8 facts/habits

This seems to be going around-- Players list 8 facts/habits about themselves.

(I love the term "players," I couldn't resist.)



1. I am a not a morning person. Much of writing takes place at night as does cleaning.

2. Every day for breakfast I eat Total cereal.

3. I love artists, writers, and creative people. I find them inspiring to my own work and life. The world would be a better place if more people created art, books, or poems.

4. I'm superstitious, but not about mirrors, ladders, or black cats.

5. I don't know how to cook and a fact that both embarrasses me and makes me proud.

6. Writing is the one thing that has been a constant in my life. I can look back at myself as a young child and remember wanting to be a writer and its threads weave through every year.

7. Everyone in my family has a "totem animal." Mine is the Kingfisher.

8. I *heart* my daytimer and want nothing to do with a palm pilot.


* * *

If you haven't done this yet, consider yourself tagged.

Faith vs. Discipline

I just read a great blog on faith vs. discipline by Sage Cohen of Writers on the Rise.

She found this quote from novelist Alice Sebold in the May issue of O Magazine:

“A difficult lesson, which I fought at every turn, is that what often must substitute for faith is discipline. Faith has a lovely ease about it, an ethereal ring. Discipline is the rod, the staff, your insecurities internalized and sprouting rules and limits on your life. Why can’t I just have faith that books will be completed? Why isn’t faith alone enough? I hear my Southern roots respond. Faith doesn’t dig ditches, they say; faith doesn’t scrape the burn from the bottom of the pot. Ultimately, faith gives freedom, and discipline, its sister, makes sure the job gets done.”


Read the full entry here.

* * *

Now that July is coming to an end and the School Supply Sales are hitting the stores, I'm thinking about fall and my writing life, which returns then. Even b.c (before children) I never wrote much in the summer. It was sort of my relaxation time, traveling time, just hanging out and enjoying life time. And now, with this last week of clouds & rain (now which seems to be gone), I'm looking forward to my wool sweaters, hot coffee, and reentering my writing cave. I love summer, but I love autumn even more and how it gives the gift of rain and no reason to be anywhere else except at my laptop or on the sofa with a book.

This I Believe: I Feed Monkeys on my Birthday

A friend told me about this "This I Believe" essay by Harold Taw, a Seattle writer (one who I believe just received an Artist Trust GAP grant).

Here's a sampling of it:

I could say that I believe in America because it rewarded my family's hard work to overcome poverty. I could say that I believe in holding on to rituals and traditions because they helped us flourish in a new country. But these concepts are more concretely expressed this way: I believe in feeding monkeys on my birthday -- something I've done without fail for 35 years.



You can read the whole essay here. Or click the link on the title of this post.


I hope you are each considering something you believe in to submit to this fantastic series.


*

For the Women or Any Man Who Wants To Know a Little More about What it's Like to be a Woman

You may want to file this under TMI (too much information), but I ran across this review for the new Tampax Tampons-- yes, the powers that be have finally realized they don't have the perfect product and changed the design.

A woman reviewed it on her blog (I am Bossy) and I thought it was quite funny, so I'm sharing it with you right here dear open reader...

I know, it's not my usual style to have tampon reviews on this blog. But hey, it's a Monday, the last day of July, and there's been some weird energy in the world this month. So anything that makes the world lighten up a bit (myself included) seems like a good idea to me.

This I Believe

If you haven't heard it before, This I Believe is a fascinating NPR Project.

Here's a summary taken from the This I Believe website:

This I Believe is a national media project engaging people in writing, sharing, and discussing the core values and beliefs that guide their daily lives. NPR airs these three-minute essays on All Things Considered and Weekend Edition Sunday.

Anyone can submit an essay on anything they *believe* in. They just need to be 300-500 words.

Here's mine from their website. (I believe in passion...) It tells the backstory to my life and I wrote it as this August is my ten year anniversary of quitting my job, moving from the city, and starting a new life that focused on writing, family, simplicity, nature, and lollygagging.

Good News: Diane Lockward is Blogging...

A favorite poet of mine, Diane Lockward, author of EVE'S RED DRESS and the WHAT FEEDS US, has a blog now. You can visit her here: http://www.dianelockward.blogspot.com/


In celebration of a new voice in the blogosphere as well as it being POETRY FRIDAY, a day I just learned about, I'm posting of Diane's poems below. Enjoy!


Pyromania


The heart wants what the heart wants,
and what it wants is fire.
My friend Roz, six months into a relationship
with a seemly man, dumps him
and says, There’s no fireworks.
Roz wants the full-scale Grucci display—
her lover a licensed pyrotechnician,
Roman candles manually fired,
multi-color scenes, a barrage
of illuminations, the sky pulsing,
and always the Grand Finale.

Think of that woman in Colorado,
a forest ranger, who goes into the woods,
a letter from her estranged husband
clutched in her fist, a firestorm in her heart.
She reads the letter one last time,
strikes a match and kindles his words,
watches them shrivel.
Think of the entire forest in flames,
the blaze billowing and consuming,
trees surrendering to fire,
skeletons of timber, and charred remains.

And now I learn that silicone in the breasts
must be excised before cremation
or it blows up, liquefying to a dangerous substance,
destroying the crematorium.
I’d like to have breasts like that—
round and full, earth-tipped and tilted
heavenward, the kind that ignite and explode.
I’d like my breasts to burst into flame,
spreading like wildfire,
tongues of scarlet licking the walls.
I’d like breasts just that white-hot
as once they were under the touch
of my lover, so recently departed.
I’d like to burn the crematorium down.



—from What Feeds Us (Wind Publications, 2006)
first published in Prairie Schooner


* * *

File Name: I'm Not Surprised

In the News--

Just as Evian is "naive" spelled backwards, Aquafina is combination of the prefix aqua Latin meaning "water," and fina, American for "sucker."


NEW YORK - So you thought that water in your Aquafina bottle came from some far-away spring bubbling deep in a glen?

Try the tap.

PepsiCo Inc. is the latest company to offer some clarity about the source of its top-selling bottled water as it announced on Friday it would change the label on Aquafina water bottles to spell out that the drink comes from the same source as tap water.

Aquafina is the single biggest bottled water brand, and its bottles are now labeled “P.W.S.” The new labels will spell out “public water source.”

Full Story at MSNBC

* * * So basically, if you're buying Aquafina, you are paying for the bottle and the temperature of the water (if you purchase it in the cooler of your market), but the water, why that's pretty much free anywhere. Water: free at a tap near you.

