare you. Mostly, I'm just restless. A couple really big things in my life are stalled right now, and I want to do something about them. Some of them I have no control over, and even when I do have control the doing is hard for me, so I'm stuck not-doing.

I'm also feeling a bit sorry for myself lately. It's embarrassing, really. I thought grown-ups weren't supposed to feel that way, but it turns out we totally do.

So, I'll do some knitting (leg-warmers, I know you want some); maybe take a bath with some new girly-smelling stuff I got in the mail today; maybe I'll work.

Or, you know, I'll go to bed on account of it being 9PM already.

/sigh

Take that!

2011-04-17T08:26:00.000-07:00

Remember last week when I mockingly said I'd run twenty miles? It was a little joke with myself, a bit of good-natured fun poked at me because I'd just got done setting a goal I didn't keep, and I knew there was no way I'd rack up twenty miles.

Well, I did it. Actually, I did twenty-one miles, and now I'm sticking my tongue out at me for all the mockery.

I feel really good. Tired, sore in spots, but mostly good. I do an unladylike amount of eating these days, and I sleep far more than I used to. I don't think I will be able to run twenty miles every week, but I am really pleased with myself so far.

Also, having a hobby that requires shoes is maybe the sexiest thing about running.

Friday workouts

2011-04-15T18:13:00.000-07:00

This week has been pretty stressful for me; despite really needing to run off some of that stress I can't find the motivation to do it. It's raining, and apparently I don't like running in the rain nearly as much as I thought I did yesterday.

I decided to re-visit the gym-ling in my apartment complex -I haven't worked out there since the last time Bunny and I were there... like two years ago- and see about this treadmill running.

And I realised almost immediately why I didn't stick with running last time: I hate the treadmill. I was so shocked at me. Not long ago I was contemplating what among my current furniture could be burned so I'd have room for a treadmill, so imagine my surprise when I wanted to cut my own feet off after running, well, not much on that wretched thing.

Today's workout was unsatifying. I did a few reps on some arm work-out machines (those machines are built for much larger people than me); some pathetic jogging on a great hulking beast of a rotten-mother-effing treadmill; and a wee bit of running in the parking lot on the way back to my apartment (I took the long way home).

And now I'm full of complaints. I have rain dripping down my most sensitive of spots; I have a twinge in my right ankle that won't go away; and now I'm just cranky. Thank Goddess for Fridays, and steak and beer, and Alias.

Happy weekend!

Rain

2011-04-14T19:10:00.000-07:00

I discovered recently that I don't mind running in the rain. It's refreshing to have a little rain to cool me off; cleansing rain, washing away the sweat and frustration and stress of my days.

Today, it rained. A lot. I didn't do any running, so the rain was not refreshing. I was not cooled; frigid drops did not cleanse my stress.

They just made me mad. All over again.

Progress (and a touch of pride)

2011-04-14T08:42:00.000-07:00

I went for an early morning run yesterday. I have been experimenting lately with sugar-intake before my runs, and I'm all stocked up on orange juice. I was really dragging yesterday morning and did something that I haven't done yet since I started running again: I put the music on.

I don't run with music. Partly because I typically run with buddies, and partly because the only time I ever run alone is during the wee, dark hours of the morning; having loud German industrial music blocking out all other sound when one is running in the dark seems like a dumb idea. I like being aware of my surroundings, and I like not being raped-and-murdered, so I leave the headphones at home.

I needed something to motivate me though and music is usually my go-to motivator, so I put the Rammstein on (one ear-bud only, so I could still hear bushes rustling and footsteps behind me) and I ran.

I ran for nearly seven minutes straight. I didn't mean to, I just forgot to get tired. This is a huge accomplishment for me, being out of shape (and a filthy smoker on top of that). When I realised how well I was doing, I nearly cried from the joy of having tangible, recordable proof of my progress.

This is what I love about running: the results are immediately evident. My clothes fit better within days; I had more energy and motivation to do things; I felt better emotionally; I felt stronger walking up and down my stairs with the laptop, handbag, gym bag, extra pair of shoes...

I even relish the aches and pains: sore muscles that prove I put effort into it; achy shin-bones that remind me to watch how I land; stiff joints that tell me when I need rest.

I'm a runner. The simplicity confounds me.

Running gems

2011-04-11T19:26:00.000-07:00

Found this on my run tonight. I have a thing for playing cards, and when I find one I have to pick it up.

Spiritually, the number six is said to represent balance, harmony, serenity, and enlightenment. Since I find that running helps me with all of those things, this silly playing card seemed fitting.

Also, I like to find stuff.

Achievement-fail

2011-04-10T17:08:00.000-07:00

I fail at achieving my goals. I almost wrote that I fail at goal-setting, but realised that 'goal-setting' totally isn't my problem. I set some very big goals for myself, when I set them. No, I fail at doing what I set out to do. I always have, for as long as I can remember.

Most of the things I have that I feel proud of I have attained with little effort and virtually no planning whatsoever. I worked hard to hold onto these things that make me proud, but how I got them in the first place to even know I wanted to hold onto them? Beats me. Maybe I'm lucky; maybe I'm in the right place at the right time (a phrase I dislike intensely, for those of you keeping track).

The goals that I actually set, though... oh how I fail at them. I've got some very fancy running goals: to run 20 miles in three weeks was my March goal (it was random, I ran a lot the first couple weeks then figured out I could totally do it); for April, 60 miles for the month; this week's smaller goal was to hit 18 miles.

Maybe these seem like lofty goals since I'm so new at running, but they felt attainable to me, right up to the moment I didn't get there. I was three miles short of my goal last month, and another three miles this week.

I know what you're thinking: get over it. Right? Of course, it's not the bane of my training, these three wee miles. I know this. I can still make my goal of 60 for the month, right?

My frustration is the knowledge that I know I should be able to reach it, and I intentionally didn't pick some unrealistic, un-achievable goal. I should be able to do it, I'm ready to do it. Except that I'm totally not. My body is tired, so I'm resting. I just feel guilty, like I should be doing more. Guilty towards what or whom, I haven't any idea but it's very big guilt (have I mentioned that I'm a recovering Catholic?).

So, my running shoes are lying right where I kicked them off this morning, and I'm resting. Even though I wanted more miles before the end of the week. Even though resting makes me feel bad. Even though I see the runners from my balcony when I go outside to smoke (got you, didn't I? Now you're really annoyed with me). The runners outside make me jealous; I want to dash outside and catch them, and make them tell me how they feel when they get all tripped up with failed goals.

Next week: 20 miles. Just 'cause I know I won't.

Lilacs

2011-04-09T16:39:00.000-07:00

It's nearly Spring, and my lilacs are starting to look alive.

Can I tell you how much I hate Spring?

Running gems

2011-04-09T16:36:00.000-07:00

I found this little rock on my morning run today. I thought it was a piece of candy at first (gross); when I realised it was a little rock, I picked it up.

I find myself attached to objects (sometimes more than people), and I sometimes associate these objects with my feeling of that particular time. This little rock looks like the sort of decorative bit one would put in a plant, and it was pretty once. It had a purpose at one point in its little rock life, until it ended up tossed into the street.

I was enjoying the run with a friend, enjoying the day -mildly warm, a little sunny, but still cool enough to enjoy a run. Something shiny caught my eye, and I immediately transferred all my good, happy feelings to this stupid little glass rock lying in the gutter.

Neighbourhood Jaunt

2011-04-09T12:15:00.000-07:00

Today's run was very satisfying. Before I met up with my running buddy I focused on my breathing; I learned interesting things about how breathing while running affects your internal organs. Now that I understand a little better how my body works, I find the little physical aches and pains to be tolerable and not at all discouraging.

I also explored new neighbourhoods that I'd never been in, and I played at a playground for a few minutes - they have little spin-around toys I didn't have when I was a girl. It's a basin that you sit in and someone spins you around; not only does it go in circles, but it also tilts on its axis so you get a really dizzying feeling.

I didn't push myself too hard so my pace wasn't great, but I enjoyed myself. It is getting easier, and now that I know how to breathe the side-stitches I used to get are not nearly as bad now.

Running in the rain

2011-03-29T19:48:00.000-07:00

I ran in the rain today. If you know me, you know I don't like rain. I don't like to be cold, first off; and I don't like to wear wet clothing.

But I ran in the rain, and it was good. My knees are hurting me, not a lot but a little. I found a dollar on my run today, lying wet and sad on the ground. I put it in my pocket and took it home.

And I splashed in puddles. That was my favourite part.

The ugly cake

2011-03-20T20:40:00.000-07:00

I'm making green tea cakes for Bunny, because she's leaving next week and I promised her I would.

I have not much experience cooking; I'm something of a perfectionist, and I'd rather never do something at all than try it and fail. I want everything to come out just right the first time, and every time.

Life doesn't work that way though, and I have learned that particular lesson enough times that you'd think it would stick by now.

I was feeling a little sorry for myself as I made these tonight, until the last one came out of the steamer. It looks like a little cake-explosion, all lopsided and imperfect, sitting amongst some very lovely tea cakes. This should bother me, but the sheer ugliness of this particular cake makes me want to gobble it up and throw the others out.

I won't, because they're not really mine anymore; but I think I will make Bunny split this ugly one with me tomorrow.

Saturday

2011-03-19T12:03:00.000-07:00

I saw a runner on the trail this morning. She had on great clothes and cute shoes and a baseball-style cap. She was maybe in her 50s, a little bit overweight, and looked like she was really struggling.

We met eyes, and she gave me a little thumb's up. We shared a big grin and I felt a part of something larger, just for a minute.

I ran with a buddy just under 3 miles; when I say that I ran, I really mean that I spent some time running and some time walking. I think it counts though, so I'm sticking with "I ran". My pace is getting slowly better, and I didn't feel like wheezing or dying.

Running

2011-03-16T20:55:00.000-07:00

Oh, yeah. I'm a runner. Perhaps you've seen my widget? That's how committed I am.

It's a funny sort of thing, running. I've taken it up and put it down a few times over the years, and I've never enjoyed it. I never really got past the "I hate running" stage.

My friend, Bunny, is this fantastic runner. She's very good at it, and it's impressive and motivating watching her run. She's leaving soon, moving across the country, and I've recently got this idea that I should be running with her. I'll miss her desperately, and I'm enjoying running with her.

It occurred to me that I could have done this with her years ago. I had a little cry about that a few days ago, sort of kicking myself for not pursuing this sooner. I realised that even if I had, I would have grown bored and dropped it eventually (this happens to me, I'm a bit of a flake). As short as my time is, I'm glad I'm doing it now. Now it means something really special to me; there's a value here I may not have understood otherwise. I feel like she's passing on her running spirit to me, a little bit 'o Bunny that will stay with me wherever I go.

I wonder if she'll let me cut off her foot and keep it on my keychain?

un-NaNo

2011-02-24T22:02:00.000-08:00

So, I've been writing again. I won't be done in a month, and I don't care that it's not November. My head is filled with it, and barely able to hold other things. There are a lot of other things it needs to be holding now, for sure, but I'm stuck on this story. I'm having fun writing it, even though I don't know where it's going.

I mean literally - I don't know what's going to happen when I sit down to write. I have vague ideas that I want to develope these scenes more and give some more background, but when I start writing they take over. I've heard about this, other writers have told me they experience this amazing phenomenon. I have to admit, I was secretly disappointed the first time I sat down to write and my character didn't come alive and control my pen. She just sort of sat there staring at me from the page, sullen and silent, while I struggled painfully through making her do interesting things. She fought me for a long time, until she didn't.

I haven't done any real writing in days, just jotting down notes on index cards (or the backs of receipts or typed out frustratingly on my iPhone). I did some brainstorming tonight, and I think I enjoy this part of writing more than the story-telling part.

Also, my main character cooks. I had no idea.

Ink

2011-02-21T19:24:00.000-08:00

I met a lovely man today. He put ink on my body.

Therapy: free to good home

2011-02-20T14:45:00.000-08:00

I have this therapist friend whom I see infrequently. She's got amazing red hair and vibrant eyes that see straight into me. Normally that might bother me a tiny little bit, but in addition to gorgeous hair and beautiful eyes, she also has a lovely heart. Though I see her so seldom, I really love her heart.

We met just before the worst time in my life so I feel like I met her yesterday, or a lifetime ago. We became close, because the worst time of my life was also a difficult and, I think, pivotal time for her as well; since that time we have drifted in and out of one anothers' lives, but every time I see her I feel as connected to her as I've ever been.

I count her among my pretend sisters - those women who love me, despite of me or because of me; those women who know me and have seen me at my best and worst; women who are imperfect, and who continue to be so dignified in their imperfection; inspiring women who withhold judgment but who are perpetually discerning and who don't leave me twisting in my emotional discomfort. I saw her today and she listened, much in the way I imagine she listens to her clients. She also shared, painful memories and experiences. I didn't feel like a client, but I left her today feeling uplifted and encouraged and cared for.

Thanks for the free therapy, Janys.

Glad for you

2011-02-15T00:08:00.000-08:00

I was chatting with a friend the other day something big and scary in her life. It's wonderful too, for her. If it were my news, it would scare the pants off me; I'd be running into traffic praying for something large to hit me and kill me dead. Maybe one of those trucks that haul dirt, because I always wanted to be squished by a lot of dirt.

