3/21 The Day of Going Out on the Town for the First Time in Three Years

Having our first date since the day before G was born, except for one wedding, which hardly even counted. We had dinner and drinks at a Garden restaurant with live Jazz then walked around downtown for a little. It’s strange to be in this new city…. and it really is a new city, a few years ago, nothing was going on downtown, and now it’s hopping.

Not wanting to call my mom and ask her to babysit while we check out the restaurant that I could drop my resume at, but not needing to, because she called just as I was considering calling and offered. Yay grandma!

G’s joy at playing watergun fight with the shark and dolphin watergun that S bought.

G’s wonder when Papa showed him a snake in the garden. He was still talking about it hours later.

Ivy dressed like a little hippie girl and toddling around the house.

See more progress on: list three things every day that made me happy

3/20 The Day of Kung Fu Fighting Hiyah!

Got to watch Lost. TV is not a big thing here, no cable, old, turn-knob tvs, no remotes, even, but I managed to get ABC in and watch my Lost. Missed ANTM yesterday. Oh well. Perhaps this low tv period will break the addiction and I can start being more productive again. Here’s to hoping.

Going through my pictures since I got here. I’ve taken some really good ones. Unfortunately, the computer situation is weird. I got on the internet on my laptop, and then was unable to again. Don’t know why. Have to figure it out, but all my photos are on my laptop, so until I get back on line, that is where they will stay. And I want to send out pictures of the kids, so that those that were worried about us will feel better, because those are some happy pictures.

We were sitting out in the garden just hanging out, and I started singing that song, “they were kung fu fighting, those cats were fast as lightning.” And G all of a sudden went into Kung fu poses. Hiyah! I don’t know where he got it from, but it was pretty funny. I got a great picture of it. Too bad y’all can’t see it until I figure out the technicalities.

Omygoodness. I forgot about splashsplash time in the big bathtub. They enjoyed it, the kids did. So much better than our grungy old claustrophobic tub in Brooklyn.

See more progress on: list three things every day that made me happy

3/18

Having a nice dinner of corned beef and cabbage with most of my family, mom, step dad, brother and his fiancee, uncle, S, and the kids. Was good to see everyone and have everyone around.

Taking a nap most of the afternoon.

Taking a shower after the nap.

Getting my missing bag from the airline. It took a detour through Daytona. Good thing my mom was here to give the driver directions, because she didn’t know how to get here. Boy, that airline sure was a winner. (Don’t fly AirTran)

Watching the kids as they explored the garden. Oh they love it. Love it love it. They like the house, too, but they are getting a lot of new rules about what they can and can’t touch.

Watching my poor kitty explore the house and the garden. She is doing pretty darn well. She isn’t even having a problem with Uncle’s cat, some hissing, but that’s it. So much better than being in a tiny box for 8 hours.

See more progress on: list three things every day that made me happy

3/19 The Day of the Long Walk

Hanging out with S and Uncle and G and Ivy. Sitting out in the garden, beers for the grown ups and milk for the littles. Birds singing. Fruit trees rustling in the breeze. Warm air. Night falling.

S and Uncle are getting along great. What a relief. And I think it’s good for Uncle that we’re here. I think he spends too much time alone and has too little human contact. He’s also enjoying the kids. He says we have great kids.

Tacos for dinner. Good old fashioned, easy to make, easy to gobble up. Been having trouble eating a full meal because I’m still stressed and tired and maybe going from the winter to the summer overnight, so tacos fit the bill.

Coming back after our long walk which was supposed to be a short walk, but we went too far and needed to get something to eat so we had to walk even farther to find a place, although there was much to see on the way, like the bay and a huge banyan tree and an art museum. Returning, we took the direct route instead of the scenic one, and it was much quicker.

Watching G play with uncle, and he was okay with G bonking him on the head and they seemed to be enjoying it from both ends. It would annoy the bejeezers out of me, but hey, if Uncle wants to play the game, then it’s okay.