* * *

Smart Talk -

I saw this on Deborah Ager's blog who found it on Elizabeth Gilbert's website:

Gilbert writes:

"The more important virtue for a writer, I believe, is self-forgiveness. Because your writing will always disappoint you. Your laziness will always disappoint you. You will make vows: “I’m going to write for an hour every day,” and then you won’t do it. You will think: “I suck, I’m such a failure. I’m washed-up.” Continuing to write after that heartache of disappointment doesn’t take only discipline, but also self-forgiveness (which comes from a place of kind and encouraging and motherly love). The other thing to realize is that all writers think they suck. When I was writing “Eat, Pray, Love”, I had just as a strong a mantra of THIS SUCKS ringing through my head as anyone does when they write anything. But I had a clarion moment of truth during the process of that book. One day, when I was agonizing over how utterly bad my writing felt, I realized: “That’s actually not my problem.” The point I realized was this – I never promised the universe that I would write brilliantly; I only promised the universe that I would write. So I put my head down and sweated through it, as per my vows.”


She also writes this on her thoughts about writing:

"We need more creation, not more destruction. We need our artists more than ever, and we need them to be stable, steadfast, honorable and brave – they are our soldiers, our hope. If you decide to write, then you must do it, as Balzac said, “like a miner buried under a fallen roof.” Become a knight, a force of diligence and faith. I don’t know how else to do it except that way. As the great poet Jack Gilbert said once to young writer, when she asked him for advice about her own poems: “Do you have the courage to bring forth this work? The treasures that are hidden inside you are hoping you will say YES.”
* * *


Isn't the the truth, it's not about writing brilliantly, but just writing.

And I love the line about needing more creation than destruction. Yes to that. I remember Li-Young Lee saying imagine if more people wrote poetry and what kind of world we'd have. And I remember thinking, "Yes, what a *kind* world we'd have."

So everyone, go forth and create.


!

New Book by David Wagoner.... & new technologies

I thought this was interesting. There's a new book out by David Wagoner called MAD HAT. What surprised me about it is that it is self-published by Book Surge, which appears to be an Amazon.com company.

We have arrived at a new era of publishing, yet many of us are old school about it (print out manuscript, write large check, submit, lather, rinse, repeat). Yet here's DW, self-publishing his own book.

I don't know too much about BookSurge, I'm guessing the pro/cons would be much the same for as a press that uses POD (Print on Demand), but I'm interested in writers finding new ways to get their work to the world.

I don't understand poets and writers who poo-poo the internet & ezines. A poem on the internet is seem a thousand times more than a poem in most literary journals. A poem on the internet can connect you with someone in another country, most poems in print journals never make it that far. I'm not saying either/or, but that we can learn from the younger generation who doesn't debate whether people should blog or not, be on the internet or not, but accepts it and sees it as a resource or another way to connect.

Shiny Happy People....

Democratic presidential hopefuls, from left: former Sen. Mike Gravel of Alaska, Sen. Christopher Dodd of Connecticut, former Sen. John Edwards of North Carolina, Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton of New York, Sen. Barack Obama of Illinois, New Mexico Gov. Bill Richardson, Sen. Joseph Biden of Delaware, and Rep. Dennis Kucinich of Ohio together before the start of the debate sponsored by CNN, YouTube and Google at The Citadel military college in Charleston, S.C., Monday.

__________________-

Find the next President of the United States. S/he is somewhere in the above photo. How's that for optimism? LTD! (love those democrats!)

Mother Writers -or- June Cleaver, You Have No Idea What a Mess You've Caused...

I've started reading A QUESTION OF BALANCE: ARTIST AND WRITERS ON MOTHERHOOD. Even though it was published in 1995, the issues surrounding being a mother while being a writer are artist are pretty much the same. There are issues with guilt, worry, frustration, balance-- so much with balance. These essays and interviews could have been done last week, each woman seems to be coming up against the same challenge--how to mix writing with motherhood or how to be a good mother and a good writer/artist. It's sort of annoying how in the 21st century, there are still these same issues.

In the introduction, Judith Pierce Rosenberg wrote about how she had a career crisis after they moved and she lost her home office. She writes, "We had just moved out a cramped two-bedroom cottage into a ranch house with a fenced yard, and a room for each child--but no office. My husband quickly nixed my idea of converting the dining alcove into a workspace, saying that it would look too messy. And I believed the childrearing experts who insisted that my son and daughter were too old to share a bedroom. . .

Why didn't I insist on taking my old desk to our new home and using the dining alcove as an office? Why were the perceived needs of my children more important than the demands of my work? In retrospect, I think the reason lies in the fact that I was earning very little money as a freelance writer. In fact, my work was a financial drain on the family since I did not make enough money to cover my work-related expenses, especially child care. It was difficult for either my husband or for me to consider my work as important as his."

The end result is that Rosenberg takes on the life as a "traditional mom" and feels frustrated and resentful. She began read articles by artists and writers who were also mothers on how they integrated the maternal and artistic aspects of their lives.

Alicia Ostriker made time for her writing, and had this to say about writing poetry when her children were at home:

"Poetry was always in the interstices of everything else, the nooks and crannies. It was always time stolen from other responsibilities. Everything else in my life was being done for someone or something else: someone needed me to do it or I was being paid to do it. Poetry was the one thing that I did for myself alone with the sense that no one on earth except myself gave a damn whether I did it or not. In my early years, I didn't make other things move over very much for it; it was always on the run."

_____________________

The book inspires me and reminds me that creating this so-called "balance" is not something that just happens, but something that these women have worked at. Their writing time did not just wander up to them and invite them in, they lassoed the time each individually and in their own way.

As a mother & writer, I continually do my best, rebalance and try again. I juggle guilt sometimes. I wonder if I am being the best mom/writer/wife/poet/person I can be, which is insanity. That phrase, "always do your best," should be replaced with something that will not cause anyone to have a nervous breakdown. Who came up with that? What about "just show up," or "try pretty hard?" I swear, "Always do your best" was invented by someone at my old corporate job just as "There's no 'I' in 'team.'" But there are two "I"'s in "idiot," which is usually how I feel if I follow what the group is doing.

I have to be careful how I talk about my writing life. Sometimes I catch myself saying, "I stole some time for writing today" then wonder why I use words that make it a crime. A criminal mother. My language reflects my worst fears--what am I taking away from others by writing?