And I experienced a very interesting thing: I was so pleased for her. The very thing that would have me curled in a ball weeping was good for her. Maybe she'll need to curl in a ball and weep sometimes too, because hey - that helps. But she's happy, and I'm glad she's happy. That's a sort of new thing for me too - being glad when someone else is happy. I feel like I'm getting new emotions, for the very first time. They feel odd in my head, as though they don't quite belong to me yet. Like eating something brown and slimy and realising it tastes quite good.

I'm not sure what it's about, but there's room inside me again. It's small still, but I think it'll be good.

In the mood

2011-02-13T13:19:00.000-08:00

I learned something new today: washing my hands helps me get in the mood to write. Huh. How did I not know this before? As a practicing pagan, I have rituals for everything. Tricks I use to put me in a specific frame of mind, ways of conditioning my mind to trigger a certain set of feelings or behaviours.

When I was a girl my mom took me to a child psychologist, Gloria. I don't recall how old I was, but young enough that Gloria didn't just come out and ask me questions or prompt me to talk about certain events, like you would with an adult. Gloria had a box of hats, and a little game made up around talking about specific things while wearing a certain hat. My favourite hat, in case you're wondering, was a Sherlock Holmes style hat that did not fit my head.

Pick a hat and every time you wear that hat you talk about your dad. The really neat part was when I didn't want to talk about my dad anymore, I took the hat off. That was a rule, and it was totally unbreakable. It created a safe space for me to control a session, while also teaching me about exercising communication skills (that young children have to be taught) and about setting boundaries. When I was in college, I had a homework hat; when I go to the office on weekends and absolutely have to focus on my work and get stuff done, I have a hat for that.

So, I've washed my hands and I'm ready to write. I will forever hold gratitude for Gloria and her silly box of hats.

Remember childhood?

2011-02-12T17:52:00.000-08:00

Lazy summer days and warm nights sitting on the porch? I remember sun-tea in my grandparent's back yard and losing small toys in the pool filter. Digging in the dirt with sticks, because I liked being dirty.

I remember going to the drive-in with cousins and my favourite aunt. Motorcycle rides with my grandfather, and walking to the market with my dad for salami and mustard. I remember my toy room, full of barbies; and telling my baby cousin stories in the middle of the night when we were supposed to be sleeping.

I remember nap-time in Catholic school and a library shaped like a dome. I remember my third grade teacher - Mr. Wakefield-Evans, who used to share his croissants with me.

I remember these things like they happened to someone else. When did I get so grown-up and unhappy with life?

The Dalai Lama says:

2011-02-12T17:27:00.000-08:00

"Giving is recognized as a virtue in every major religion and in every civilized society, and it clearly benefits both the giver and the receiver. The one who receives is relieved from the pangs of want. The one who gives can take comfort from the joy their gift brings to others."

I think I was born without this little notch in my spirit. The joy that my gifts bring others... it only works with very specific others. I know other people experience something like joy that they've done something wonderful for a stranger, but I don't get that.

I've given to strangers, or helped someone I didn't know because they needed it. Sometimes they appreciate it and sometimes they expected it so they weren't as grateful; either way, I didn't feel all pleased with myself and full of the knowledge that I was doing good work.

Do you have it?

I didn't write a novel

2011-02-12T10:30:00.001-08:00

Guess what I didn't do last year. Go on, guess! No? Okay - remember NaNoWriMo? I was so excited to participate, I even bought a book written by the creator (I say that like it might be surprising that I bought a how-to book). I practised writing every day; I was going to write my pants off and complete a whole novel. Even if that novel was awful drivel, it was going to be a whole novel's-worth; that would be a huge accomplishment for me, considering I don't finish writing projects. Like, ever.

Well, I didn't do it. Work exploded on me in a fit of busy and I spent the month of November (as well as September, October, and December) with barely a day off. I didn't have time to write anything that wasn't associated with The Proposal.

I was a little sad to miss it. I realise that I don't need an organised event like that to do it anyway (and I may still), but I felt like the energy of people the world over feverishly writing bad novels would uplift me and provide encouragement. Sometimes I would see people at Starbuck's with headphones in their ears, a laptop open before them, brows furrowed and eyes dilated to pin-points and I assumed they were writing their novel-in-a-month. I wanted to cheer for them and shake their hands and say, "good job, you". I didn't want to break their concentration though, so I left them alone.

So, whatever. I didn't write a book. But I helped write a kick-ass proposal! Still waiting for the outcome of that, by the way.

/grumble

Pretty, broken things

2011-02-10T23:30:00.000-08:00

Going through my pictures tonight, thinking of things I want to photograph this weekend, I ran across this.

I feel like this: something delicate and pretty lying on the ground, waiting to be crushed.

I hope it happens by a big, steel-toed boot.

Well, hello

2011-02-10T22:08:00.000-08:00

I feel sort of funny here, which is how it happens when one spends so much time away from a blog. I've referred to my blog as a dear friend, but unlike my dearest friends the empty space here makes me feel itchy just coming back and sitting down for a chat without acknowledging my prolonged absence. Which, as a side note, makes me grateful for those friends I have who accept me back even when I don't call and don't write.

Instead of recounting every uncomfortable moment since I last updated I'll tell you instead what I did today:

I cleaned my desk. Removing empty soda cans and a bowl of old goldfishes (the baked snack cracker kind), plus a swipe with a rag made it home again.

I figured out some annoying batch scripting. I'm a goddess of simple programming, by the way. Feel free to take a few moments to wonder in awe at my extreme display of clever, go ahead.

I ate dinner (tacos - it's okay if you're jealous) while catching up on a favourite blog.

I got inspired by the aforementioned blog - to write and to take pretty pictures. The latter of which I will do this weekend while wandering around the city with my favourite Lindsey-Lush-Pants.

I am grateful today for ground meat and for the much-needed inspiration.

Friday

2010-11-19T19:19:00.000-08:00

I've been away. Here's the short version: I've been busy.

I'm working on a proposal for a new contract at work. It means long hours and a very tired brain. If we don't get awarded the bid, it also means probably looking for a new job. Gross, no?

Apart from that, work is going very well. My team is amazing. I mean, really amazing. They have been working so well together and with my busy days plus traveling, it's a nice surprise to come back and find that they've helped each other out and communicated well together. I have really got a lot on my mind with this proposal and my employees are taking care of everything, without me even asking. How fantastic is that?

We had a Thanksgiving potluck today, and I realised (with some amount of shock) that I am grateful for them. This strange, cranky group of women (plus a token male) who are so irascible and stuck in their ways make me extremely proud and thankful.

And a couple of them are terrific cooks.

Now to try to prepare for Thanksgiving, clean my apartment, catch up on daily work, sort my life out, and try to relax...

Patience, or lack thereof

2010-09-23T16:42:00.000-07:00

One of my employees really made my day today. She calls me "Boss" in an affectionate way, and for some reason that really tickles me (nobody calls me "Boss").

She knew I was having a bad day - one of many in a long line of bad days - and she made me a cup of what she calls "stress tea". I don't know what it is called, but it claims to reduce stress; it works.

She walked into my office carrying a cup of freshly brewed tea and said, "Hey Boss, drink this."

She then took a few minutes to tell me how much she appreciates my patience with her.

I almost laughed. If you know me, you know I'm not patient. Really, really not-patient. But the more she described some of her own stress and how I have been helping her deal with it I realised that I am sorta patient these days.

She comes to me 42 times each day (and I do mean each day) and has oodles of questions. They're all good, thinkish questions. Sometimes she should already know the answer, but they're still good questions. She is trying so hard and consistently exceeding my expectations; it's easy to be patient with a person who puts so much effort into her job. She admits to her own mistakes, she helps others, she does anything and everything I ask her to do. And she takes care of me when I am having a total stress-out.

Apart from all that, she's helping me grow. Her energy and style of learning is forcing me to develop that patience that I so lack. How can I not completely adore her? I'm totally giving her a raise.

Bitter disappointment

2010-08-19T20:31:00.001-07:00

Hot or cold, I'm not happy
bitter disappointment fills my mouth
leaving behind a taste like pennies.

I roll it around my tongue
pressing it into the roof of my mouth
desperately wanting to bite down
knowing it will be as empty as chewing on water.

I open my mouth
letting it flow out of me
dribbling down my front
soaking into my skin.

It streams from every pore
like so many tears
until I am dry
parched and cracking.

I expect it to be gone
to feel better, lighter.
To make room inside me for
something.
something.
something more.

And where disappointment used to sit
fat and gloating
now there's just numbness.
A big, empty numbness
A tight, hard nothing
Tasting of pennies.

Do you know?

2010-08-18T21:18:00.000-07:00

I went to work today, even though I could barely drag myself out of bed.
I did payroll and data entry and manager stuff, even though I wanted to get back in bed and pull the blankets over my head.

I went to dinner, and the library, and I came home, even though I wanted to run down the street naked and screaming.

I worked really hard at being sane. Did you see me, pretending not to be crazy?

I imagine you in your not-heaven
sitting on a chair made of clouds
drinking a pint of the angel's piss that passes for beer
turning on the TV into my world and watching me zombie around
and I wonder if you know.

Do you?

Ten years...

2010-08-18T21:01:00.000-07:00

Ten years, four hours, and fifteen minutes ago you ended one life and changed the course of another.

Five years ago, I married your best friend.

Four days ago, I realised that I am the age you were when you stole yourself away from me.

Today, I am glad you came, and that you left.

Can I put an earring on a milk carton?

2010-07-20T22:21:00.001-07:00

I'm struggling with acceptance today, or for the last 25 years. I lost an earring.

I know, enough said, right?

I got this very fancy-for-me pair of hand-made earrings at the local arts and crafts open-air market, shaped like music symbols (totally not a musician so I can't tell you which symbol. Suffice to say they are sexy).

I feel a deeper sense of loss and sadness than one silly pair of earrings seems to warrant. I mean, come on - I'm no stranger to loss. The life-changing losses I have experienced have taught me how to accept that some things just don't go right.

So why am I struggling? Because I really, really, really want to find this earring while recognising that it is the most ridiculous thing in the world to be sad-faced over. And I am coming to realise that the most traumatic loss I have faced in a long time is one lone, lost earring. The silliness of it doesn't lessen my sense of sad, but I can remember a time when I'd trade all the things of value -from shiny new earrings to every person I've ever cared about- for five more minutes with a dead loved one, or to repair that friendship I utterly destroyed in a moment of stupidity.

Perspective, right? The heart doesn't have physical memory of being broken. My brain remembers more serious losses, but the brick-wall of numbness and time cushions my heart and makes it susceptible to getting bruised because I lost a goddamned earring.

So, acceptance. And, apparently, some perspective. 'Cause, you know, some people can't afford shoes.

Up or down?

2010-07-17T21:30:00.000-07:00

As a mother of five, with another on the way, my ironing board is always up.

Do you visusalise what you hear? I grew up in old houses, the kind that had cabinets for everything. Open the cabinet, slide the latch, and the ironing board falls down; usually with a crash, followed by my mother hollering my first-and-middle-names from the other room... where she was no doubt scrubbing my school uniform shirts on a wash board.

No, I'm kidding about that last part.

Maybe this is why people misunderstand me. They're visualising, but the wrong things, of course.

Does your ironing board go up or down?

Or, not.

2010-07-16T20:48:00.000-07:00

Chrissie Hynde sings words straight out of my own soul. Or maybe my soul is straight out of her lyrics? She makes me think of me, when I was young. Maybe that sounds pretentious, I don't mean it to.

Why you look so sad?

A perpetual question, directed at Colin. What's so sad, you gotta ooze that out of every pore? If you have a feeling, express it. If you're mad, get mad. If you're sad, cry or something. Or, brood. A lot. That works too, but it doesn't really get it out, you know?

Colin was like a time-bomb of rage. Not scary, not in a personal-fear-of-safety sort of way, but definitely imminent. I didn't mind it then. It was because he had big thoughts, I was certain; powerful things happening in his brain that he didn't have words for. He couldn't express it, but I desperately wanted him to. I wanted to understand him, to sort out the cause of his sadness and his anger and his jealousy.

Let me see you through.

I spent a lot of time wanting to fix him. The Wendy Dilemma, no? If there was a cure for him, I would have searched tirelessly. If there was something wrong, I would pick at him until he told me or convinced me to go away. The latter happened more than the former, but that didn't stop me from trying.

When I was young and naive and thought I could fix any problem by simply loving him hard enough and long enough (and not in the way you're thinking, naughty ones), I would have. It was like, my mission. I was standing by my man, ala Mary Wells.

When I think about the me-back-then, I'm a little embarrassed. I didn't feel naive then, but comparatively... I'm not sure how he put up with my bright-eyed freshness, my insistence that he couldn't do or say one thing that would make me turn away from him. He eventually chose not to put up with it at all, something I would internalise for many years.

He really ruined everything. He dried up the part of me that will seek to understand mood swings, a ridiculous temper, inane argumentativeness, and the myriad of emotional responses that normal people have. Poor Husband, who gets so little patience from me. Fifteen years ago? I would have patted his hairs and whispered encouraging things to him as he was wallowing in his self-pity and his un-named demons. Today? Today I'd drop off a glass of water and tell him to grow up some.

When you're standing at the cross-roads, and don't know which path to choose...

He chose a little bit wrong, and I couldn't follow. Or, he chose a little bit right, depending on your perspective.