See more progress on: list three things every day that made me happy

3/17 The Big Day

Sitting in the car, all of us, Mama, Papa, G, Ivy and cat, puling away from the old apartment, saying thank you and good bye to our home.

Managing to get the kids, the stroller, six carry-on bags (2 per person,) all four of our shoes and coats through the security check in… especially since I learned I had to take the cat out of her carrier, take her through the metal detector, and put her back in the carrier on the other side…since it took me half and hour to get her in the carrier in the first place. And our plane was getting ready to take off. Someone actually told me she was very impressed with the way I managed the whole endeavor. Go mama.

Racing to the gate to find out our plane was late, so we didn’t miss it after all. Even though we were never allowed onto the plane when it did show, because the cat carrier didn’t fit under the seats and they didn’t have a carrier handy that they could let us use.

Then, two hours later, as our second plane was near to closing the doors with us still not having a carrier, the woman who kicked us off the first plane came RUNNING down the hall with the appropriate cat carrier, and we all managed to situate ourselves in time for the plane to take off with us inside of it.

Showing G the way we were flying ABOVE the clouds. He liked flying.

Having Ivy and G fall asleep on the plane (although we had to wake them up when we transfered in Atlanta, that’s right, our direct flight became a transfer.)

How much the kids loved the m&ms in the snack mix I made (cheerios, goldfish, raisins, and m&ms)

Taking out the little 50 cent magnadoodles and Ivy and G spending the last leg of our journey drawing.

Landing in St. Pete and steering the stroller through an almost empty airport (it was past midnight although we were originally supposed to arrive at 8pm) to go get our luggage, and knowing the journey was almost over.

Seeing my mom drive up to the luggage area and getting to hug her.

Then seeing my step father in the other car, which would allow us to carry all the luggage with out hassle or (anymore heart ache [even though the airline lost one of our bags {with my porfolio in it!}])

The smell of Florida air. It smells like green growing things, even outside the airport.

Pulling up to my uncle’s house and getting the bags all inside.

Seeing my Uncle again.

Having S get along with everyone he’s never met before.

Seeing G and Ivy’s room. They were so happy. My mom had it set up with a toddler bed and travel crib and an heirloom child’s desk that my uncles used and books and toys. So nice.

Falling asleep in the nice soft bed. It used to be my Grandpa’s bed, and it was so comfortable.

Knowing that the whole miserable day was over and done with, even though I still had to wait for my back and I was so tired and my fingers were bruised and cut from packing and my stomach hurt and I was so tired I couldn’t speak.

See more progress on: list three things every day that made me happy

new blog

In case you check in here and are looking for me, or you just found it and would like to see more, I am now writing a different blog.

warriorgirl.blogspot.com

Real Life Heroes

We're living in an age of heroes, now.

I watch the news, and they keep naming people heroes. This guy died in the war, this kid died of cancer, this man died in a fire. Sometimes people are alive and they get named heroes-- people who make it home from war, people who survive cancer, people who get other people out of fires. Now, I'm not saying these people aren't heroes, necessarily, but I don't know if just suriving or dying in difficult situations actually makes one a hero. Does a heroic action make one a hero? Does dying? If it does, then doesn't that make ALL of us heroes, sooner or later?

An age of heroes...

Funny to think of it that way. As if we're in a Greek epic. As if we are living through the Greatest of times, with a capital "G".

What if we did think about it that way? What if we just got rid of all the cynism that said the world was all fucked up. What if we got rid of the romanticism that said some other time was better, some other age was the one with all the great deeds, some other people were the heroes.

What if we actually lived our lives as if WE were the heroes-- not some military leader in history, nor in fiction.

For that matter, what if we realized we didn't need some outside force to make us heroes-- nobody pinning a medal on our chests, no newspapers declaring us so. No key to the city here, just us and the choices we make.

Because that's what it's about, isn't it? The choices we make? It's about facing adversity in our lives and choosing the right path, even if it's harder. Choosing to struggle on because you know it is for the better. Sometimes those difficulties might be public enough to get you declared a hero in the papers, but frankly daily struggles can be just as difficult.