Honestly, I could be more like a guy about this. My husband does not wander in the house after being at the a) fire station b) gym c) grocery store d) insert home project here _________ and think, "I wonder if I'm being the best dad I can be." He does not "work on balancing his time." He doesn't sit at the fire station with all the other working dads and wonder, "How well am I raising my child? Am I still leaving time for me? Troy, how do you balance your time between work and fatherhood, between rebuilding your motorcycle and raising your child?" No, they are not asking a thousand unanswerable questions, they are watching the cooking channel and talking about the Mariners. In fatherhood, there is no guilt for working out in the gym, for spending the entire weekend reading Harry Potter.

This preoccupation with perfection seems to be a mom thang... and I think it needs to stop.

I'll go first... So, how 'bout those M's?

Writing Life: Clean Office & Later...

It feels as if I haven't posted on my blog in ages. I was surprised to see I wrote something Friday. Imagine. I write and I forget.

What I've been doing these last couple days is cleaning my office, which is also my main writing space (besides my bed). I am thinking ahead and I want to be ready when September rolls in and my writing life, the one that includes an actual *writing schedule* begins again. Right now, I email an occasional poem to a friend or write an essay late at night when the house sleeps. My writing is not consistent or scheduled. It's sort of a late-night snack or spontaneous rendezvous with a lover who may or may not show up.

And that's okay in the summer, in fact, that's how I always write in the summer. In the summer, writing moves to the far wall and becomes the potted plant I occasional water. Writing, at this time of the year, feels very unfocused. Ask me what I'm working on in the summer and you could get an answer like, "my tan" or "growing peppers."

I've never been a good summertime writer. I see my life on the school schedule September through May. June, July, & August are months to forget goals, schedules, details, and just allow life to flow as it needs to. This is good for me. I'm a Capricorn who loves a good schedule. I like not writing because it creates an urge to write.

For me, summer is a time to see the sun again and soak up some vitamin D. I have huge stacks of books from the library that I read in the shade or keep on my nightstand. And since I'm not writing, it's a good time to get organized, especially on the rainy days, which we seem to be having quite a few of these days.

While I cleaned I was thinking about my life and my writing. I'll probably post more on this later, but it always seems to come back to "balance." Maybe it's a mother/writer issue, or maybe not. Maybe writers who work full time have this issue in different ways. And writers who teach I know work on this. I find it interesting how we can fit all this other junk into our lives--internet, television, insert current time-waster here_______-- and yet, struggle with finding the time to write. But more on that later...

My office is open to new happy energy now. The closet doors can remain open because I'm no longer ashamed of how my books are stacked on the floors next to years of journals. Or that pile of letters. And the box of ginormous envelopes, who needs so many huge envelopes? They have been cleaned out. My writing desk is ready. It just needs me now to complete the job. And I will. Later...

Inspiration - The Beginnings of a Story

This morning in that shadowy place between sleep and awake I had the inspiration for a story. It's not a poem, I'm sure of that. There are characters and bus stops involved. I stayed in that place going through the story in my mind until I had enough of it that I wouldn't forget and not so much that I would fall into a dream and lose it all.

There is a bittersweetness to writing down the idea for a story because in the half-awake time grabbing a pen, eyes cracked open, I can't get it right on paper. All the bright images in my mind, the bus stop, the man with the red handkerchief, just sort of fall flat. I just try to capture the idea and the details, I am not writing the story.

I hated to write it down because I knew the moment I started writing I'd be out of my imagination and back into the world of dust bunnies and unwashed laundry. But I didn't want to lose it. I didn't.

Next to me as I type this are three pages ripped from the journal I keep next next to my bed. I can hardly translate my morning handwriting. I return to my mind's image of the woman at the bus stop, her name is Mary. She is waiting for me to write her into life. Right now, I can't. Right now the world buzzes and the coffee pot groans hello hello. For the next day, I will keep Mary in my mind until she becomes someone I know, I can't say "friend" here, because if Mary becomes a friend, the story will never be written. I cannot take a friend and put them through the twists and turns that happen in a story. If Mary becomes a friend than the story is lost. So I have to keep Mary at a distance as I watch her. She is holding an umbrella. She is stepping onto the bus.

No easy pleasures in life of a poet - Campbell McGrath

In 1999, the poet Campbell McGrath won a $280,000 MacArthur ''genius'' grant, which is good, because the last royalty check from his publisher was for $2.10.

______________

Just a reminder that the value of art has never been measured by dollars. (Though I'd make a good argument for that genius grant...)

Another good article. Read the full story here.

Art is Not a Luxury

Great essay by Dana Gioia in the Wall Street Journal Opinion Page:


The Impoverishment of American Culture
And the need for better art education.

"American artists, intellectuals and academics have lost their ability to converse with the rest of society. We have become wonderfully expert in talking to one another, but we have become almost invisible and inaudible in the general culture.

This mutual estrangement has had enormous cultural, social and political consequences. America needs its artists and intellectuals, and they need to re-establish their rightful place in the general culture. If we could reopen the conversation between our best minds and the broader public, the results would not only transform society but also artistic and intellectual life."

____________________

Gioia makes a point later in the piece that people who are actively involved in reading for pleasure and who participate in the arts are much more actively involved in life & their community, than the other group who he calls "passive consumers." (Insert image of person watching television here.)

I truly believe that though it is harder to measure what "the arts" do for individuals and communities, what the arts bring is only a positive for society.

Intriguing article. What do you think?

Sad News....

I just learned that poet Sekou Sundiata passed away July 18th from a heart attack. He was 58.

I saw him last year at the Skagit River Poetry Festival and he was a huge presence with so much to offer.

Here are links on where to send cards or a donation to the kidney foundation in his memory.

Here's an interview with him on NPR


Here's a link to more information on him at Poets.org.

Cleaning My Office - Boxes of Journals

Yesterday it rained, so I spent a few hours cleaning up and organizing my office. I am at that place where my office is now messier when I began. What slowed me down was I found some old journals. If you asked me if I kept a journal or have done so over my life, I would say no because I do think of the notes I make in my notebooks as "keeping journals," but looking at the bottom shelf of my bookcase which is overflowing with journals, I'm a sort of addict looking at her problem, "Yes, I keep journals and I don't throw them out."

Some of the things I jotted down in 1995 are fascinating for me to look at. This was during my corporate job period. First, I was amazed how much I was traveling in my old job. I took business trips probably twice a month and they were anywhere from two days to a week. I was also surprised how much work was scheduled on weekends. I saw a lot of "working breakfasts" on my calendar. And it seemed that plane rides were the only place I ever had any time to myself, those were my most thoughtful entries and in fact, my decision to quit my job and move to a small town was decided on a plane.