But The Pretenders... man, that never gets old.

The lost poem

2010-07-13T20:51:00.000-07:00

I was watching a movie on the television Saturday with The Husband. Saturday started out lazy, as our Saturdays almost always do, with me lounging in bed with a cup of coffee playing with my iPhone while he went to the market.

Eggs? Check.

Cheese? Check.

Doughnuts? Yes please.

We took our time eating breakfast (at 11am) while we watched a movie. Something with bad cops, drug busts gone side-ways, and a main character dying off. Cancer or something that made her bald.

Sidenote, thanks to Sinead O'Conner I think all bald women are hot.

One scene in particular stood out for me. The bald woman (from the movie, not Sinead O'Connor) was down on her knees in her children's bedroom crying because she was doing to die and leave them behind. Great big sobs, the open-mouthed kind that don't come with sound. The kind that you know come from nothing short of a soul ripped to shreds; the kind that are silent because your heart is too broken to actually make sound.

It stood out because I've felt that way, only without the cancer and the soon-to-be mother-less children. Words dropped into my mind, splashing onto my brain. I wrote a whole poem in my head and it was good. I'm sure it would have won a poem-prize.

Only, it was Saturday and I was powerfully comfortable with a cup of coffee in front of me, a belly-full of eggs and cheese, and a doughnut in each hand.

I'll write it down later, I vowed to myself.

Only I didn't. And now I can't remember it.

Time-challenged

2010-06-16T17:02:00.000-07:00

I am really time-challenged. My mom has this story she loves about when I was a little girl wasting time before school: she would send me to the bathroom to shower and get dressed and after too much time had passed without me re-appearing properly dressed in my plaid Catholic-school jumper she would search me out. And she'd find me lying on the bathroom floor, arms and legs flung wide and still pajama-clad, singing at the top of my lungs.

I still do that. Okay, not exactly that, but the grown up equivalent. I play on my computer. Doing, um... social research. /snicker

Playing stupid games on my iPhone, or reading trashy teen vampire books, or watching silly television.

I have a couple hobbies - knitting and writing and blogging, but mostly I pursue mindless activities. Ostensibly, I sit down to decompress 'for a few minutes' and suddenly it's dark and The Husband is going to bed. Well, shit.

I was recently made aware of the 168 Hours Challenge. There's even a book about it (must.have.book.) and a Facebook page and everything. So, I'm doing it.

So far, I spend a lot of time working and reading. I'm out of town, working on an assignment for two weeks. While there are many things I could be doing with my time, I'm sort of enjoying just relaxing in my apartment and watching NBA Finals.

So, whatever. I waste time. I'll bet my mom wouldn't be surprised.

I don't know

2010-06-13T12:07:00.001-07:00

Recently one of my employees made a mistake in her work. She should have known better, and I was upset by her lack of knowing or her lack of figuring out that she should have asked for help.

I spoke with her, in an attempt to understand why she did what she did; I asked her what she thought she should have done differently - to avoid the mistake, and avoid having to explain herself about it to me.

She looked at the floor, hanging her head and mumbled, "I dunno."

I dunno? I.Don't.Know. Really? I-Don't-Know.

I had to breathe real evenly and deeply for a few heartbeats. I tried to figure out what to say next. Because really, in a situation like that the next words out of my mouth are going to set the tone not only for this incident but for future interactions between me and her. If I'm not careful I will alienate her from seeking my help in the future and make her feel stupid.

She was ashamed, that much was clear. It wasn't my intention to shame her, so it was important not to reinforce that shame by being overly-harsh with her. I was reminded of my childhood, when my mom was constantly under stress to pay all the bills and raise me and deal with one obstacle after another, and she would ask me similar questions: "What were you thinking?" "What did you think was going to happen?".

And I remember hanging my head and whispering, "I dunno."

I realised in that moment that when I was a girl getting yelled at I wasn't answering the question that was asked. What I didn't know was what my mom wanted to hear. I knew there was a right answer, and I was backed into a corner: if I answered wrong, my mom would be mad at me. If I answered right, I would have to explain why I didn't do it the right way to begin with (which would lead to my mom being mad at me because I was a royal smart-ass).

I looked at my employee, watching me with a sort of wariness in her eye that I didn't feel I had put there, and I knew in that moment that she was trying to figure out what I wanted to hear. When she said she didn't know, what she was admitting was that she didn't know what answer to give that wouldn't make me mad.

So I took a deep breath and told her there wasn't a wrong answer; I just wanted to understand her thought process so I could help her do better next time.

That was really, really hard. But it worked.

Is this what progress looks like?

2010-05-27T14:25:00.000-07:00

You know how I hate staff meetings? In case you don't: I hate staff meetings. It's the same problem I have with potlucks. I have many reasons that feel valid in my head that explain why I don't have them very often but when I say it out loud it feels flat and unjustifiable.

They don't pay attention

I just end up having to explain the same stuff later one-on-one

They want to know so much about things that aren't relevant

We waste time getting off topic

People turn an informational meeting into a bitch session, but when I offer them time to hear about their complaints, they clam up

They're bored and disinterested during meetings

They are disengaged and distract each other

Understandable? Maybe. A valid reason for not having meetings? Not by a long shot.

So I got on my big-girl clothes recently and held a meeting. Much like my recent potluck, my attitude going in was better, and I got better results. Huh.

It was enjoyable. It was very relaxed. Everyone was open and friendly. When I spoke honestly about my own short-comings they were more forgiving than I ever could have hoped for. I didn't hate it. And they didn't hate it either.

I am continually surprised by how often I am forced to learn this lesson. I know better, yet I seem to find new and creative ways to fail so many times in a row.

Now all their attitudes were different: they were more helpful toward each other, offering to assist each other with work. They seemed to be in better spirits with one another, and with me.

Maybe I've turned a corner? Wouldn't that be neat?

Huh

2010-05-25T09:20:00.000-07:00

Violence happened. In my office. Not big violence or anything injurious, but violence non-the-less. I am touchy about violence. In any place, but especially in the places where I spend a lot of time, or am responsible for the actions of others.

I learned today of a physical altercation that occurred between two employees. Actually, it was perpetrated by one against another. One who should know better - both as a human being and as someone in her position.

Violence. Action taken in anger, against a member of my team. In my workplace. I want to scream, or cry.

Again, with feeling

2010-05-22T10:42:00.000-07:00

Is it too late to set new goals for 2010? I realise the year is half-over now, but even so...

I want this year to be the year of more, and here's my list of the more that I want:

Staff meetings
Potlucks at work
Blogging
Structured writing
Exercise (I can hear you laughing)
Time with friends and family
Outdoor activities
Photography (I'm making fair progress here)

I organised a potluck at work yesterday. I should state here that I love the idea of potlucks and general fun in my office; I enjoy the idea of that togetherness, of promoting the camaraderie among my employees.

But I really suck at planning and implementation. I fail at socialising. My attempts at generic conversation crash and burn.

One one hand, I feel that if I did it more often it would be less painful; that I wouldn't be so awkward with them; that the effort wouldn't feel forced and stilted if I just had more practice.

On the other, I feel so incredibly inept at relating to them that the painful awkwardness that invariably results from those situations poisons my mind against wanting to plan it after each attempt.

It's a problem, I know. I talk myself out of it. I convince myself that I can't possibly be away from my work for that long, that we all have too much to do.

Today was different. Maybe I was in a better frame of mind. Maybe I've been hearing rumours around the office that unrest is brewing because I remove myself from them so much, and I've begun to fear open war if I didn't do something. Maybe they were more receptive because it's been a dreadfully long time since the last potluck I organised... last year? Two years ago? Was that even the same job?

I was talking to The Husband about how hard that type of interaction is for me, how I don't know how to make small talk. He suggested talking about the food. Try a dish, ask the person how they learned of it; is it from an old family recipe? Childhood favourite from their mom, perhaps?

My head spun. Why would I ask such questions? I don't honestly care. I can't possibly be expected to fake that sort of interest. While it probably seems unfriendly not to make at least some effort at polite inquiry, I find the idea of feigning interest in order to promote small talk to be downright repulsive.

I grumbled about his idea all morning. What does he know, anyway? He doesn't know those people; he has no idea how to make small talk with them. Harumph.

And then what happens? I find myself in the kitchen at the office, just me and one of the ladies and she was making meatballs (turns out, balls of ground meat simmered in tomato-based sauce are not as horrifying as they sound) and I tried it out.

That totally fucking worked. For five minutes we talked about meatballs. And it was fine. The ground didn't swallow me up. God didn't send a lightning bolt sizzling to Earth to fry my ass for faking interest.

Turns out that Husband knows quite a lot.

Concrete stars

2010-05-09T21:50:00.001-07:00

Originally uploaded by Tehlanna

I do not recall where I took this photograph. I sort of wish I did, because these stars please me endlessly. They are mixed in with some photos I took in the Pearl a month or so ago, so it must have been there.

There isn't anything in the photograph to tell me where I was; I don't recall what I was thinking when I took this. When I look at the other pictures I have taken I can feel what I was feeling when I snapped the photo; I can recall how the air smelled and what the lighting was like. I can remember if I was cold, or what the image evoked in my brain.

I find it odd that I have no memory associated with this picture, yet I find myself so fascinated by these stars. I want to make a tattoo out of them marching across my back, twinkling some untold message.

For sure addicted

2010-05-09T18:36:00.000-07:00

The excitement I feel during the take-off portion of a plane trip is fairly indescribable for me. I'll try though, because it feels so big that I might burst if I don't share it.

I remember being a girl, on plane trips with my mom. I was open-mouthed with awe, staring wide-eyed out the window; Mom's nails were digging so deeply into my hand she nearly drew blood. I was filled with a deep joy as the plane raced down the Tarmac; my mom was fighting anxiety that nearly crippled her.

I have flown many times, and I never get over that rush of adrenaline and excitement: the speed during take-off, watching the city pass below me as we climb, the stomach-churning when the plane hits an air pocket.

My blood flows faster and I entertain the thought that I could die at any moment. My entire existence is now in the hands of a person I've never seen and probably wouldn't trust if I met him on the street, and I am uncharacteristically thrilled by that.

Apart from the near-addiction to adrenaline, I am also thrilled at leaving. I will gladly come back, but for now I'm going someplace else. It doesn't matter that I'll be working. It doesn't matter that I'll be alone for half of my trip. My skin starts to itch when I become so drenched in routine, and I've been drenched in routine for a long time.

If I get a choice regarding when I die I want it to be on a plane, during take-off.

Are you listening, God? I said takeoff. Not a minute sooner.

Assignment: something weathered

2010-03-03T22:24:00.001-08:00

ds108: something weathered
Originally uploaded by Tehlanna

Today's mission was to find something weathered. I thought of crazy-lady wind chimes and the rusted out carcasses of forgotten automobiles left to die in someone's back yard. Rust is practically a food group in Oregon and I had big plans of capturing it on film.

Unfortunately I have one of those job things, and it requires me to be in an office. I spent most of today around a lot of not-rust, and nary a wind chime made out of old forks.

But I did find this slightly broken curb; and by 'find' I mean that I agonised all day about what to photograph and griped to my husband on the way to-and-from picking up dinner until he pointed out this grody old curb and demanded I photograph it (largely, I suspect, to shut me up): covered in moss, in need of paint, chipped from being run over and ignored.

It feels weathered to me, as though it has carried many worries on its curb-shoulders. Or maybe that's just what I'm feeling today.

Assignment: sports

2010-03-01T20:08:00.001-08:00

Disk Golf: ds106
Originally uploaded by Tehlanna

I am not terribly athletic. There are a couple of physical activities I enjoy - namely yoga and, well. You know.

Today's assignment was to make a picture of a sports activity. I sort of wish this was the assignment on March 14th, when I will be supporting Bunny by cheering her on at the Shamrock Run (she's totally running. In a race), because I plan to take my camera and try out the running man setting.

Instead, I went to the park near my apartment and shot this one of a disk golf basket (say it aloud, it feels very unwieldy in your mouth). I don't get disk golf, but there are many enthusiasts in this area.

I was really hoping to get a shot of a runner, but it's harder than it looks. They move really fast, for one thing. Also, it feels creepy to take pictures of people that close up.

So... disk golf. Whatever.

My happiness is...

2010-02-28T20:06:00.001-08:00

My happiness is...:ds105
Originally uploaded by Tehlanna

Today's photography assignment is a challenge for me. The assignment is to convey happiness; not just show it but to invoke it in the mind of the audience.

I don't do so well with relating to other people; I don't know how to invoke happiness in other people. For me, the first image that sprang to mind was that of a child playing (I can hear you laughing); on a playground swing-set, swinging with absolute abandon: hair flying back, laughter stolen away by the wind, smile big and bright - the sort of smile we have before life teaches us to keep it small, unobtrusive, hidden.

My own happiness is most often invoked at the library. Even just the sight of the building is enough to push that button in the centre of my soul that releases a special sort of calm.

The library makes sense to me, with its simple order and quiet routine. No decisions need to be made at the library (except, possibly, "how many trips will I have to make to get all these books to the car?"), and that's a peaceful sort of thing for me.

I didn't get to the library today (despite the fact that I have, in fact, one nearly-overdue audio book); I didn't make it to the park today to photograph other people's children playing happily (I know, creepy).