When I was a kid, I thought I was going through the craziest, most traumatic childhood. I thought being poor, living across the street from crack dens, having a crazy, unpredictable abusive father terrorizing our house was the worst thing I could have gone through. One of my main purposes in life was to hide what my life was like. It was so horrible, I was so shamed.

It wasn't until I was older that I realized I didn't do anything wrong, and stopped hiding. I shared my stories, and heard others, and that's when I realized that so many of those other stories were so much worse. More tragedy, more pain, more suffering. I started to minimize my story. It wasn't as bad. I didn't deserve to feel like I had survived anything really difficult. It was just normal life. I was just a normal kid, normal person. No hero, here.

I grew up identifying with the heroes. The first books I read were full of heroes, fairytales, myths, Little House on the Prairie, even. Characters who faced down adversity and won in the end. It helped me going through my own adversity, because I knew there was something better down the road... or I believed it anyway.

A hero is someone who not only faces down adversity, but also takes action to make things better, even if it is just selling the cow for a bunch of magic beans. They are not at the mercy of the world around them, but the active principle. The hero has the goal of something better, a better life for their kids, a better world for all kids, a better, stronger self.

Sometimes, I think the last one is the hardest goal of all-- making yourself better and stronger, so that you are better able to achieve the larger goals. Facing down your fear. Dealing with your past traumas. Opening up to the people and possiblities around you. Moving forward, always moving forward.

It's fricking exhausting to be the hero of your own story. It's so tiring to know that you are the one who has to make it all happen. No one else to do it for you-- no knight in shining armor-- unless that knight is you yourself.

Is it worth it all? Being a hero? Is it worth the hard work? When I'm struggling with being the me I want to be, I don't know. It doesn't feel like it. It's too damn hard. The results always seem to come so slow, or not at all. Certainly, there's no newspaper recognizing me for my struggle. And I still have to do the daily grind. Sometimes that daily grind is harder to deal with than the awfulness of my childhood. It's just not as clear, my struggle. It's just not as easy to say I will persevere. The goals of making things better just aren't as desperate.

The daily grind isn't that bad, really. I'm getting along, okay, letting life take me in it's flow.

So why bother struggling to be the hero?

I have to think about it, seriously. Why SHOULD I bother? Why should anyone? Why do we need heroes?

But then, imagine a world full of heroes-- and I don't mean the ones who dive into burning fires or get paid to carry guns, or make millions of dollars throwing a ball around-- I mean a world full of everyday heroes. A world of people struggling to be the best Them, so they could take action, and make things happen. Make things better. What if we weren't all just waiting for someone else to do it? What if everyone was working to contribute something?

Frankly, I think it would cause a lot of trouble. All those people at cross purposes-- all wanting DIFFERENT better worlds. It would throw a wrench into the nice easy works that have been going on for so long. (A good reason for the powers that be not to want everyone to be a hero.)

A world of heroes. An Age of Heroes. Every single one of us a hero, big or small, young or old, rich or poor. Hmmm.

Think about it....

I Have a Secret

I am a little bit of a monster.

You'd never be able to tell from the outside. From the outside, I am small and pretty, just a girl. I dress in skirts and heels, and have even on occasion been called things like "fancy," and "girly-girl." (to which I strongly object.) I am sweet and kind. I have manners. I apologize to people, and make sure people are okay. Babies like me, and so do domesticated pets. I make real homecooked meals. I even own, and can keep living, a whole window full of potted plants.

But I am a monster inside. A slavering, ravening, spitting, hissing, growling, tooth-gnashing monster.

I am selfish. I don't care about others. No one else matters but me, nothing else matters but my stories and my poems. My paintings and drawings. The pen in my hand and the paint splattered on my face. I don't give a shit about the rules of this world that says I am supposed to be and do what it says. I could run away and live for years in a cave in the woods, eating what I have grown or killed myself, as long as I had my art. Sometimes that's what I want. To get out and away from all these boxed in rules and pretty, pretty surfaces. I would like to dance in the moonlight. Cast spells to the sea. Let the dirt cake under my nails.