One entry on a plane where I was discussing moving from Seattle said, "Don't forget how you're feeling right now." But what amazed me most from about these notes and journal entries (besides that annoyance that I tended not to date anything or put the year) was that how tied down I felt and at such a young age when I really didn't have any limits or restrictions on me (such as being a parent), I had created boundaries all around me. I very much felt I needed the security of the full-time corporate job I began to dislike and my choices always were to in sync with what was best for my job than what was best for me.

Thankfully, as my mum would say, "I had my head screwed on right" and everything worked out. But looking back over the years, I just wanted to tell that young professional to take a few more chances and not be so serious about things. I was happy to see that even in the craziness of my job, I found time to take tennis lessons and occasionally, there would be a skeleton of poem jotted down. It was sort of like observing a good friend who was pretending to be someone else. I'd see bits and pieces of her real self scattered in a pre-decorated room, maybe it was the Elvis Costello album or the Norton anthology of poetry with the candle wax spilled all over the Yeats' poem. It was so easy to lose myself in someone else's world, I can see how I loved the glitter of my expense report, the shine of my business card. I thought I needed a perfect job (and job title) to be someone, I hadn't realized we are "someone" even without the extras, even the woman who wakes early to water the herbs, her resume is the dill, the oregano. How lucky is that?

The Buzz of Small Town Life

WASP does not stand for White Anglo-Saxon Protestant

Well, I've completed my yearly summer tradition of being stung by a wasp today. While being a good hausfrau and cleaning up the yard, I found our old Slip & Slide. Seeing how ruined it was due to our tender and loving care of leaving it on the old swingset in a heap, I decided to bring it out to the trash and yet, clear our home sweet home from the one more plastic monster. Of course, I didn't see the wasp's nest built into our Slip and Slide.

Instead, like an innocent environmentalist trying to clean up the plastic from the world, happy and unaware of the chaos I was creating in their waspy home, I dragged said Slip & Slide through the yard until I felt a terrible pain in my wrist, then again and again. Welcome summer! I thought as I threw down the Slip & Slide and shook my wrist until my flowered handpainted bracelet my friend brought me home from Mexico went flying into the feverfew. It was then that I looked down and realized there wasn't just one wasp, but many all in a daze on the cement. For a moment, I thought, "I shall step on you all," but I was wearing Crocs and like the strong Capricorn I am (Kelli is Irish Gaelic for "warrior woman"), I went running into the house and didn't look back.

So, I type this with a baking soda paste on the back of my wrist thinking that we have lived in this house for ten years and I am the only one who has managed to be stung by wasps and in fact, make it an annual tradition.

On a positive to the Apoidea superfamily, I saved a Mason bee on my finger from our pool. Some days the ones with stingers love you, other days they try to take you down.

New Letters - On the Air

There's a FANTASTIC interview with Anne Lamott on NPR's New Letters show & you can listen online or download it to your i-Pod.

"You develop the habit of being a writer...that you never wait for inspiration...waiting for it is a way to avoid it."

Small Town Life: Weekend Update

Saturday I spent the day Walking with Dinosaurs, well, technically, I was sitting, they were walking. It was created from the BBC show "Walking with Dinosaurs" and on stage is pretty incredible. If you have kids who like science or dinosaurs then bring them when it comes to your town. We had the mid-priced seats and they were just as good. Actually, the seats lower to the stage had a few issues during the Cretaceous period when all the flowering plants "bloomed" around the stage.

It was interesting as I noticed there were not a lot of people age 11-25. Apparently, this is the age dinosaurs and science become "boring" or perhaps, there's just a busy social life going on. All the kids there loved it and the adults too. Now, if science could be taught like this in the schools, we'd have a lot more paleontologists.

After the show, we wandered by a large used bookstore. Inside it was fantastic. You could tell the owner used his OCB for good--everything was incredibly organized (unlike the used bookstore I go through where much of the browsing happens through paper bags). The rows of oak bookcases stretched back and back. The poetry section bridged over large print books.

I knew there would be something here I've never seen. And there was-- I bought REMEMBERING POETS: REMININSCENCES AND OPINIONS by Donald Hall. This seems be gossip and stories about poets put into the form of a book. The first chapter is called "Dylan Thomas & Public Suicide." Now, how can that not get your attention? There's also "Vanity, Fame, Love, and Robert Frost." That one made me laugh out loud. I like how "vanity" is casually placed in the first spot balancing out the last words Robert Frost. I'll report more later as I read this book.

I have a lot on my nightstand these days--

The Circle of Simplicity
Remembering Poets
A Question of Balance: Artist sand WRiters on Motherhood
Poetry Daily Anthology
Franz Wright's Earlier Poems

I could live a life for the books I haven't read yet. I have "Eat. Love. Pray." on order at the library (I'm 5th in queue.)

In other small town news---
Yesterday, we began building a huge treehouse in our yard or should I say, in the sky. I can't believe how much we've completed so far. I will now be able to reach those high cherries in our tree. Starlings and crows, you have some competition. Though the treehouse isn't for me, but my daughter who pounded nails in pieces of wood to create a portable bookcase (as she called it.) As I watched the treehouse being built, I started to feel a little weepy. Maybe because I was so glad I have a husband who takes on ridiculous projects that require giant cement blocks and huge amounts of wood and power tools. Or maybe because my daughter has a dad who will carry the world for her if he needs to. Maybe it was watching our backyard transform into something warmer, with a "we live here/we lived here" feel to it. It was a good weepy though, a happy weepy.

Like the good writer I am, I'm documenting the whole event in a journal and with photos. Maybe some of them will get uploaded here. Before and after.

The Circle of Simplicity by Cecile Andrews

I went searching for this book on my shelves this morning. It was just where I had put it, on the lower bookshelf in my bedroom. This is where I keep the books that I turn to when I want to feel grounded or remember what path I'm on or what I'm looking for in life. It's sort of having my mentors on call 24/7.

The Circle of Simplicity by Cecile Andrews is a therapist disguised as a book and one I return to again and again. I realized today that I first read the book in 1998 (I had written the year on the first page, something I'm going to start doing again as I love to look back on my life to see what I was reading). It makes sense I would be reading this book in 1998 because that's just after I moved to this small town and started a new life (leaving a full-time corporate job for a more creative writerly life).