But I did settle down with a book and a cup of tea. I don't know if I managed to convey it for you lot, but it makes me exceedingly happy.

Something pretty

2010-02-27T21:14:00.001-08:00

Something pretty
Originally uploaded by Tehlanna

It is behaving like Spring in the Northwest. I was in a friend's garden today and all the things that don't normally bloom in the winter were open and colourful.

It feel all April-ish here and I'm not quite sure what to do with that. My body wants to clean and purge; my fingers want to write, to create; my eyes want to take pictures; my feet want to run (I don't run); my voice wants to sing (I don't sing).

I also have that fever again, when my brain boils with the need to buy a house. I found one recently - a perfectly perfect town-house a block from the library and the farmer's market. It won't be mine, but something must be. And soon, before I explode with the need of it.

These wretched, pretty flowers are making me want the things I can't have (yet) and it's making me cranky (and also a little moon-brained).

Assignment: Horizon

2010-02-27T15:44:00.001-08:00

Horizon: ds104
Originally uploaded by Tehlanna

Today's dailyshoot assignment is to make a photograph that emphasises the horizon.

I have always liked the horizon as a symbol, especially at the beach. I think we have some of the best horizons in the Pacific Northwest; our skies are so temperamental, with deep black storm clouds and patchy blue-ness and stark, angry trees all at the same time.

This photograph was taken somewhere in Vancouver (the one in Washington); the patchy blue-ness is scarce, but if you look really closely you'll see it (you might want to squint your eyes up).

Taking pictures of horizons is hard work; between the bumpy car ride and my inexperience with the camera, today's assignment flat tired me out.

Great big ground

2010-02-26T15:14:00.001-08:00

Someplace new: ds103
Originally uploaded by Tehlanna

It rained today.

I didn't realise how pretty the world is after it has been rained on until I got a camera. I am usually so busy seeing the rain that I fail to see how shiny everything is.

Photo details: Taken with Nikon D3000.
Post-processing: Shadowing, tint, and soft focus.

Where are you now?

2010-01-24T10:23:00.000-08:00

The first year I was in public school was the fourth grade. Another new school in a new school district and I did not know anyone, had not grown up with those children. Private school kids can be mean, but public school kids are meaner.

There was a girl - she was skinny, with long brown hair and holes in the knees of her jeans (jeans? kids get to wear jeans to school here? rad.)

She did not have friends; the other kids told me she was a witch, that she could hurt you without even touching you. Well, I came from a Catholic school and I totally believed that. Some people just got the Devil in them, and apparently this girl did too.

She was quiet. She sat by herself and she read. Everyone avoided her, except for the girls who were mean to her.

One day, I saw her work her deep, black magic. A boy was playing on a playground toy; it was a strange toy, made up of metal pipes with a bench for sitting. The toy was dome-shaped, and that bench was in the middle. I have never seen a toy like this since.

The boy, sitting on the bench inside the dome-shaped toy, called out to the little girl as she was walking past. Something rude, and she stopped dead in her tracks. She turned toward the boy and slowly started to walk over to him. He made an exaggerated show of scooting backwards away from her, as though he were afraid she really would hurt him. She walked closer and closer and he scooted farther and farther back on his bench, until he ran out of bench and fell over backwards. As he toppled slowly backwards he smacked his head on the metal pipes that made up the dome-toy.

Adults came running and carried the boy off; his eyes here glassy and he had a righteous lump forming on the back of his head.

I am pretty sure I had joined my peers in taunting that little girl; I discovered that you can fit in with others by behaving the way they do, and I am sure that I was mean to her just as the others were.

Until that day, when I saw her do no more than stand in front of a boy. She wasn't a witch; she had merely figured out how to turn people's own fears against them. People gave away their power to her, and she used that power. I am certain I thought she was exceedingly clever after that.

I got to know her a little bit throughout that school year. I shared my lunches with her because she never got more than PB&J (which I NEVER got) and I got vienna sausages (which I thought were gag-worthy and she loved because you could spear them with a stick and eat them in one bite).

We moved again before the year was out and fourth graders don't keep in touch with one another. I never saw that little girl again and I wonder about her. Where is she now? Is she a doctor or an artist or a scientist? Does she write books about flowers and track the migration patterns of small birds? Did she stay in Sacramento? Maybe she is a psychologist, teaching people how to manage their fears and retain control of their power? Maybe she has children, and she gives them peanut butter & jelly sandwiches and vienna sausages in their lunch.

I don't remember that little girl's name; I don't remember the name of the school we attended together. I doubt I can ever find her again, but I hope that she surrounds herself with people who treat her with more kindness than our child-peers did.

And if not, I totally hope she still intimidates people into hurting their own selves like fools.

Not-writing

2010-01-21T18:54:00.000-08:00

I got a message the other day in my Twitter inbox asking me how the writing was going. Oh yeah. I had big plans to write more. Every day, in fact, for at least one-half hour.

How's that going, huh? Oops. More like, how's that not-going? Ask me that, and I'll tell you: Great! I'm really succeeding at the not-writing.

Tonight I was feeling crabby. Actually, I have been feeling crabby for days. I haven't been writing, I haven't been exercising. I am working on using fewer contractions in writing and in speech, and that always makes me a little crabby.

I decided the solution to tonight's crabbiness would be some yoga. Wow. Usually doing yoga while crabby is exactly what I need. Tonight it just pissed me off. It also helped me realise again just how out of shape I am. I can no longer sit in virasana without my knees feeling like they belong to a 90 year old. I managed to go through a few motions, but it really wasn't there for me.

I dutifully recorded my exercise in my log book, and became further annoyed when I saw that my last entry was in September.

No wonder I feel all stiff and out of shape.

The form of writing

2010-01-04T20:34:00.000-08:00

I have been spending the past few days analysing how I write, and how I think my writing is supposed to happen. I am enjoying having my methods challenged.

So much of what I have been reading lately espouses the butt-in-the-chair approach; the sit-your-ass-down-and-write-already method of writing, leaving well-developed characters and highly researched plots at the door - not as a permanent approach, certainly, but as a means to get away from the "one day" mentality (as in, "one day I'll be a writer").

This approach liberates and scares me; inspires me to write and makes me roll my eyes at the utter chaos of it. It grinds up against my deeply-ingrained beliefs that writing is a defined process - defined by research, citation, track-down-able facts.

That is one way, of course. Not the only way, obviously. I love the idea of this new way, even as I sort of want to hold it at arm's length. It's like the seductive little sister of the grown up thoughts I have, whorishly baring her breasts at me, begging me to put aside my "data" and my "facts" and sit my ass down and write...

I was chatting with Mantramine ages ago about writing, and she asked me if I ever put loud music in my ears while I write. Music? No. Gross.

Until now.

My stick-in-the-mud ideas about the process of writing do not include music. No, when I write the only thing involved is my furrowed brow and my glasses on a chain around my neck. When I write I get my librarian skin on; my librarian is very stern-faced and serious.

Today I decided that some music might be a nice change. Just for something different. I'm trying out some new ideas, different ways of approaching writing, so climbing out of my librarian's skin seems like the most painful, perfect way to challenge myself.

And you know? It's a little bit awesome. Mantra gave me a gem.

I am reminded of the importance of of challenging myself, of not following my own patterns and habits just because. Today, just now, right this moment (okay, sometime between my shower this morning and that second cup of French press coffee that wired me to my eyeballs, but whatever) I acknowledged that sometimes just because I believe something to be right doesn't make it so.

The really neat thing about this particular lesson is that I don't always recognise it for what it is so I get to learn it over and over and over. Fun, huh?

Writing is hard

2010-01-03T20:39:00.001-08:00

I am focusing today's daily writing on acknowledging the difficulty of writing. I think this will be a common theme for me, because I have a lot of thoughts about it that aren't done forming in my head.

One of Jack Heffron's writing prompts is to write about the positive messages we receive about our work, and to keep those messages visible to ourselves when we start feeling badly about our writing in a way that prevents us from succeeding.

I am reminded of the saying that we are "our own worst enemy", and it is certainly true for me. I have never received one negative message from anyone about the quality of my writing, yet I have quite often felt as though it was bad. Unimaginative, boring prose that no sane, intelligent person would want to read.

Recently I wrote that my dad told me how good he thought my writing is. Arguably, dads are supposed to support us and tell us that our art is good even when it isn't, but I think I can tell when my dad is lying.

My Aunt Alyce, who isn't really my aunt but I have claimed her as such, gives me so much support and positive love about my writing.

My friends, both "real" and bloggy, give me the most positive messages of all.

Even the criticism I have received from friends to whom I have entrusted my fiction for review has been constructive, positive feedback that I can use to better my writing. In truth, I am the only person to be so judgmental of my writing; to read it and then delete it in disgust, to pick apart sentences and criticise structure and stance.

If I could get out of my own way long enough to finish a project I might actually un-learn that behaviour. I wonder if the words that leak into my head and demand to be written are my own psyche's way of really forcing me aside so this creativity can come out. Perhaps that overwhelming need to write that I get is not actually true inspiration pouncing upon me, but my brain's way of forcing the creativity out of me; the creativity that I stifle by telling myself that I am not a "real" writer or that I don't have enough talent to pursue anything beyond writing-as-a-hobby.

Wouldn't it be neat if my unconscious knew better than my conscious what was best for me?

Listing love and hate

2010-01-03T11:52:00.000-08:00

One of the exercises in Baty's No Plot? No Problem! is to make two lists before writing your own novel: one is for elements we (as writers) enjoy about other's books and one is for those elements we do not enjoy. This is not meant to be a literary critique, but simply as a tool to identify what we like to read and what we don't. Baty's philosophy is that if we write something with elements that we enjoy reading in a book we will have fun writing our novel and we will stick with it. Conversely, if we write something we wouldn't enjoy reading then we won't enjoy writing it and we'll give it up.

Makes sense, no?

I decided I needed to have my two lists on the wall behind my desk so I can swivel around and look at them from time to time while writing. So I bought a big roll of butcher paper and some of that magical adhesive substance that doesn't ruin paint and made my lists.

As I began, some interesting information was revealed.

1. I tend to look for characters who are introspective and who learn from their mistakes.

2. I most enjoy female characters whose personalities (haha) reflect my own.

3. I intensely dislike characters who put up with emotionally abusive or manipulative families.

These are certainly not surprising facts, but I found it interesting to see it laid out in a list. I began remembering the characters and plots of books I have most enjoyed, and realised that all the characters I most enjoy reading are those with whom I can personally relate on some level. Furthermore, that I base all my fiction female characters on myself, to some degree.

I wonder how many writers model their main characters after themselves. Is this narcissism at its finest or are we simply writing about what we are most comfortable?

As a side note, you know how I've got this obsession with the Twilight Series? Those novels have most of the elements from both my lists. I guess that explains the love/hate I've got with them.

I have a date

2010-01-02T14:54:00.000-08:00

I've been seeing NaNoWriMo around the internet for years. I heard vague references to it on people's blogs, and stumbled across the forums once, but I never really paid much attention to it. I have so many writing projects dying in my brain that I didn't think I could possibly take on one more, and one that requires you to write a whole novel in one month at that.

But then I found out there's a book on how to write a novel in a month, written by the founder, and I was instantly interested. Anytime there's a how-to book on something, I have to have it.

So I took myself off to my favourite local bookstore; in addition to finding the book I was looking for, I also found The Writer's Idea Book. A how-to, of course, with prompts; over four hundred of them, and I'm in love.

One of the prompts is to have a dedicated time to write at the same time every day; I wasn't very good at taking my birth control pill every day at the same time, and I am equally awful at setting aside time to write every day. I tend to write when I am woken up in the middle of the night by crazy, demanding words. It seems simple-but-brilliant to set aside time. How did I not know about this? I spend so much time feeling like I can't write to save my life, and then someone comes along and gives me a gem of an idea that sort of makes me want to bang my head against the wall, it's so bloody simple.

So, the idea is that I'll spend a certain amount of time -every day, at the same time- at the place where I do my writing. I don't have to write, but I can't do anything else. Of course, I do all my writing at my computer, but that is also where I do anything else, so maybe I ought to pick a different spot for my writing-on-a-schedule?

Like so many other things I try for five minutes and then abandon, I suspect that I'll forget this the moment something more mindless comes along (I have four episodes of Vampire Diaries recorded and a hat that needs knitting...) but it fits in nicely with my goals for the year, so I'm going to give it a go.

Oh yeah, by the way... I might even give NaNoWriMo a try this year. Won't that be sexy?

Goals: old and new

2010-01-01T12:30:00.000-08:00

I like closure and I love lists. Here's a little bit of both:

For me 2009 was about:

I would like focus my energies in 2010 on:

Last year I worked on follow-through; I didn't do as wonderfully as I could have but I think I made progress. Which is what the not-resolution is about for me. I hate the concept of making and blabbering about big, serious resolutions, like save a thousand dollars or lose a bunch of weight or quit smoking. All honourable goals, and certainly worthy of being "resolutions".

No, for me the problem is that when I make such resolutions I fail. Miserably. I bite off more than I can chew and I overwhelm myself almost immediately. Enter guilt, shame, and remorse which lead me toward behaviour that is entirely counter to my original resolution. Dumb, huh?