Screw it all. Screw everything but the monster in me.

But I have to admit, I am frightened of the monster.

There's no place for her in this world. In this world she's called crazy. People lock her up. Pump her full of drugs so that she can be balanced, so that she can be normal.

What's a monster-girl to do?

Where is the place for her ravening?

I am not suffering from Writer's Block

This is no joke, this is my life.

Ah ha. I walk around complaining about headaches and how tired I am. I don't have enough time or money. I am distracted, I watch tv or stare off into space. Lazy, poor nutrition, too much to drink last night or last weekend. Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah.

Good lord, girl. Do you want to tick tock your life away like this?

I guess I am feeling as if my life passing me by is going to explode like a mad gorilla. I am going to explode like a mad gorilla because I am mad at myself for finding excuse after excuse as to why I can not write.

This is the problem with being an artist. It's like being in a relationship. It's great and wonderful and fulfilling as long as things are going great. When the art is flowing, you don't see how it could ever stop. You exist in this land of milk and honey. Perfection. Wonderment.

But when there's a jam up somewhere in your head-- and things start to slow down, and you have to work and struggle to get words on the page-- uh oh. This is no fun. This is hard work. This can be painful. This is not what the fairy tale books said it was supposed to be. Run away! Run away!

This is no block. I refuse to call it a block. It's just a little dam I have to work my way through. Rotten beavers damming up my works. Oh, wait. I'm the one that put it there. Why would I do that? I want to write.

Right?

I want to have my novel go well. I want to finish it. I want to send out my poetry. I want to have my career take off....

Right?

Someone, I don't remember who, once said that you will put in front of you whatever struggles you need to reach your goal.

What an interesting perspective-- that your struggles, your blocks, your difficulties, are actually stepping stones towards your goals. Hmmm.

And that you are the one placing these blocks in your way.

Almost as if, somewhere inside of you, you know what you are doing.

Dress Rehearsal

Spring has come in earnest. Maybe that's why my mind is turning to being productive, to creating, to taking my life seriously.

Well, no, that's not fair. I am taking my life seriously, it's going pretty well, and is promising to go even better after a few actions have been taken. But I have to say, that I'm getting antsy about it all. I feel as if I have been going so slowly, not really acting as if my life, daily grind and all, is actually a part of my REAL life.

My REAL life is somewhere down the line, when I do the things I need to do. When I start writing my novel again. When I send my poetry out to be published. When I get myself a portfolio and slides and figure out what the hell to do with all my art. When I get a better job. When I start a creativity workshop.

My REAL life is out there... in the future. Not this, not right now, where I'm just kind of preparing for my REAL life.

Yes, yes. It's quite obvious that's a silly way to look at it. Because if REAL life is out there somewhere, then what the hell is going on right here and now. Dress rehearsal? I don't think so. Tell that to the trees that are just full to bursting with life and green juices. They may not have brains, but they know that after this Spring, after rebirth and growth and Summer lushness, comes Winter.

Years are made up, after all, of these short seconds that we are frittering away.

And death, down the way, maybe forty or fifty years, maybe tomorrow, is a call to life. Use the time we have-- ENJOY the time we have, 'cause it's all the time we'll ever have.

Maybe we need to pay attention to the things that are really pulling us. On a deep level, not distractions. The things that ring with our soul, the things that have been building for years.

This writing thing, this art thing, this is not a passing fancy. This is something that needs to be done, even if I am afraid of it, afraid of not being good enough, afraid of wasting all my time and never getting anywhere. Being creative is an integral part of me-- sometimes it feels so important that it is just easier and safer to put my energies else where.

I wonder if somewhere in my human psyche, I think that by avoiding my art and my writing I can somehow avoid stepping into the flow of life and death.

Maybe my procrastination is because I don't feel ready for REAL life, but instead want to stay in dress rehearsal. (There is no dress rehearsal, girl. This is it.)

Flying Woman

Feeling up in the air.

Always feeling up in the air.

That's because life could, at any moment, change into something different.