Then I embraced the "volunteer simplicity" movement in a sort of anti-fashionista way, I felt I needed to "look" the part. Much of that time of my life was spent in flowered cotton dresses, birkenstocks, and anything frumpy or granola-ish from the Eddie Bauer outlet store. I was much more bohemian than I am now, though if you were to actually look at the tags on my clothes, I'm sure quite a few had Gap logos on the tags. But I was trying to fit in, actually, trying to find who I was again. I realized I wasn't Ms. Designer Suit + nylons, but I also wasn't Ms. Natural Crystal deodorant with hairy legs. I was somewhere in between.

Part of volunteer simplicity has to do with finding, acknowledging, and being your authentic self and I realized my authentic self likes pink and preppy clothes as much as she's comfortable in a pair of Birkenstocks and large wool sweater with her hair pulled back without much thought. I'm just as comfortable at a jazz club as I am at an arts festival as I am at a country club as I am at a Solstice bonfire. I'm a floater and just as I realized I never quite fit in with society's career path, I've never quite fit in with a certain style or group (though I'd say I'm in the yellow-dog democrat group, if there is one). But learned that polos and khakis can be in the same closet with embroidered peasant shirts and hemp purse, and that we are too complex to try to group or label ourselves. I know.

But back to The Circle of Simplicity. I picked it up today because one of my goals this summer is to get in touch with where I'm going. It was supposed to "where I'm going with my writing," but I realize that I need to get back in touch with where I'm going with my life. Returning to a simpler lifestyle again is choice I'm making. I was much better at living simply when I wasn't in school, but just as a busy career life can move you out of a simple lifestyle, so can a busy school-life. And now that school is ending, I want to return to my volunteer simplicity (which is not to be confused with the "self-deprevation movement"). It's mostly a reminder to myself to leave smaller footprints and remember what really matters to me. Mostly, I do this, but it can take some reminding. I like shiny objects and sometimes it's just easier to buy your way out of something whether it be a bad day or not being able to find the scissors ("just pick me up a pair when you're at the store.")

As I read through the book, I found a few quotes I had underlined over the years and I thought I'd share them (the chapter on Finding and Living Your Passion is one of my favorites):


"There is no gifted or ungifted. There are only those who give and those who withhold." Martin Buber

*

"Why should we all use our creative power. . .? Because there is nothing that makes people so generous, joyful, lively, bold and compassionate. . ." Brenda Ueland

*

"You can tell the difference by asking people if they would pursue their passion whether they were paid or not. If you love it, then you'll find a way to do it no matter what. "

*

"When you are doing what you love, you feel more magnanimous, more kindly, less resentful and envious."

*

"Discovering your passion is part of your lifelong quest for your authentic self."

*

"Living your passion means finding something that you love to do, committing yourself to it, believing in it, and persevering, no matter what the financial rewards. It is something that is an authentic expression of who you really are. You get energy from it, you feel alive when you do it."

* * *


Enjoy whatever you're doing. Take action, try things out. Persevere. Stay open and learn from life. Find meaning.

Networking vs. Connecting

Great essay by Christina Katz, author Writer Mama (here's a link to her blog), a book I highly recommend for anyone writer interested in mixing motherhood with the life of being a freelance journalist. I carry my around with me constantly just to inspire me in uninspiring places.

In the essay above, Katz talks about the difference in networking vs. connecting. I feel the same way she does, that "networking" lives a bad taste in my mouth. Maybe it's the combo of "net" and "work" --you're working someone into a net as opposed to "connecting," which to me suggests that two people may have things in common and ways to help each other out.

She's definitely an inspiring woman, writer, and mother.

J.K. Rowling's First Interview

THEN /NOW






















* * * * *
From the UK Telegraph, interview by Elisabeth Dunn:

She meant to leave Edinburgh after Christmas, but somehow never did. One rainy afternoon she told her sister, Di, the story of Harry and gave her those first chapters to read. "It's possible that if she hadn't laughed, I would have set the whole thing on one side," Rowling says today. But Di did laugh - and there followed six months of writing in conditions of poverty.

"I had no intention, no desire, to remain on benefits. It's the most soul-destroying thing. I don't want to dramatise, but there were nights when, though Jessica ate, I didn't. The suggestion that you would deliberately make yourself entitled . . . you'd have to be a complete idiot.

"I was a graduate, I had skills, I knew that my prospects long-term were good. It must be different for women who don't have that belief and end up in that poverty trap - it's the hopelessness of it, the loss of self-esteem. For me, at least, it was only six months. I was writing all the time, which really saved my sanity. As soon as Jessie was asleep, I'd reach for pen and paper."

She eventually got a part-time job and received a grant of pounds 8,000 from the Scottish Arts Council. Coming at a moment of penury, that meant more than the multiple noughts from her recent American publishing deal. Rowling hasn't received that money yet, but she has already spent pounds 100 on a jacket for television appearances. . .

READ the full article here

* * * * *

This article was from the mid-nineties. Who knew where this little wizard was going to lead us.

I remember the first time I heard about Harry Potter was either 1998 or 1999. My co-worker's son wanted to be Harry Potter for Halloween and there were no costumes, in fact, not many people even knew who he was. She said she was thinking of using a graduate gown and needed round "Where's Waldo" glasses. I remembering asking if anyone would know who he was when he went trick or treating. She said, "The kids will know, but the adults will have no idea..."

And now, in 2007, who doesn't know who Harry Potter is. I have never read the book or (dare I say it), seen a movie all the way through. I've seen a lot of the first movie because we have it on DVD and my daughter was obsessed with owls when she was two. So that owl scene in the first movie where the letters are delivered? I've seen that about two hundred times.

But what I love about Harry Potter has nothing to do with the book and everything to do with the author. I think this is what makes writing magical--the "you never know what can happen" element. Had someone said to me in 1990 that there would be this kid's book that contained wizards that was so good that kids would read it and adults would read it too, and they'd even go to their local bookstore at midnight dressed as wizards to get it and there would be big book parties and bracelets with the next date of the next book on them, I would have said, "No way. America doesn't go crazy for books anymore." I can tell you that I am happy to be wrong.

I love that children and adults stay up all night to read the book. It's completely romantic and encouraging to me. On every level, I love that a woman felt strong enough to bring her baby to a coffeeshop to write with the faith that her words would be enough and that fact that it did work out.

My daughter is wearing a t-shirt today that reads: Living the fairytale. (There's a certain poet --Jeannine Gailey-- who I'd like to send this shirt to!) But I'd love to send a shirt like this to Rowlings, of course, she's dressing better than this these days. But when it all works out, the idea becomes a book and we are someone in a coffeeshop and then we are an author, I find it inspiring and I am so thankful that this month the world will be giddy about a book (a book!) and we can forget our troubles for awhile in the pages of someone else's words. We can tuck ourselves into our beds and read under the covers with the flashlight or late into the night listening to jazz with a glass of red wine. Whatever we're reading, be it a poem or the last book you've been waiting for, the one you have to read before you hear the ending, how it all turns out, I’m thankful for those who still turn to words.