Several bloggers whom I follow have focused their years around concepts; words that trigger an idea they work toward in the coming year. It is a very slight shift in perspective when thinking about "new year resolutions"; in principle, maybe it's the same thing. But for me, and I assume others too, thinking of concepts that I will try to draw into my life over the course of a year is much, much different from working towards a stated resolution with a (potentially) unrealistic time-line and so much pressure to not fail.

So it is with no guilt or shame I carry 2009's concept of follow-through with me into the coming year. Even though it is something I still need to work on, I did make progress in that area; something else that I experienced in 2009 was acceptance: acceptance that I will not always be perfect; acceptance that simply working towards a goal can be good enough for me. While I am generally self-accepting, I also tend towards perfectionism and being hard on myself when I feel like I haven't done it right, so this last one is sort of a big deal for me.

Another main focus for 2010 will be art. I have a couple hobbies that fall into the 'art' category and both need some stimulation: writing and fibre-crafting. I can work on both my goals at once, really, since it is often my art that suffers from lack of follow-through.

What do you do to gain closure from the last year and transition into a new year?

Girl Griot interviews me

2009-12-31T07:56:00.000-08:00

Earlier this month I had the opportunity to participate in a terrific interview experiment and met the truly lovely Mosey Along.

I had my turn at the microphone, held in front of me by Stacie at Girl Griot. I have really enjoyed getting to know Stacie through her blog and in the emails we exchanged; she asked me very thoughtful questions and treated both me and my blog with respect.

As she mentions, we really don't have much in common; we are in different parts of the country, with different careers, and different paths in life. But when I read her blog I feel myself nodding my head and shouting, "Yes! That's totally it!".

And I think that's the point of Neil's experiment: everyone has a story to tell. Everyone has something to say, and it is important. As soon as I started reading Stacie's blog, I instantly cared about her family, her students, her thoughts. She has an important story to tell and, for a few minutes, she's helping me tell mine.

Check her out. Read her interview of me; read her blog. She's got an amazing voice.

On being criticised

2009-12-30T16:32:00.000-08:00

I had an impromptu meeting with an employee yesterday, and I got something I wasn't expecting: criticism. The constructive kind. The I'm-talking-to-you-as-a-person-and-not-a-subordinate kind.

Do you know how often I get constructive criticism? Go ahead, guess.

It's never; okay, it's hardly ever. I get criticism a lot, or more-ish. I have at least one employee who doesn't think much of me as a manager and I get a lot of critical observations from her. I try to extract something valuable from it, but often I feel that she's just venting at me because she disapproves of my management style. That's okay with me, people are allowed to both vent and not like me at the same time.

Eunice (okay, not really, but isn't that the coolest name you ever heard?) was a little nervous to be speaking so bluntly and she rarely lets a negative words pass her lips about me (she loves me, can you imagine?) so when she asked if she could say something to me girl-to-girl without rank and authority in the way I was both pleased and surprised.

She was polite about it, showing respect to me as a person and as her superior (in the professional way, not the better-than-her way), but she was blunt and honest with me. It isn't often that any of my subordinates will be so frank with me about things they think I'm doing wrong, especially if they like me. The people who do not like me aren't so straight-forward because they do not think I will do the right thing, and the people who like me aren't so straight-forward because they don't want to criticise me and they end up excusing or justifying my actions because they know how busy I am and how hard I work, and on and on.

To have someone just lay out their observations about me in such a blunt way was a welcome change. I am a pretty blunt person myself, and unless someone tells me they have a problem it doesn't occur to me to ask. This attitude has some merit, and I'm certainly comfortable with it, but I am learning (again? still? for the eleventy-billionth time?) that it may not be the most conducive attitude in work-force management. There is a balance to be had there, but I have not found it yet.

I think it is hard to provide such criticism towards one's manager. Unless your company has specific policies and practices that are encouraged and followed, I'm sure that most employers don't provide a safe space for employees to speak in such a manner.

Something I have worked hard for is providing such a safe place - a place where my employee's experiences and opinions are valued, a place where they can tell me if they think I am screwing up without fear of backlash or discrimination for their honesty. I didn't think I was succeeding, until yesterday.

I still have a lot to learn, but I think I am headed in the right direction. Also, Eunice is my favourite. Don't tell the others, okay?

Broken pieces

2009-12-27T22:42:00.000-08:00

I was chatting with a friend a few weeks ago about nothing in particular, when she surprised me by asking me if I felt like a part of me would always be in love with Colin.

The question surprised me in the very best way. I love these types of conversations, because the questions always challenge me. I do not fully understand why, but they do.

I spent a lot of time thinking about Colin's death and my life and how all of it related. Even so, questions like this come out of nowhere and sometimes even I am surprised by the answers I come up with.

I said the first thing that came into my head, which is that I have always felt like the part of me that feels "in love" was broken. Broken in a way that deceives me, tricks me and blinds me to reality. Being in love back then was a little bit scary for me, and sort of unreliable. I fell in love with all the wrong people, over and over again. So imagine how I mistrusted Colin, because I was in love with him. I was sure that something had to be wrong with him, because I wanted him, and everyone I'd wanted up to that point had been like a train wreck.

When he turned out not to be a train wreck I was really relieved. Maybe I wasn't so broken after all.

And then, really, he turned out to be the biggest train wreck of all. He healed me in the few years we were together before his death. And with his death, he broke me all over again.

So when I was asked if I would always be in love with him, in that moment I knew I wasn't in love with him anymore, and hadn't been for a long time. It's true, what they say: you really can get another husband.

What they don't tell you is that you can never replace your first real love; you can't ever replace the person who taught you how to love and laugh and cherish life. The unique interaction with someone who loves you and gives so freely of their heart just can't be replicated, no matter how many such people enter your life. There is no healing salve for a broken soul. Time helps, but that old saying about time healing all wounds... turns out that's a little bit of bullshit. At least, it is for me. Time just teaches you to go numb in places. Open up that wound, and it's just as fresh as the day you got it. You just get good at hiding how much it hurts.

I haven't thought about Colin in terms of "love" for a long time. You do learn to love again. You learn to laugh again, and to cherish life again. He was my best friend in so many ways and he changed my life; those are the parts that I miss. I miss his personality, and his heart. His bigger-than-life-ness.

I don't miss him as a husband or a lover. But as a friend... no matter how many I have there's a little space in my soul that remains empty, and always will.

An Interview: Mosey Along

2009-12-17T19:36:00.000-08:00

This year I participated in Great Interview Experiment (about which I would not have known had MPJ not participated, so thanks MPJ!) and had the good fortune to get to peek inside the mind of the lovely lady behind Mosey Along.

I'd like to start first with a big 'thank you' to my interviewee for allowing me to ask such deeply personal questions and for participating in this process. I had a lot of fun reading this blog and getting to know her. If you don't follow Mosey Along, I recommend checking her out. She has a fresh, creative outlook on life, and the grace I found in her blog was moving for me.

I find myself curious about what makes people 'tick', and my questions leaned toward the deeper, more personal issues she touches on very lightly in her blog. She answered my questions with a dignity that I hope to share with all of you.

That said, read on!

***
You have alluded to melancholy in your blog; do you find that blogging about such feelings has helped you to deal with any negativity you have surrounding the reasons for your melancholy?

I've heard many bloggers refer to their blogs as free therapy, and pretty much that's what it is for me too. It's not like a personal diary or journal necessarily - I mean people are reading this, including my parents! - but although I'm aware there is an audience, small as it is, I do try to at least acknowledge where I'm at and what I'm feeling so it's out there, without letting it *all* hang out. I'm pretty conscious of where my melancholy comes from, and although being mired in those feelings is not pleasant, I don't look at it from a negative position, if that's possible to understand. Because I always come out the other side with new insight, or at least a renewed appreciation for the life I've got.

I really get this perspective. Our ability to assimilate information and analyse it can provide us with the tools to better enrich our own lives (and that of our children).

***
My own mother suffered from depression to varying degrees when I was growing up, but she never talked about what her challenges were; what are the biggest challenges you face with regard to your melancholy, and raising a young child?

You pretty much hit it right there - the biggest challenge is being a good mother. My daughter has definitely borne the brunt of it - I'm a stay-at-home mother so she's always been right here when it hits. I'm sorry you had to experience it yourself with your own mother. I feel gratitude that I have never had to be hospitalized or medicated, although I support whatever therapy works for an individual, and when I read about families dealing with any degree of mental illness that impacts the lives of every member of the family, that biblical quote "there but for the grace of God go I" resonates deeply.

***
Do you share your feelings of sadness with your daughter, or talk with her the nature of your melancholy?

When I have my periods of melancholy, as I call them, she's a witness to them. I hate that part of it. But I've been fortunate that there seems to be a time limit on those periods, and when I'm able we always talk about it or acknowledge it in some way. I've had to apologize to her many times for my behaviour, and also reassure her that no matter what she is loved completely and absolutely. She is remarkably mature and compassionate for a six year old, and I'm so grateful that she seems able to state her feelings very clearly and honestly, and perhaps she's had to be.

I think a parents' ability to acknowledge and/or apologise for behaviour they regret is what makes a child really aware of their own actions. Showing your daughter that you are aware of your actions, and aware of her feelings seems to me an invaluable lesson. We can't be perfect, or always as good as we want to be, but if we can be honest about ourselves we can teach our children how to be honest and caring in their own lives.

***
What brought you to the US?

Work! I graduated with a degree in animation and was very fortunate to be hired by a renowned visual effects company in the Bay Area - twice. First as an intern after graduation, and the second time a few years later on a more permanent basis. That's where I met English hubby, who still works there, although I do not.

***
Are there significant differences in culture between your Canadian heritage and your husband’s British roots, and how does your family blend them in your home?

No major cultural differences, I think the similarities are actually what worked for us in our initial attraction and in our lives together now. I get his jokes (and usually have to explain them to others who can't cope with his accent), he gets mine, and although we've had other differences that we've had to deal with, nothing that has caused us any major trauma. Both of us have trouble nailing down what is so similar other than we spell words the same way and have many of the same social and pop-culture references.

***
You have mentioned something of an emotional discomfort with the faith of your childhood; has blogging affected your faith and your feelings toward it?

No, other than the fact that it is another outlet for expressing those feelings on occasion. The honest truth is that I feel a very deep connection to that faith, even though I don't walk it in my daily life now. And I think the reason why I feel that discomfort is because it feels disloyal, both to my upbringing and to my parents who raised me. Everything I am as a person was instilled in me by them, and it's hard to feel that I am disappointing them by straying from the path they set me on. Not that I've strayed far, my moral character and compassion and knowledge of my place in the world are who I am.

***
Do you raise your daughter in a particular faith, or teach her any philosophical path?

English hubby and I want her to grow up with an awareness of God within her, but we don't go to church except when I'm with my family in Canada, and don't follow a particular philosophical path. He and I do not share the same beliefs, or didn't when we first met, but have since found a language that works for us and honours both our spiritual journeys. But we talk about and educate Sweetpea as much as we can about what faith is. She definitely has a deep spirituality, and frequently surprises me with her questions and requests. She will ask to pray, even though that isn't something I've necessarily taught her how to do. She knows how to meditate to relax and settle herself. I'm exposing her to the story of Christmas by reading it throughout Advent, and love her observations of that amazing story. (for example, "Jesus is the King of Being Nice") :)

Reading your descriptions of your daughter and how she thinks was quite fun for me. I think she's absolutely brilliant! I think it is wonderful that she knows how to meditate to relax herself - I wish more children knew about this!

***
Is there anything you'd like to share that I haven't asked?

I guess the only thing I'd like to clarify is why I call my melancholy that, instead of depression. I don't want to lessen the impact of what depression means for anyone else - it can be incredibly debilitating and effects everyone around the person who is suffering from it. Other than post-partum depression for which I sought treatment, I've never been formally diagnosed. I know people who suffer horribly from depression and I have done a lot of reading about it, and I know that when someone is in the middle of a depressive episode, it feels like you will never come out of it - that there is no escape from it. For me, even when I've hit what for me is rock bottom, I'm still aware of the light at the end of the tunnel. In one post back in April I talked about how I'm touched lightly by melancholy for the most part, and that it isn't necessarily a negative word. It's just life.

Also, because of the type of questions you asked, I do want people to know how happy and grateful I am in my everyday life. Melancholy is just a small piece of the puzzle.

I am glad you mention this. I don't think I have done a very good job of highlighting the many facets of your life as you describe it on your blog. Maybe you'll indulge me for round two? ;)

It is evident to me that I would make a terrible reporter, but I have to say... I had a lot of fun with this interview experiment. As the people in my life will attest, I am forever questioning them about their lives, and how they feel about certain things. My mom instilled in me a thirst for knowledge and a deeply ingrained curiosity about how other people live, so this interview process was big fun for me.

2009-12-16T19:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa, please bring me a camera (and a Kitchenaid. and a book about cooking. and that nifty pen that records what you write.)

Somewhere in the middle of my soul a secret desire sits: I want to take pretty pictures.

Also, I want to be a ninja and maybe a Malibu Barbie Doll but those are secret secret desires.

I will often describe, with words that boil out of my brain, the things I see in life. Lately, I want to take pictures of them too.

I want this yesterday. Like everything else that I want I'm ready for it to happen right now. The waiting hates me, like something ticklish inside me.

My favourite library is moving to a new building and I went to take pictures of it with my cell-phone a couple weeks ago. It wasn't enough. I want more. I want to capture, somehow, the pure haven-like quality that library had for me when I was growing up.