Maybe it won't change into a spotted purple people eater, but it changes, is changing, constantly. Maybe I just feel it more now because I have consciously taken myself out of the predictable life I was living as a teacher, and into the life of the artist, the on-edge, the adventurer ready to take a dive. (Although I do love my couch. My adventures will probably be along the lines of mental, spiritual, artistic, romantic, etc. Not climbing mount Kilimanjaro.)

In my art, I have a woman who keeps showing up-- a flying woman-- or is she falling? It's so hard to tell. She's been showing up for, oh, ten, twelve years. Since college. She shows up in many places, in many guises. Sometimes it's about my confusion. Sometimes it's because I feel like I'm soaring.

I feel like that woman, now. I have so many opportunities, so many possibilities in front of me, and yet... somehow, I'm still floating around, not really grabbing hold. Not landing on the ground and making things real.

Maybe my floating/falling woman isn't that active. Maybe she's all about maybes. Or maybe she just is right now.

I think I need to start working on a workshop to teach. No, not start working on one. I've been doing these suckers for five years. The work is done, the curriculum is practically set. What I should do is just put it together. Just start it. Chose a time, find a place. Get the members to commit. And do it.

Maybe if I were in a community of artists and creatives, I would find it easier to be out there in the world with my art and my writing. Maybe if we were all in one of my workshops, using our creativity to deal with what it means to be human, what it means to be an artist, and all the joys and pains that entails, maybe everyone would be able to fly better.

Whoopsie!

I thought I lost my last blog entry. One of those computer snafus. So instead of getting pissed, I simply rewrote it from the top of my head. It was different, but okay.

Then when I published that one, and took a quick gander, it turned out that I didn't lose the first one at all.

So now I have two of the same, but different entries.

I thought I'd keep them. It's all about the process, anyway.

Self Portrait

The Spring rains fall hard. Thunder and lightning that seems to come from nowhere, although all winter has been building for this. Clouds have been forming in the warm upwellings of the Pacific, until they could flow across the globe to land here, on us, on the waiting trees and ground.

It has been a long winter. Cold and hard, and we have been hiding from the ice, to tired to hope for the green leaves that must ultimately come.

I have not been writing. I have not been creative at all, but I am ready to. I've been holding out, just like the green leaves, apparently.

My novel is waiting. I am yearning to paint, although I am not. I've been giving my time to other things, because life does move on. Things happen, seemingly out of nowhere, although they have been building just as much as these rain clouds.

I am in love.

As hard as that is to say, to admit, to toss out into the void for whomever to read, it is good. Most of my time has been given to him, to love, to our relationship. And that is good.

And even for my art, my poor neglected poetry, it is good.

The thing about art, that I'm realizing, is that it is all wrapped up in what it means to be human. You can not separate the human that is you from the creating you are doing. Anything in your life that is affecting you, is affecting your art, because art is about being human. It is going into the depths of what it means to be human. And so, if you have stuff that needs to be dealt with, you'd better deal with it, or it will come up.

For instance. I have not written.

And I can't really blame it on my new relationship. No, it's all me. Although it may have something to do with my relationship-- or atleast, what relationships mean to me.

You see, when I was a kid, my mother gave up any ambitions she might have had for herself to be a wife and mother. She gave up her art so that my father could be an artist. She was his helpmate, taking care of his home so he could be a genius. She was his assistant when he was making films. She put food on the table or struggled with how to pay for it, so he could focus on art.

Now, that won't fly with me. I am the artist. There will be no giving this up-- and yet I find my instinct is to do just that. To go right back to the familiar way of being that I grew up with. And then my instinct is to run away from the instinct, run away from relationship. Run away from creating. Hide my art and writing away, so no on can see it. Hide my heart from a man who would touch it. Hide my feelings from my family who hurt me so long ago.

Run away. Hide. Give up. These are the dark secrets of being human. Of being me.

And when I write, they come up. It's what my novel is about. And when I don't write, they come what. It's what gets in my way.

We are not just the artists who are throwing paint on a canvas. It does not come from the ether, it comes from inside. It comes from the life we have created, and the stories we tell to ourselves about who we are and what life means.