*

In the News Today...

FROM MSNBC:

A gate-crasher’s change of heart
by By Allison Klein of the Washington Post


WASHINGTON - A grand feast of marinated steaks and jumbo shrimp was winding down, and a group of friends was sitting on the back patio of a Capitol Hill home, sipping red wine. Suddenly, a hooded man slid in through an open gate and put the barrel of a handgun to the head of a 14-year-old guest.

"Give me your money, or I'll start shooting," he demanded, according to D.C. police and witness accounts.

The five other guests, including the girls' parents, froze -- and then one spoke.

"We were just finishing dinner," Cristina "Cha Cha" Rowan, 43, blurted out. "Why don't you have a glass of wine with us?"

The intruder took a sip of their Chateau Malescot St-Exupéry and said, "Damn, that's good wine."

The girl's father, Michael Rabdau, 51, who described the harrowing evening in an interview, told the intruder, described as being in his 20s, to take the whole glass. Rowan offered him the bottle. The would-be robber, his hood now down, took another sip and had a bite of Camembert cheese that was on the table.

'Can I get a hug?'
Then he tucked the gun into the pocket of his nylon sweatpants.

"I think I may have come to the wrong house," he said, looking around the patio of the home in the 1300 block of Constitution Avenue NE.

"I'm sorry," he told the group. "Can I get a hug?"

Rowan, who lives in Falls Church and works part time at her children's school, stood up and wrapped her arms around him. Then it was Rabdau's turn. Then his wife's. The other two guests complied.

"That's really good wine," the man said, taking another sip. He had a final request: "Can we have a group hug?"

The five adults surrounded him, arms out.

With that, the man walked out with a crystal wine glass in hand, filled with Chateau Malescot. No one was hurt, and nothing was stolen.

The homeowner, Xavier Cervera, 45, had gone out to walk his dog at the end of the party and missed the incident, which happened about midnight June 16. Police classified the case as strange but true and said they had not located a suspect.

"We believe it is a true robbery," said Cmdr. Diane Groomes, who is in charge of patrols in the Capitol Hill area. But it's one-of-a-kind, she said, adding, "I've never heard of a robber joining a party and then walking out to the sunset."

The hug, she said, was especially unusual. "They should have squeezed him and held onto him for us," she said.

Rabdau said he hasn't been able to figure out what happened.

"I was definitely expecting there would be some kind of casualty," Rabdau said this week. "He was very aggressive at first; then it turned into a love fest. I don't know what it was."

Was it the wine or the cheese?
Rabdau, a federal government worker who lives in Anne Arundel County with his family and lived on Capitol Hill with his wife in the 1980s, said that the episode lasted about 10 minutes but seemed like an hour. He believes the guests were spared because they kept a positive attitude during the exchange.

"There was this degree of disbelief and terror at the same time," Rabdau said. "Then it miraculously just changed. His whole emotional tone turned -- like, we're one big happy family now. I thought: Was it the wine? Was it the cheese?"

After the intruder left, the guests walked inside the house, locked the door and stared at each other. They didn't say a word. Rabdau dialed 911. Police arrived quickly and took a report. They also dusted for fingerprints -- so far, to no avail.

In the alley behind the home, investigators found the intruder's empty crystal wine glass on the ground, unbroken.

Regrets, I've had a few...

Okay, I actually tend not to regret. I'm one of those odd new-agey people who believe that every single action I've taken has led to this exact moment and had I changed one, just a sliver, things could be wildly different. And I like my life, so I don't regret my decisions, all my decisions except for one that has come back to haunt me-- the day I decided to delete my old blog.

I must have had two years of writing on it. Nothing mind-blowing, it's not as if I burned all the family photos in a bonfire, but one day, feeling highly self-conscious and convinced people from my past were googling me and I was giving away *way* too much information about myself, I went to blogger and hit the delete key. About two weeks after doing that, another poet/friend/blogger sent me a link of where I could have had my entire blog printed out and bound for me. D'oh! I could have saved all the information and *then* deleted it from the web. Duh.

Right now, coming to the end of school, watching summer flitter by and realizing autumn (my official start of the writing season) is approaching, I've been wanting to explore some writing ideas and what better place to check than old blog entries. Yes, I have the archives from this blog, but my mid-blog with the interesting details has vanished into the internet abyss because of one push of a button.

I have to say that I think that blog was better than this blog. This blog is aware most of the time that people are reading this. That blog really didn't believe anyone was listening and so I'd ramble on honestly and openingly without feeling vulnerable, of course, I was, I just didn't know it.

I am more open on this blog than I am Book of Kells, which is linked to my homepage. This is the blog that gets my open wounds, my daily chatterings (this could be good or bad), my first thoughts before the self-censorship monster moves in, the voice that says, "Be careful of what you say." I know, it's a bit weird to have a shy writer, though I do think many of write because it's easier than speaking.

So for any of you who go through a self-conscious period and decide to delete your blog, save yourself a heartache, save a paper copy of your blog for yourself you can do that here: Blogcollector or here: Blurb.com But don't just press the delete button without a backup. It's just a dumb idea... trust me. I know.

Well, then....

From Kings don’t rule the castle — queens do
Women are the deciders, dominant ones in relationships, study finds

Wife power could signal a harmonious couple. "There's been research that suggests that's a marker of a healthy marriage — that men accept influence from their wives," Murphy said.

__________

Welcome Back, Jack Kerouac. . .

All Things Considered, July 5, 2007 ·

This September marks 50 years since Jack Kerouac's On the Road hit bookshelves, stirred controversy and spoke — in a new voice — to a generation of readers. Today the beat travelogue continues to sell 100,000 copies a year in the U.S. and Canada alone.

Legend has it that Kerouac wrote On the Road in three weeks, typing it almost nonstop on a 120-foot roll of paper. The truth is that the book actually had a much longer, bumpier journey from inspiration to publication, complete with multiple rewrites, repeated rejections and a dog who — well, On the Road wasn't homework, but we all know what dogs do.
But the scroll: That part's true. . .

We're having a heatwave, a tropical heatwave...

We are shady folks in the Northwest, sort of mossy with a green patina glow. July has dried us out a bit, we're not sure what to when it's hot. We do a lot of sitting and bringing it up at the market-- "It's going to be 90 tomorrow." Well, it's tomorrow, 10:30 a.m. & already 80 degrees. The weathergods claim it will hit 100.