So, stay tuned. Pretty pictures may be stopping by from time to time.

Imagine what I'd do with a kid...

2009-12-09T20:32:00.000-08:00

Mr. J and I brought Zoe and Emma home as wee six month old kittens. We (and by "we" I mean mostly "me") tormented them outrageously. Mr. J taught me about putting socks over their heads. The first time he did this, it was quite possibly the funniest thing I'd ever seen. I nearly peed myself, I laughed so hard.

The description of Zoe's reaction would probably have PETA howling for my head, and that was before I had a cell phone that was capable of taking pictures, let alone video. So, sorry.

These days, Zoe simply removes the sock from off his head within seconds. It's not as funny, but I made a ridiculous video just for you. While I supposed to be cleaning and packing for our beach trip tomorrow. Oops.

Wednesday whimsy

2009-12-09T18:02:00.000-08:00

Do you ever feel like you really, really want to write, but have nothing that needs to be written? Today my word confusion is not persistent or frustrating; I have words that need to get out, but they're sort of a mess.

I am going to the beach tomorrow. This always sends my thoughts flittering about. Can I tell you how much I am looking forward to a weekend at the beach with my best friends? I met my newest BFF this time last year at the beach. I loved her straight away. This is unusual for me; I traditionally lean towards neutrality (if not outright hatred) upon meeting someone for the first time. I can be nice enough, if I have to, but I like to spend some time getting to know a person before deciding if I like them.

With Eula, I knew the moment I saw her. Partly she's just so cheerful. She smiled at me, big and happy, and I wanted to take her home and make her my little sister. She is dating another close friend of mine, and she makes him happy. How can you not love someone who makes your friend so happy?

I went shopping with my dad last weekend. This is sort of a tradition with us, and one we haven't participated in for the last several years.

Do you know about my dad? I have talked a little about my relationship with him when I was young, but I don't think I have talked about how much I have enjoyed getting to know him as an adult. We've had some extreme ups and downs, but my dad is one of the most loving, supportive, encouraging people I have in my life.

I was a daddy's girl when I was a child. I emulated him at every opportunity. I craved his attention and his approval. I have grown into a person who no longer looks for approval from others, sometimes even going to extremes and rejecting it when I encounter it, but when I get encouragement from my dad it really pleases me.

Dad told me that my writing is good, and that I should write more.
So, here I am. Writing, without one important thing to say.

Unicorns did not visit me today

2009-12-07T22:31:00.000-08:00

I learned these lessons today. Again, and for no reason. While working, talking with co-workers, musing in my head (cause that's where I do it). They leap out at me, jumping up and down, these lessons.

Lookit! Over here. They demand. You're not looking! When I keep my mind averted, they become insistent and bouncy. Whispering at me in their thunderous voices.

You're not learning right. They say. This catches my attention. I can learn right. I think I read a book on that once. I'll learn my lessons up good.

And I did. I learned about breathing deeply (again) and waiting for the other person to finish speaking before I began talking (so rude) and about remembering that they only have one me, and I need to be available for them when they need me.

Bloody demanding lessons.

Painful perfection

2009-12-06T12:28:00.000-08:00

Sitting on the floor, my back to the sun.
My kittens are sprawled around me, kitten-like.

A cup of hot coffee, from yesterday, spiked with Peppermint Mocha creamer.
It tastes like perfection going down, but it leaves a horrible after-taste in my mouth.

I am anxious to get dressed: I have library books waiting for me. Twilight and New Moon. Again. Because I'm hooked.

Reading Twilight is like my Peppermint Mocha coffee in reverse: it tastes gritty going down (totally holding back from being snotty about Stephenie Meyer's writing, see how I'm growing?) but leaves a delicious, silky after-taste once I've swallowed it.

I don't quite understand this. I dislike so much about these books even as I love them.

I suppose it's like my coffee creamer: I continue sipping even though it makes me want to gag after I swallow it.

I should go, get started on my day. But I've waited this long, and the sun feels good on my back. My kittens are soft under my hand, and my head is throbbing with a perfectly vicious headache that threatens to tear my skull apart the moment I move.

So I sit, enjoying the sun and the fur and yummy-horrible coffee and a terrible headache. For just a few minutes before I have to face the partly sunny with a slight wind day outside.

Hooked

2009-12-06T10:15:00.001-08:00

It's happened. The thing I thought wouldn't happened. I stayed away for so long, but it got me: The Twilight Saga.

I wrote the series off as kid books when they first came out. I was at the theatre the day Twilight premiered and one thousand screaming thirteen year old girls convinced me I wanted no part of it.

Now? My inner screaming thirteen year old has been dragged from the depths of my psyche and now ponders that same burning question: Team Jacob or Team Edward?

Me? I want them both. Why should I have to choose? But then, I've always wanted it all.

Jacob is certainly very sexy business, with his heartbreaking smile and perfectly perfect musculature. With his endearing promises to Bella: to always love her, to never leave her or hurt her. With his ability to protect her from harm. And, let's face it, who wouldn't want her own cuddly wolf to keep her feet warm on cold Washington winter nights? Jacob is earnest and open and... well, you get it.

But Edward... certainly not as sexy and he doesn't turn into a giant-sized wolf. The mystery of him, with his tortured eyes and his deep soul-burning secrets. I've always had a problem with the mysterious type who doesn't quite treat you right.

The messy triangle between those three reminds me of the two serious boyfriends I had in high school. Not precisely, but a little tiny bit.

My first, and my second-first. The first was the all-American type: boy scout, blonde-haired, blue eyed. His father worked, his mother ran a day care. He didn't turn into a wolf, but he was endearingly earnest and mostly-honest.

The second-first was the exact opposite of that. He was mysterious and intriguing and I was absolutely smitten with him. He had no deep secret like lust for human blood or anything, but he was into drugs and I loved the danger of that.

I was smitten with them both, really, for different reasons. They were both bad for me, for different reasons. And I didn't choose between them, until they made me.

So, not exactly like Jacob vs. Edward but I know for certain: if I was Bella, I wouldn't choose. I'd find a way to get them both.

Control freaking

2009-12-02T23:47:00.000-08:00

I was watching a television program tonight (not my favourite thing), one of those clever FBI dramas. I heart me some FBI dramas, especially the kind with David Boreanaz as the star actor. The show seems to be about a team of FBI agents and their cases; they also have a psychologist who counsels the agents.

One scene in particular showed an agent and the psychologist waiting for another member of the team to join a meeting. When he joins them, late, the psychologist says, "Chronic lateness is often used as a tool to exert control over a situation or a person."

Or something like that.

It immediately occurred to me that I am chronically late to my weekly staff meetings. I have also been accused of being a control freak. (Freak. Me. I know.)

It's true that I am often in control of, you know, everything. I am seen as controlling. But (you knew there was a but, didn't you?) I have good reasons. It is important to me to make sure things are done correctly, that mistakes don't happen if they are avoidable, and that people know what is expected of them.

To me, being in control means being responsible. It means being accountable for myself and living up to the expectations of the people who make decisions about my future. In the workplace, this means having my finger on the pulse of all the details (how's that for a metaphoric brick wall?); it means making sure everyone knows what to do, when to do it, and how to do it.

I am not controlling because I want others to fail. It's not malicious, nor born of a desire to hurt or manipulate those around me. But I have discovered through my experiences that my true desire -to do a good job and maintain success- doesn't come through. When I control details I am trying to say, this is important to me, let's do a good job. But what my employees hear is, I don't trust you to do this right so I'm going to remind you for the eleventy-billionth time how important these details are.

I have learned a lot in the past few years, and one of the things I have learned is that I totally don't know as much as I think I do. I learned that certain management styles don't work with everyone, and I tried a new approach.

I experienced something very close to physical pain the first time I delegated an important project to one of my team members. I wanted to throw up and die when two hours went by and I didn't get a status update or any questions. I am not a micro-manager by nature and I hate to hover so I refrained (miraculously) from doing anything annoying or embarrassing but it was hard.

And it worked. When I backed off and just trusted that it would work out, it did. When I trusted people to make the right decisions, they did. My employees became more reliable, more accountable. They made better decisions, based on logic and fact, and their confidence in themselves increased.

Tomorrow I think I'll make a point to be on-time to my staff meeting. Because even if I don't mean for my lateness to be a means of exerting control, maybe it appears that way to the people I rely on the most.

On being girly

2009-12-01T09:30:00.000-08:00

I was a bit of a tom-boy as a girl. Not to an extreme, but certainly a little bit. I'm pretty sure my dad wanted a son instead of a daughter, so he taught me stuff he would have taught a boy. My mom very much wanted a little girl, so I was dressed up like a dolly while playing with my army men and pretending to hammer stuff.

I was encouraged to pursue endeavors characteristic of both genders. Wood and metal shop, which I thought made me a total bad-ass. And poetry and calligraphy, which was a little embarrassing (what with it being all girly) even though I secretly enjoyed writing crap about love with a really expensive pen. I learned mechanical stuff, practical things like how to change the oil in a car as well as sissy stuff like sewing and crocheting.

As a teenager, I shunned most things that I considered to be weak and overly feminine. I wore dresses, but only paired with combat boots. I didn't carry a purse, but had a wallet on a chain.

I wasn't allowed to wear makeup or use a curling iron. Hair spray and styling gel were strictly prohibited and my waist-length hair did not feel the heat of a blow-dryer until I was grown and out of the house.

(by the way, it is absolute fucking hell to have waist-length hair in the Pacific Northwest when your mom won't let you use a blow-dryer, you know what I'm saying?)

I had jobs in my teens and into my early twenties that didn't call for wearing fancy, dress-up clothes. Not really the dress-and-heels type, I gravitated toward the sort of work where jeans and boots were acceptable, even encouraged, attire. From dispatching at a towing company (where nearly every surface was covered in a fine film of motor oil and dirt) to physical labour (you try pushing a cart loaded with about 200 pounds of computer equipment in a dress, I dare you).

In my mind, "feminine" and "weak" were interchangeable. Being female and very, very tiny, people have often viewed me as helpless. Too short to do anything useful and too pretty to have a fully-functioning brain, I was often treated, by the people who didn't know me, as useless and stupid.

I hated being a girl and I was far too stubborn to be helpless. I ignored my femininity and worked to eradicate everything that I thought made me girly and sissified.

Overcoming that skewed perception of what it means to be feminine has been a big challenge for me. I have devoted a lot of energy towards correcting that skewed image and embracing that which is "feminine".

One of the things I have really enjoyed about being a girl in the past few years is make-up. I still prefer Doc Martens with my skirts most of the time, but I am rarely without my pretty face on.

So while window-shopping this weekend I found a perfectly-perfect make-up kit with 42 different eye shadows and oodles of lip glosses and things to make me shiny and glowy and rosey and I absolutely had to have it.

I wheedled and begged and pouted and pointed out how it's on sale and it's in pursuit of my spiritual practice until The Husband rolled his eyes and gave in.

See how I'm totally embracing my femininity?

Meditating my way to sleep

2009-12-01T00:18:00.000-08:00

I can't get comfortable.
Breathe in, breathe out.

My clothes are too tight.
Let go.

I am too warm.
Open the door of your heart.

I am tangled up in sheets and pillows and warm bodies.
Give up.

The Husband and Zoe the Cat crowding close to me.
Stop trying to control.

I can't calm my mind.
Let the mind wander.

There's knitting to be done.
Focus on the intent.

I go back to work tomorrow. I have to make a list.
Focus on the journey.

I am trying to relax. Trying not to think too far ahead.
Focus on the breath.

I breathe deeply, counting breaths. Trying to calm myself.
Focus on the mind.

I'm doing it wrong. I can't ever get this part right.
Be imperfect.

What number am I on?
Let go of expectations.

I start counting again.
Focus on love.

One...
Focus.

Two...
Focus.

Three...
Focus...

These are the words Ajahn Brahm would say to me, if he said words to me.

I dreamt of a church(ish)

2009-11-30T22:50:00.000-08:00

I am in a large auditorium, inside a church. The seats are like movie-theatre seats: the bolted to the floor fold-down kind with upholstered seats and seat-backs. The auditorium has a stage in front and holds hundreds of people. This church has seating arrangements and we're all given tickets at the door telling us which seat is ours for the sermon.

I am the only pagan in the church, and everyone knows about me. They watch me, whispering and wondering. They're waiting for me to do something wrong. To take the lord's name in vain or sacrifice a goat.

I ignore their stares and go about the business of finding my seat; in the process I discover that the first row of chairs is bolted to the floor near a pole. The last chair in the row is so close to the pole that the seat won't fold down. The pole is blocking the seat and no one can sit there.

I examine the seat, looking for a way to fix it. Maybe if I could force the seat down, or move that chair somehow. I get down on hands and knees to see if it is indeed bolted to the floor, or maybe see if I can loose it from its moorings...

They watch me, the non-pagans, and they become irritated with my fixation on the seat.

"What're you doing?" one asks me. "Is there something wrong with your seat?"

Not mine, I say. But this one... it's all wonky.

"What's the problem? It looks fine to me." She rolls her eyes at me, and her companion next to her titters a little giggle. "Maybe you're not doing it right."

But the seat doesn't fold down. I demonstrate. It's not a functioning seat. I pull on the seat, showing her how it's not folding down.

"I don't see what trouble is," she repeats.