Every painting is a self portrait of the artist. Every story is the story of the soul.

I am not a poet
I am a poem.

Writing My Soul

It's raining today, hard. It's thundering. It should make me depressed, but I like it. This is spring rain. This is the kind that means winter is over. Next week, the leaves will be out on all the trees. The sun will shine, the temperature will soar.

Oh, my heart will soar. We really need this, Spring. We really need the warmth. It can be so hard and cold here in this city. We hide from the ice entirely too much.

I have not been writing. I have not been painting. I have not been being creative at all. My energies have gone else
where.

It's taking its toll on me, this not being creative, but I have to recognize what is going on in my life to make this happen-- or not happen as the case may be.

You see, life has moved on. Unexpected developments occur. Like thunder and lightning, seemingly out of nowhere, although it took all winter to get here. I am in love.

It was hard to say that, hard to admit, hard to toss it out there into the void for whomever to read. But it was also good. It's a wonderful thing, but it changes life, changes my routine.

So I have not been creative, I have instead been spending all the time I could with him. I needed to, and wanted to, and our relationship deserves that focus.

But as the days go on, that little/big part of me is trying to sneak its way back into my life. It can't be denied because it is who I am-- my art. I must give in.

But, god, it isn't easy.

What I realize is that being an artist is hard, because whatever shit you have to deal with in your life-- parental resentments, money rackets, anger at yourself or your lover, insecurity, feeling unlovable-- whatever it is, that shit is going to rise up and demand to be heard. Because art digs into the depths, and surrounds the whole. It is about being human, so all the things that make you human are going to need to be dealt with so that you can create.

That's why it's so hard. That's why people turn to drink and drugs and other things designed to numb them sufficiently to allow it all to come up without tearing their insides out.

So when I struggle with not writing my novel right now, I am also struggling with my issues. Here I am, in a new relationship, and putting that first-- just like my mom always did with my dad. She never went into her own art, her own stories. She didn't become a filmmaker on her own, though she loved it. Instead, she was a wife and a mother and a helpmate. She made it possible for my father to be an artist, she gave up herself.

So I am struggling with the instinct to do the same, and the instinct to run away from that instinct. And with what having a relationship means to me. And with what it means to hide away, hide my writing from anyone who would read it. Hide my heart from a man who would touch it. Hide my feelings from my family who hurt me a long time ago.

What it means to be human. What it means to be me.

So when I write, these things come up. This is the story I am writing. And when I don't write, these things come up, because it is me, human, who is hiding, who is running, who is witholding and afraid.

Everything I am informs what I create. Everythinig I am informs what I do. How I act.

All painters are creating self portraits. All writers, are writing their souls.

I am not a poet,
but a poem.

Life Sucks... and then it doesn't

This is a cynical world. I, however, have decided to screw cynicism. It's SOOOO nineties. (I'm joking. I don't give a shit what was in style in the nineties and no longer is.) I have decided to screw cynicism because all it is, is dissappointed romanticism. All those cynics, a long time ago, once believed in the world, and in wonderful things happening. Then, they were confronted with the world and all of its sucky things. Maybe they were 9, maybe they were 19, maybe they were 69, but they started not believing in wonderful things. Cynics are defeated romantics, that's why they are so tough, so hard to reason with. It's all about heart break.

I have been there, though. I have been the one who no longer believed in the world being right. I hated it. It was kind of hard to want to keep struggling. So I decided to start believing that things could be good. That people had good reasons for what they did, or atleast, they did not have evil reasons. I decided to believe that at heart, people were good.

Not, however, that they were perfect. I don't believe that people are always noble, but that they have their own reasons, and those reasons, within the circumstances that they were living, were, in essence, good. They may be the wrong decisions, but you know what? Just because they are not doing things the way I would do them doesn't actually mean they are bad. Maybe they just have to travel their own road.

Everyone is on their own journey. They have their own lessons to learn, and maybe they have to deal with their own personal dissapointments and struggles so that they can grow and learn on their own.