For a non-Martha Stewart look, I've hung white towels in front of all the windows without curtains to soak up the sun before it can roast our home. Once the sun has passed over our house, I'll open the windows and let the breeze in. It's the dance of the air-conditionerless. The waltz of breezefairy.


All my pets have extra bowls of water, the cats can barely keep their furry faces awake. My hot dog, a golden retriever, rolls around on the hardwood floor. Because I'm always cold, these hot days don't really bother me too much. Except for the sun part, I'm the poster girl for sunscreen. I'm much happier in the shade or under a giant hat. With my burnt shoulders, my allergy-eyes, my summer look leaves much to be desired.

Poem of the Day: Julianna Baggott

Here's a poem from a new book I have published by Louisiana State University Press-- Compulsions of Silk Worms and Bees by Julianna Baggott.

Q and A: Do you have any tips? Answer #2
by Julianna Baggott

How many times to I have to say it: Listen,
a whine in a bulb,
its hiss of life,
the fragile sister of the mosquito, the electric life of wings.
There is a wheel rut for each of us somewhere.
Look closely at the skein of eggs,
root the mud for a clamped oyster
fallen from a truck. Cover your nose and mouth
with both hands, and there,
in that shallow cup,
feel a buffalo's breathing steam.
A toppled stone, its face veiled by weeds—
crouch. The blooms become helmets.
Allow for delirium, a thirst. Take in
so much sun that you feel a cold absence,
as if you’ve sipped a hole into the world.

Poetry Thoughts

I've been reading Anne Haines' blog from Provincetown and enjoying the details of her time immersed in poetry. There is something magical about poetry. I know it sounds I am romanticizing it, but at the core--not the publishing, the race for a book, the presses--the actually poem, there is energy there. The poem forces one to be quiet, to slow down, to read each word. How often in life are we loud, moving quickly, and skimming through paragraphs. That's what I appreciate about poetry, it's ability to say, "hey, what's your rush?"

A friend and I were talking yesterday and she said (and I'm paraphrasing here) that the best thing about an MFA program is the focus in on the art, the craft of writing. The minute you start talking about something other than the poem--the process of publishing, the world outside the poem--they pull you back and refocus your attention on your work. I remember once I said that a certain poet wanted "buy in" from the reader and my mentor said, "Your words are in a language of commerce." At the time, I was a little annoyed as it wasn't what I meant (but it was what I said!) and now, it's something I'm glad she pointed out. I was looking outside the poem and I should have been focusing on the writing.

With school ending, I've moved inwards in my thoughts. My current goals are not based on submissions or publication, but what projects I want to work on and learning how to schedule my time. I'll have no more school deadlines, no more needing to finish X by this date, no one to be accountable to except myself. I can be too easy on myself-- oh, you didn't get that done, that's okay, you have time. And while I don't want to be so hard myself that I begin to dislike writing, but I know I can make deadlines (I did it for 3 years in school!) and I need to ask myself --why is it okay to let myself down?

So I'm floating through the summer, which has been wonderful so far, and while I'm drinking a milkshake, floating in an inner tube watching the sky, or walking the garden to water my garden, my writing is the glimmer I catch on the side of life, the hint of orange in the leaves when they change to autumn. I'll know more where I'm going when the new school shoes are purchased and the harvest moon appears. Right now, I'm just "finkin' about fings" as my daughter used to say. Just thinking about goals and plans and words, it's always about the words.

Poem of the Day: BERRYMAN by WS Merwin

Berryman

by W.S. Merwin

I will tell you what he told me
in the years just after the war
as we then called
the second world war

don't lose your arrogance yet he said
you can do that when you're older
lose it too soon and you may
merely replace it with vanity

just one time he suggested
changing the usual order
of the same words in a line of verse
why point out a thing twice

he suggested I pray to the Muse
get down on my knees and pray
right there in the corner and he
said he meant it literally

it was in the days before the beard
and the drink but he was deep
in tides of his own through which he sailed
chin sideways and head tilted like a tacking sloop

he was far older than the dates allowed for
much older than I was he was in his thirties
he snapped down his nose with an accent
I think he had affected in England

as for publishing he advised me
to paper my wall with rejection slips
his lips and the bones of his long fingers trembled
with the vehemence of his views about poetry

he said the great presence
that permitted everything and transmuted it
in poetry was passion
passion was genius and he praised movement and invention

I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't

you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write

Poet on Fire... Danger Will Robinson--

This looks much worse than what actually is happening here. Smoke bomb + New digital camera = Let's have some fun.

I tried to reenact the "I'm melting" scene from Wizard of Oz, but it didn't turn out.

Did I tell you that the 4th of July is one of my favorite holidays?

Happy 4th of July!

Are You a Cultural Creative?

Something I've been thinking about lately---

The Cultural Creatives: How 50 Million People Are Changing the World

From the Amazon Review:

Do you "give a lot of importance to helping other people and bringing out their unique gifts?" Do you "dislike all the emphasis in modern culture on success and 'making it,' on getting and spending, on wealth and luxury goods?" Do you "want to be involved in creating a new and better way of life for our country?" If you answered yes to all three of these questions--and at least seven more of the remaining 15 in Paul Ray and Sherry Anderson's questionnaire--then you are probably a Cultural Creative.

Cultural Creative is a term coined by Ray and Anderson to describe people whose values embrace a curiosity and concern for the world, its ecosystem, and its peoples; an awareness of and activism for peace and social justice; and an openness to self-actualization through spirituality, psychotherapy, and holistic practices. Cultural Creatives do not just take the money and run; they don't want to defund the National Endowment for the Arts; and they do want women to get a fairer shake--not only in the United States, but around the globe.

On the basis of Ray and Anderson's research, about 50 million Americans are Cultural Creatives, a group that includes people of all races, ages, and classes. This subculture could have enormous social and political clout, the authors argue, if only it had any consciousness of itself as a cohesive unit, a society of fellow travelers. The husband and wife team wrote the book "to hold up a mirror" to the members of this vast but diffuse group, to show them they are not alone and that they can reshape society to make it more authentic, compassionate, and engaged. It is an idealistic call for a new agenda for a new millennium. --I. Crane

Agree or Disagree??

I saw this on another blog and it's something J9 and I were sort of discussing this morning. We talked more about what to tell the young MFA students as they step out into the world.