How can you not see? I demonstrate again. Don't you see how it's broken?

She ignores me, and the two walk away. They cast glances over their shoulders and laugh when they see me staring after them in frustration. How can they ignore empirical evidence like that? Silly bints...

I realise I have to go to the bathroom so I approach a small group of women and ask if any of them can direct me to the nearest restroom. They stare at me blankly.

"Sorry," an older woman speaks up. "I'm not sure where the bathroom is."

I set off in a huff, wondering how a woman -any woman- doesn't know where a bathroom is in a church. I exit the auditorium and find myself in a long hallway. No doors off the hallway, no signs, no clues as to where a bathroom might be. The only thing in the hallway is a long banquet table with chairs around it. The table is set for dinner, food steaming in serving dishes in the centre.

I wander down the hallway and find an elevator. On the closed doors a large "13" is painted in bright yellow. I was certain this building was single-level. Why would a single level building need an elevator?

As I approach, the doors woosh open and I step inside. There are no buttons inside, no panel allowing me to choose where to go. The doors open and I cautiously step out. A woman rushes past me wearing hospital scrubs and a net cap over her hair.

Excuse me! I call to the woman. Can you tell me where I am?

"Floor 13. Hospital level."

Hospital level. Now that's really odd. I go about my search, seriously needing to pee, following a twisted maze of hallways until I find myself in a supermarket. People are shopping inside a church. Just down the hallway from a hospital. In a building that's a single level from the outside but has at least 13 floors inside.

Another hallway and another elevator, this one with "42C" painted on its doors. I skip that one, knowing I don't really want to go up. I find another, marked "4A", and ride it down. I step out into a large corridor with windows showing classrooms. I'm on a school level. A bell rings and doors slam open; children pour into the corridor and bounce and scream past me.

I snag one, sure that a child will know the way to the potty. She points, and I see a stick figure wearing a skirt.

Finally. I'd sure hate to pee in my dress in front of a bunch of third-graders in a school-church-hospital-supermarket.

After I take care of that business, I realise the sermon will start soon and suddenly it is very important that I be there for that. Miraculously I find my way back down to the first floor (1F, Church Level) and enter the auditorium with relief.

I make my way to my seat to find it occupied. Hi there. Excuse me, I think you're in my seat. I show my ticket to the girl in my seat. She sniffs and looks away.

Miss, that's my seat. I show my ticket again, and she glares at me.

"I think you're wrong."

But it says, right here. Why won't you look?

I look around and see that all the seats are full apart from the one with the dysfunctional seat that won't fold down. Everyone has taken their place (and mine) and I have nowhere to sit.

I go back out into the hallway and snag one of the chairs from around the banquet table and drag it, bouncing and clattering, into the auditorium and down to the front of the room.

I sit, waiting for the sermon to start. Waiting for someone to notice the broken chair and the girl in my seat and the rude women who wouldn't direct me to the bathroom. Waiting for them to notice that it's not normal to have a hospital inside a church and a table-full of food that no one is eating.

Waiting for God to strike me dead.

I'm not codependent (except when I am)

2009-11-28T13:07:00.001-08:00

image photo credit

I've been behind on my blog-reading lately. In catching up, I have been able to spend many glorious hours reading, to my absolute delight, the most talented, insightful writers on the internet. Among my absolute favourites, MPJ.

As a side note I kind of feel like an annoying little sister, following her around and hanging on her every word. I can't help it, I have a total crush on her brain.

When I finally caught up with her recent posts, I started going through her side-bar and ran across her post What is Codependence? I always liked that one. Reading it again today, something clicked in my brain. Like pieces coming together, a cotter pin sliding into place and fastening my thoughts in the right order...

I have always enjoyed the light-hearted manner in which MPJ jokes about her own co-dependency, poking fun at herself and her actions -- it's an incredibly subtle illness and can be as damaging and dangerous as substance abuse, but she has a way of looking at it that makes it less scary, less shameful.

I grew up in a highly co-dependent family. A family where some members aggressively ignored each others' needs while others went out of their way to over-compensate. Where sometimes my own needs were met before I even knew I had a need, others would not recognise that a need was going unmet.

I watched people in my family give up their own needs, their own desires and wishes and hopes, to maintain others' standards. I watched family members strive to fix that which others had broken, control situations that couldn't be controlled, lie when tempers flared and fists flew. And then become hurt, rejected, and bitter when their sacrifices were not recognised.

And I associated all that with "family". Somehow, I came to think of having children as the circumstance that forces you to put anothers' needs before your own, to the detriment of your own health; to be constantly looking for a need that must be met, to be perpetually guarding against danger or pain. To protect one's own rigid, tightly-maintained control of every situation, every circumstance, every environment. To give up one's own happiness for that of another, and to experience feelings of sadness and rejection when the very people being protected and cared-for and loved did not make the same sacrifices, didn't appreciate what was being done for them. That's what I thought it meant to raise a family. And I wanted no part of that.

To this day, when my husband suggests I take a sweater so I don't get cold I lose my mind. When he asks me if I need anything I want to scream at him. He hovers when I don't feel well and I want nothing more than for him to go away. (After he brings me soup. And a glass of juice. And a book. And all 42 remotes for the TV. And rubs my feet and goes to the store for some ginger ale and a chocolate bar. After THAT, I totally want him to go away and leave me alone until I need him again.)

What is the opposite of co-dependent? An unhealthy approach toward the opposite extreme? Whatever that is, that's me. I am aggressively not-co-dependent. Sometimes to such a degree that I will suffer just to prove my own point.

Huh. Oops.

Movie review: New Moon

2009-11-26T20:12:00.000-08:00

Warning! This post contains plot spoilers and bitter opinions!

Went to see New Moon earlier this week. I've just finished reading all four books. It's a funny sort of thing... I really, really, really hate the way Meyers writes. Her use of casual and/or incorrect grammar and structure would not offend me so deeply if she would stick to using it as a dialogue tool to demonstrate a character's "voice"; as it is, the way the entire book(s) is written in that way makes me want to get my red pen out and mark up the entire manuscript.

(Don't worry, local public library, I totally didn't.)

That said, I found myself completely lost in the world she created. It isn't often that I will love/hate a book in the way that I really loved/hated each book in this series. I was glued to the couch for weeks straight, reading late into the night. Captivated by the characters, and often muttering in disgust.

Those of you who have heard me bitch about Janet Evanovich will recognise this unreasoning hatred of useless, stupid, banal female characters, even as I want them to have everything they ever needed.

Speaking of everything she ever needed, I was quite gratified to read that I'm not the only one who thought Bella was the epitome of a co-dependent girl. It's a good thing she gets vamped later, or she'd be the typical battered woman when Edward tired of her insipid whining and pleas for love and started beating her for her constant lack of smiling.

The thing that made the movie totally worth seeing was the collective gasp that went up among the entire teenaged audience when Taylor Lautner removed his shirt for the first time. If he didn't make me feel like a complete pervert, I'm sure I would find him scrumptious.

And, because Wired rocks so much:

Making it up as I go

2009-11-26T14:33:00.000-08:00

When I was a girl the thing I wanted second-most was to be a grown up.

(The thing I wanted first-most was to be a warrior woman.)

I knew, in the way that kids know, that my mom made up a lot along the way. But I also knew that she had answers to everything. Even when I hated the answers, she had them. They were hers, and so they were mine. There was no arguing with her.

I wanted to be just like that, making it up as I went.

It seemed to be that adults had answers for everything. They always had the last word, the final say. Even when I made my mom lose her temper and blurt out the next thing that came to her mind, she always had something.

She never seemed confused or lost. She never had nothing to say.

My friend's parents had their routines and their structure. My teachers had their composure (except for my Spanish teacher, sophomore year, who used to turn red in the face and scream at us).

Everywhere - rules, regulations, sentence structure, paychecks, health insurance - all controlled and maintained by the grown ups.

When I got there, I also had all the answers. I held the schedule. I maintained the routine. There was nothing I didn't know. No situation to which I did not know how to respond. I made it up as I went and I knew exactly what I was doing.

Until I didn't. One day last week or ten minutes ago or five years ago I forgot how to know everything.

I have no schedule, no routine. In fact, I hate routine. I no longer know what I'm doing. Still making it up as I go, but suddenly so.terribly.unsure.

This business of being a grown up is a lot harder than it used to look. But it's Thanksgiving and I have food in the oven and I'm going to a Gwar show tomorrow, so for today I am letting it go.

And I am eternally grateful that I now know how to do so.

Giving Thanks

2009-11-26T10:02:00.000-08:00

My family. My mom and dad who don't crowd me and don't judge my decisions. They leave me alone with my choices, offering only support or love if I need it. They taught me how to take responsibility for myself.

Mr. J's family. They accept me as I am, and they don't place expectations on me. They love me for me and they really listen when I have something to say.

My step-daughter. She taught me how to be an adult, far more than she knows. She taught me how to think about my words before I spoke them. She taught me how to love without condition, and what it means to be so proud of another person I could burst. I love her as though she were own daughter.

My employees. They teach me how to express myself honestly without losing my temper. They allow me to be wrong and make mistakes and they challenge me to do better.

My friends. Friends who are like family, they have seen the best and the worst of me and they still choose to love me.

My boss. She supports me and guides me; she helps me work through decisions and lets me find me own way. She gives me room to grow.

Ajahn Brahm. The world is a better place for him in it. I'm quite certain I owe him my sanity.

The beach. The place I escape to. The place where I am surrounded by those who protect me and love me and feed me. The place that doesn't judge me or hate me or cut me off on the motorway. The place where I see God, without having to look too hard.

My blog. It has brought me solace when I needed it, and friends I otherwise never would have the privilege of knowing. If you have ever commented on my blog, know that your words have encouraged and fortified me.

Green bean casserole. The first time I had this dish was my first Thanksgiving with my husband's family. It reminds me of his grandmother, now departed, who hugged me the first time I met her. Of the children, now grown, laughing and happy and playing. Of his parents, warm and loving, with whom I was immediately bonded.

You. I love you for making my life a better one. For your friendship, your love, and your compassion. I love you for your kindness, and for your bad attitude; for offering me advice, for flipping me off while driving, and for making such good lattes. I love you for talking during movies, and for offering me a smile on the day I needed it the most.

Joyous Thanksgiving.

You're doing it wrong

2009-11-24T16:38:00.000-08:00

What if there were no wrong choices?

Get married young. Have a baby out of wedlock. Marry an older man. Be a lesbian. Have an abortion.

What if there were no right choices?

Take a job overseas. Follow through with that urge to drive your car off the bridge. Skip the road for home and keep driving until you run out of pavement. Study a religion for a whole year.

What if there were only choices?

Get a divorce. Give your kid up for adoption. Get a tattoo. Pierce your butt-cheek.

Any choice you want, just waiting for you to make it.

Sell all your possessions. Become a monk. Start your own business. Drop out of high school. Learn a language.

What if you had the freedom to do anything you wanted, without people telling you that you were making a mistake? What if you were simply encouraged to try new things?

What would you do? Where would you go?

I'm going to write a book. And then ride a unicorn bare-back to the North Pole and get drunk with Santa Clause.

Ex-restaurant

2009-11-24T01:15:00.000-08:00

My favourite spot for ribs has closed down. I am a little bit heartbroken.

The good stuff happens at night

2009-11-24T01:02:00.000-08:00

I'm up late, even though I am tired. I have been up late for days, because I am on vacation and I wanna.

My eyes are gritty with fatigue, dry from staring at a crochet project for hours and then my monitor for more hours. Why am I not in bed?

I am certain, absolutely positive that after I go to bed is when the magic happens.

The funniest joke I never heard.
Spiritual awakening.
Earth-shattering news.
Unicorns and Santa Clause.

The precise moment when everything in my world makes sense will strike, and I won't be awake to recognise it.

I want to do yoga; to run outside in the cold and rain; to beat the hell out of a heavy-bag (I don't have a heavy-bag, dammit. Dear Santa...)

Mostly, I just want the secrets of the night.

And, I really want a cigarette.

Thoughts named Sahara

2009-11-23T18:29:00.001-08:00

There is a desert in my mind. Thoughts of sand, white as bone.

Dry, disintegrating thoughts. Baked and crumbled in the sun; blown to the four quarters by hot winds.

A memory: intangible, sliding across the surface of my mind; as smooth as glass, it holds nothing. Betrays nothing.

I do not exist in this mind. I have been stripped of this place, like the skin of a freshly killed deer. Carved away and discarded.

This mind only knows you.
It only shows you... you.

You, reflected back at you.
You, and you again.

Your face.
Your mind.Your thoughts and wants and desires...
Reflected over and over again.

Was that what you want?
Was that your desire?

If you could have chosen the thing you would leave me with, would it really have been you?

Should it, really, have been you?

Princess Peppermint in a castle of confusion

2009-11-23T00:08:00.000-08:00

I am fifteen years old. Again.

Angry.

Stubborn.

Unreasonable.

Tangled.

For No. Good. Reason.

I want to cry and listen to loud music and punch someone.

Until their teeth break.

Until their skin splits.

Until my skin splits.

Until my knuckle snaps and I'm punching my bones into their bones.

I feel like I'm in the wrong skin. Again. Everything hurts, between the top of my head and bottoms of my feet.

When I was fifteen, I would sneak down to the kitchen and find my mom's bottle of vodka. She kept it behind the crock pot, shoved way to the back of the cupboard.

I would crawl out my bedroom window and sit on the roof with a plastic cup of vodka and smoke cigarettes.

I keep my vodka in the freezer these days, and the only cigarettes I have are from the day I sort-of quit smoking five years ago. Grody.

Where has this fight been? Why have I been wearing this suit?

Alone in the dark

2009-10-25T22:02:00.000-07:00

Your saliva hits my chin before my tears start. Above me, sweating, your face is still; in shadow. Darkness pooling behind your eyes.

My fingertips against the stubbled hair on your cheek.
Wet and smooth; rough like sandpaper and soft as silk.

My fingers come away wet. Is this blood or is this sweat?
Between my breasts and across my belly. Damp, between my legs.
Blood or sweat or tears or brains.

I look a question up to you, and you frown as the top of your scalp slides off your head and lands on the pillow beside me with a small, wet splash.

And you say, "Sorry."

Judging Betty

2009-10-04T16:26:00.001-07:00

I have just got around to watching Mad Men, and I have to say - I really like it. I like Don Draper and all his tight-lipped mystery. I like that he has the suburbanite lifestyle with the kids and the house and the pretty blonde wife, yet he pursues other women. Darker, emotionally complex women who have their own lives and their own interests; independent women who are their own bosses and don't sit at the table waiting for him to arrive at the end of the day.

I really don't like the character of his wife. I think she is meant to be a character for whom we are supposed to feel sympathy; it seems as though we are supposed to like her and feel angry that she is taken advantage of. Her feelings are dismissed, she is accused (wrongly) of lewd behaviour, and she is generally ignored and mistreated. But really, I just hate her.

She is lonely, and sad, and extremely insecure. Certain not the personality faults of the century, but she expresses it by being snide and judgmental towards others. She is passive aggressive. I look at her character and I see a doormat.

Is that what others see? Do you look at a woman who concedes to her husband, raises his children, keeps his house, and entertains his friends and feel sorry for her because her husband is such an ass? Or do you see her and hate her?

I like to think that if I were a twenty-something woman in the 60s that I would sooner be at a dirty little bar in the Village, smoking clove cigarettes and listening to bad poetry than be married to a man who left me alone with his children to keep company with the trollops in the Village.

Really, I just wish I had January Jones' hair.

Desolation and consolation

2009-09-09T19:58:00.000-07:00

I came home from work early today, not feeling well. I turned on the television, which I almost never do (except for those times when I do) and caught an old episode of Joan of Arcadia. Do you remember that show?

I watched it when it was on new, and I really liked it. There was some stuff I didn't like so much. Like how when Joan did what God told her to do and good things happened. I got the message, but I didn't like it.

Something I really did like was her mother's struggle with the question of faith, and her dad's discomfort with religious indoctrination. The episode I caught today was toward the end of the show, I think, and Joan's mom went to a church and spoke with the priest about faith and disbelief and all the rest.

Later, when she was telling her husband about it, she described faith (or the crisis thereof) as consolation and desolation. Consolation was when things were going well, when a person felt serene and happy, right down to the bottom of their wriggly little toes. Consoled, right?

Desolation was the opposite of all of that. When faith leaves us and we're empty; when tragedy happens and we rail and shake our fists heavenward. When we flail around, useless and scared and sad, and blame "god" for making such an ass-hat world for us to live in. Then we're desolate, barren of faith and void of optimism.

These two opposing ideas made me think of the little angel and demon, the ones who sit on our shoulders and tell us what to do. The demon whispers of fun, naughty things and the angel admonishes us, begging us to be good and filled up with virtue.

I have never had that angel and demon, perched on my shoulders and whispering opposing instructions. But I've had consolation and desolation. Both go bone deep, and they take turns burning me from the inside out.

Girl implodes brain conjuring clever titles

2009-09-08T19:23:00.000-07:00

I was watching a TV show this evening, an episode in which one of the main supporting characters dies. As the main character of the show was taken over by grief and trauma, and while the other supporting characters were helpless and trying hard not to be, I recalled so vividly what I felt like after Colin died.

The all-consuming importance of having the right clothes on, of choosing the words to a death announcement so carefully... that thing we do where we focus on the most ridiculous, mundane details as though they are suddenly so very important.

My heart was pounding as the main character faced the question of how to carry on with life after a death. My heart pounded just the way it did when I faced that same question: what next?

I wanted to cry feeling that old anxiety, that breath-stealing fear.

Why would I choose to remember that fear? Of all the things I felt back then, why did I pick the fear to recall?

And I thought about a conversation I had with a friend recently, about carrying trauma around and how it take a lot of emotional effort to keep our traumas so fresh in our minds.

I watched the characters on television flail helplessly around not knowing how to express their grief and I sat sweating, holding my breath for fear I would fly apart, feeling my heart pound in my chest, and I let it go. I saw it for the choice it was, and I chose to let it go.

And then I focused on the dialogue, 'cause Joss Whedon is just damn funny.

Raveled

2009-09-05T06:15:00.000-07:00

I am at a loss about what to do in this moment. It is barely a real day yet, just after 6AM. My cats are still sleeping, The Husband is at work, and my apartment is oddly quiet.

It is raining. It comes down loudly on the tin carports in the parking lot. It sounds like handfuls of nails dropped on a shed roof by an angry god. I usually enjoy a steaming mug of coffee and a book while listening to this sound, but today I can't decide.

There is so much I want to do today, so many things that I have planned, and I can't decide where to start. It seems so simple to just pick one. You'd laugh if you could hear the thoughts in my head, the arguments I have with myself about why I don't just go do something on my list.

I should have been a scientist. Then I would have a lab in my house I could go to and work on experiments and draw conclusions and make legitimate lists.

Un-Sunday

2009-08-16T12:07:00.000-07:00

I had plans today. Fun plans, plans to which I had looked forward for weeks. Roller-blading in the park with Eula today, maybe lunch and a drink or two. Definitely laughing.

But I cancelled. No roller-blading. No lunch. Certainly no laughing.

I woke up at 7am feeling like I was in someone elses' skin. I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling for two hours trying to convince myself that I just needed more sleep or some coffee or less activity in my brain.

Sleep and coffee didn't help and the only ways I know of to shut off my brain are either too permanent or the sort of thing that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

So I cancelled my plans and went back to sleep.

I feel bad, but I'm really terrible company today.

Eating leads to heart burn

2009-08-14T13:33:00.000-07:00

A week ago I ruined a box of macaroni and cheese. I grew up making mac-n-cheese for myself. Standing at the stove, I'd stir the noodles constantly while reading a book. I would test the noodles, sucking them into my mouth off a wooden spoon, chewing them fast so they didn't burn.

I never timed the noodles. I don't know what the instructions on the box say.

Last Sunday, I timed the noodles. I used the timer on my iPhone, cause it's still brand new and shiny and it is far sexier to use that timer than the old boring one that is stuck to the stove.

I set the timer for ten minutes and walked away. Probably playing with my phone like a child with a new toy; I didn't stir. I didn't even set foot back into the kitchen until the timer went off, the horrible buzzing alarm that I'd chosen as an alert clanging in my ears.

I had ruined the mac-n-cheese. Soft, soggy noodles made me think of over-cooked bits of brain. I ate it, because I'm like that, but every bite was like chewing up squishy cheese-flavoured maggots.

Today I wanted a sandwich. Or fresh, hot pizza. Or home-made chili. I have none of these things, but I have more mac-n-cheese.

I stood at the stove, reading Carlucci's Edge and stirring my noodles like a good girl. I put the stopwatch on my phone on, so I could determine exactly how long to cook my noodles.

It turns out, I like them at right about three and a half minutes.

I ate my food too fast, and now I have something like heartburn.

Bad words

2009-08-13T21:19:00.000-07:00

I don't know what my words are doing. I sit before a blank page, willing words onto it.

But they are all stopped up inside me. How do you say it? Blogstipation.

Half the time I can't stop them. They bounce around in my head, like unruly brats hungry for dinner. They wail lustily at me, eyes scrunched up, tugging at my shirt-sleeves.

Begging for attention.

Other times... they're more like sullen teenagers hiding in their rooms with headphones on. Refusing to come join the rest of the family. Moping and rude, ignoring chores and shirking responsibilities.

Ungrateful words. I'm grounding you. No TV for a month!

Leaking crazy

2009-08-12T21:26:00.001-07:00

Other people's words light fires in my soul. I wish I had my own sometimes, words that would flow out of me, like a giggling stream. Or a stream of giggling.

I think poetical thoughts in my head, clever phrases dressed up like a princess. But they don't make it outside my brain.

They get trapped there, stuck in my head like something too large to fit down a drain. They swirl and flirt, dancing in their pretty pink dresses in the dirty water of my mind.

Never going down. Never finishing up. I can't shut them up, and I can't wash them away.

Dirty, unwashed thoughts inside my dirty, unwashed brain.

A new sort of Sunday

2009-08-09T18:03:00.000-07:00

The Husband started a new schedule at work recently, working weekends for the next six months. Today was his first Sunday at the office. I was looking forward to the time to myself, the quiet solitude. I had many big plans for today which included yoga, maybe a run (yah, right) or weight training in my gym-ling, a haircut, some knitting, and grocery shopping. I traded the workout and haircut for laundry and WoW and spent most of the day a small state of confusion.

Even though I was looking forward to the solitude it was a little more difficult to get accustomed to than I anticipated. It reminded me of what Ajahn Brahm says about letting go of expectations. He tells me to let go of circumstances for the sake of the circumstance, and experience what is right in front of me in this moment instead of focusing on what is missing, or what may have existed here in the past. Or, even worse, focusing on what might be here in the future. I spend enough time focusing on what will happen in the future...

I missed The Husband today because I enjoy spending time with him but I was also happy to have the entire apartment to myself for a day. I felt almost guilty enjoying myself today, because I don't not want to be around him. But I did enjoy filling up the space here with only my sounds.

It's an odd dichotomy and makes me feel weird inside. Like everything else inside me, I'm not entirely sure what to do with that.

Next weekend, more yoga. I could have used the grounding today. At least I got some laundry done and now there's food in the house.

Food decisions make me cranky

2009-08-03T06:00:00.000-07:00

Food is a big problem for me. I haven't been able to figure out why, in years of trying to sort it out, that planning meals puts me in such a bad mood. I recently admitted to Mr. J. that the nightly discussions of what to eat for dinner make me want to run away from home.

It was sort of a shock to hear myself say it, and I'm sure it was a little bit of a surprise for him too. I felt badly about that, but it's the truth.

When I was growing up, mealtimes were serious business. My mom did lots of cooking and freezing, so dinner was always cooked even if she was at work or home late. Breakfast was always hot, lunch was always brown-bagged, and dinner had most of the necessary food groups. Even though money was tight and schedules conflicted for much of my childhood, we had that meal-time problem sorted out.

I don't remember having a lot of input on what we ate as a child. I was given choices if I didn't like what was prepared, but mostly food just showed up on the table and I ate it.

And maybe that's where my frustration comes from: maybe I just don't want to have to make decisions about it. Maybe I just want the food to magically appear for me. One facet of my marriage is that neither of us make unilateral decisions. Which, really, is perfect half the time. Some decisions, though, I honestly don't care about and can't bear to have conversations about them.

I know this makes me incredibly unreasonable. I am trying to figure it out, but mostly I don't know where to start.

Yoga, interrupted

2009-08-02T10:36:00.000-07:00

I went to yoga yesterday, for the first time in a long time. I took my step-daughter with me and we had a blast. I'm not as limber as I used to be, and certainly not as centred. I felt off-balance, physically and emotionally.

Not helping my sense of balance and compassion was the woman who came in fifteen minutes late, her thongs clap-slapping the floor and her children giggling and whispering. She took her time setting up, instructing her girls where to put their mats. They unrolled said mats, and not quietly. As each of the three mats slapped down on the floor all at once, I had to fight not to scream. They settled, eventually, and just as I started getting back to my zen-place the mother began whispering instructions at one of the girls.

This is such a difficult situation for me. I want to be all happy and peaceful and understanding about how I have to share the world with others. I want to stay grounded in my bubble, not letting others intrude on my space. I really, really want to disassociate from reacting based on my environment. I try to have compassion and understanding; I try to let my heart fill up with good-will towards others; but really, I just wanted to yell at them until they cried and fled the studio.

Clearly, I have a long way to go.

Please, please, if you are going to bring your kids to yoga at least be on-time and considerate of others.

Also, don't wear shorts that gape at the leg if you aren't washed and shaved.

Perspective

2009-08-01T21:13:00.000-07:00

When your eyes are an inch above your path, how do you gain perspective? Is it better to hover above your path so you can see in all directions, then choose a course based on some data? Or is it better to keep your eyes an inch above your path and simply deal with whatever you encounter?

What if we could rise above our paths and see the obstacles and lessons that lie in each direction, and choose based on what we thought we could handle?

If you could have your choice, if you could know ahead of time, would you? Would you fly far above and search out your futures, or would you stay closer to the earth and let it all come at you at its own pace?

I read a story about a grasshopper today. It was five sentences, and I can't remember it. Profound though, and thought-provoking. I felt blissful and alive just reading it, and then I promptly forgot it.

The really great thing about being me though, is that I hold onto that blissful feeling even if I don't remember the reason for it, or the words behind it.

Some days I really love being me.