Having been raised by a conservative Republican businessman father, who when I turned 18 handed me pamplets on "A Woman's Rights in the Workplace" and a deposit into my retirement fund, my advice for all young MFA dreamers and writers is to follow your bliss. I'm sure this comes from me jumping into the pool of life with waterwings on, with a lifeguard on shore, and flippers just in case. I did not roam out into life bravely. I followed the "secure" route, ending up in a corporate job, with a happy paycheck, 401K, DKNY outfits, and nylons. I followed what everyone else was doing, graduating and getting a "good job" with stock options.

Now, granted, it was that paycheck that allowed me stash away cash to have a downpayment on this magical home and place live now and I can't have regrets because when I wake up in the morning, I am thankful for the world around me and that world would not have been made possible had I taken any other route, but I realized about 2 1/2 years into my job, I was losing myself and becoming my father.

But if I had to give advice now, and this is the advice I'd give to my own daughter, it's to follow what you're passionate about, even if it's making headbands out of recycled material, or yes, even being a mime. Whatever you love to do, go for it. I'm not about "security" anymore, about treating writing or passion as your "hobby" while you do something else. Yes, sometimes we have to "do something else" (like sell your stuff on eBay to buy books or get a part time job, etc.) but I believe highly in jumping into the world and falling flat on your face. It makes for better stories.

As I grow older, I'm much more the believer in the fail and fail again theory, into throwing one's heart into every space around you then cleaning up the blood with a tissue. A lot of my Republican tendencies about security and money changed in December when I lost my eyesight for a month. I was reminded how temporary we all are, how quickly things can change, and to be very aware what we give our priority to.

I believe in living simply, volunteer simplicity. And while I'll splurge on the occasional Buddha, I remind myself that each dollar I save, is a dollar I don't have to earn back. It's not about living a risky life, but taking risks in what you believe in. It's not always easy, sometimes there are tears involved. Sometimes you will run out of the house only to slam into a glass sliding door, but it's better than waking up and realizing you are regretful about something you didn't try or do. You can always change paths, turn around and fix a mistake, but to find that you forgot to live the life you wanted... a painful morning.

Anyway, here's what I've been blabbering about as well. Though I think Cary Tennis' answer is thoughtful because it reminds me there are many options, just keep feeding your art.


April 17, 2007

Hi, Cary,

I’m approaching 50 years old. I’ve been a jazz pianist for nearly 30 years. I’m not anyone you’ve ever heard of. I’m good but not great. I never thought I would be famous, and that doesn’t bother me. I’ve had lots of hotel and restaurant gigs, accompanied hundreds of lame wannabe singers (and some good ones, too) and done thousands of gigs in jazz clubs, some with incredible musicians and some where nobody was listening. I always thought if I stuck with it, I’d be able to make a living. I think I read somewhere that the average jazz musician these days makes about $17,000 a year. A 50-year-old making that seems pathetic. I do better than that, but not by much. I’ve spent my life climbing this ladder of musical success and found out when I got near the top that the ladder was against the wrong wall. I’m not married and don’t have kids. Never would have been able to afford them. That would have been nice.

How can a person like me change into something different? It seems impossible and I don’t know where to begin.

We always hear heart-warming stories of people who followed their dream and never gave up and so forth, but what of the people who followed their dream and failed? We don’t want to hear about them.

I’m an intelligent person. I have two master’s degrees. One in music, the other in fine arts (another useful degree). Yet I have absolutely no idea about how to go about making money.

Yes, that is what I want. Money. I want health insurance. I want a decent place to live. I want to think maybe I won’t have to be taking lousy gigs at age 80 to buy a meal.

I don’t think I’ve been totally naive. I didn’t strive for fame, à la “American Idol.” I studied hard. I know music theory inside out. I checked out the history of jazz piano from Jelly Roll Morton to Keith Jarrett. I thought being true to your art was satisfaction enough. I guess it’s not. I want the satisfaction of making a decent living. I’m tired of taking every $100 gig that comes my way to play for a tone-deaf singer. After I drive an hour each way, and pay the IRS its cut, and I end up with $50. This is what practitioners of “America’s only original art form” have to deal with.

I really think I could leave it all behind. I could be happy playing the occasional gig for fun. Or playing for myself and friends. I’d like to do some more composing just for self-satisfaction. But I have no idea how to make a living! This revelation just drives me nuts. The thought of starting from scratch at my age is mind-boggling.

I know these questions are very broad. Most people look at me and think I’m lucky, that playing music for a living must be great. Other people in other occupations must feel the same. I’m just barely making a living. Is it possible for me to change?

Musically Frustrated

Carey’s Response:

Dear Musically Frustrated,

I, too, was frustrated this morning when I sat down to answer your letter. Nothing was coming. I went to the regular place where I go to get words and there were no words there. Weird. Am I running out? I had to leave my house and walk around. I went to a meeting of the type I often attend. It was somewhat comforting but did not really help.

Then, standing on the street corner waiting for a train, I noticed a bumper sticker on an old Toyota Camry sedan. It said “Real musicians have day jobs!”

I felt that my prayers had been answered — yours too, actually.

It was a needed reminder: Your music does not have to support you. In fact, your music might be happier if you were supporting it.

You have done the almost impossible by supporting yourself as a jazz pianist all these years. It is a remarkable, heroic and admirable feat. That doesn’t mean that at a certain point you can’t sit out a few sets.

You may find it hard to change; deep down you may feel that what you are is a musician, end of story.

I felt at one time that I was a writer, end of story. But it wasn’t end of story. Was more like beginning of story.

I did not gain freedom to write with fluidity and ease until I stopped believing that I had to be a writer.


Read the rest of the response here:

Miracles Created Daily...

Another photo from my world.

This is the sign that you see right next to our front door -- The quote underneath is "Miracles Created Daily"

Garden View

Like the good Capricorn I am, I quickly deposited the money I received from the Atlantic Monthly prize. Someone asked me if had I bought anything with it and I said, "A chai tea and a cookie." So yesterday at the Farmer's Market, I fell in love with this little guy, handmade by another in a small town. I decided to use a small bit of the money I had tucked away--squirrel-like--for a little piece of beauty. I paid for it (he threw in a stone frog for my daughter). He loaded it in the passenger seat of my car and home we drove.

It's the first thing I see when I open my garden gate. The peaceful face. The flowers. And this small slice of perfect makes me happy.

While the back garden is in chaos--butterfly bushes argue with rose bushes, lilac tree nudges alder tree who moved in without permission--there is peace for all who enter here. Peace in the details. Peace is in the wallflowers, the blooming hosta, a stone statue holding my world together.

Happy Canada Day!