I am perfectly aware of how corny my ideas could sound. I'm a fricking Pollyana. But you know what? This world is all fucked up, and that's what makes it interesting. The world is all fucked up, and that is what's normal. The world is all fucked up because this world is figuring out how to be this world. So am I, so is everyone else.

And life sucks for a while, and then it's cool, and then it sucks again, but if you have faith that it will come around to cool again, it's not quite as hard to get through.

Heart

When you give your heart to a thing, a person, a place, a project, a life-- whatever-- what you're doing is allowing yourself to be open. It's about saying "yes." When you give your heart, it's about a willingness to see what happens next, what comes next, what might be around the next corner. It might be deliriously wonderful, or it might be disaster and crushed dreams.

When you give your heart, truly, it's not about, "well, I love this today, but tomorrow I may love something different." It's more like making that thing a part of who you are, inextricable from everything that built you up in the first place. You can't shake something that you have given your heart to. There is no return clause when you give your heart.

People freak out about commitment, about how hard it is to actually be vulnerable, to want something with the possiblity of not getting it, to put your heart on the line. It's much better to keep things on the surface. Much better to stay cynical and not believe in anything. It keeps our poor, delicate hearts safe.

Maybe you have techniques that are less obvious. Maybe you think things to death, plan and consider, and all that. I do that. It's a stalling measure-- you WANT to give your heart, but you're afraid to, so you pretend you already have given your heart and fill all the hours and choices up with over-thinking. Intellectualism. Why else be a writer? So I can write/think everything to death, and I can stall actual commitment of heart as much as possible.

But this is dangerous, this half-commitment. You give your heart but keep a death grip on it, so you can yank it back when it gets too dangerous. It feels safer, but it's not. Well, you keep your heart armored, but you never actually allow what you love to reach you. So you never get it. You are setting yourself up for failure until you actually let go and allow yourself to love, no matter what may come.

What's funny about this entry is that I am actually writing about being a writer, about my novel, about committing and exploring and discovering, about letting go and not being so afraid to win/lose what I have wanted since I was fifteen.

And yet, it sure sounds like romance, don't it?

I suppose that life is like that. What is really true echoes,-- and I don't mean facts, but truth. When you've got a struggle that you have to deal with, it shows up in every important area in your life, not just the ones that you would expect. And when a law works on a big level, it often works on micro levels-- like say, "a body at rest stays at rest." Yeah, that's physics, but can anyone say it doesn't go for when your body is slug-like sitting on the couch, remote in hand?-- that body will continue to rest unless acted on by an outside force.

So when you come upon a truth in your life, if you watch it, you can actually find the pattern repeating itself again and again, large, small, internally, externally. Chances are, it's not just a personal truth, but a human truth, too, so you can see other people struggling and following the same patterns, also.

One of the things about the universe that I love is that you can actually see these patterns repeating themselves. It so clear, and startling in it's clarity. For instance, a lightning bolt follows the same pattern as a river bed, which follows the same pattern as a tree branch, which follows the same pattern as a crack in the sidewalk, which follows the same pattern as the veins and ateries sending blood to your beating heart. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

Maybe actually this realization of the patterns in life can help in the bravery needed to give your heart fully. Because maybe the outcomes, the possibilities, the blind future that we are all rushing towards, is not so very unknown at all. Perhaps it, too, follows patterns, and maybe if we trust in the universe, then we can recognize that we have been through these patterns, theses struggles before-- and, actually, we made it through before. We will survive. We will prosper. We will, even, grow.

Ahh...

Yes.

Change, change, change.

I've been running around like a crazy head. Wrapped up in how life just keeps moving forward. Things happen. New opportunities arise, and the old desires and goals, sometimes it's hard to keep up with them.

I've always been like this. I am always doing twenty thousand things at once. A million projects. A billion ideas. Or perhaps it's better to say, I always WANT to do twenty thousand things, because when it comes down to it, I just can't, or don't, get them all done. At least not to my liking.

Projects fade. Trips and plans and commitments start to get less important when the new trips and plans and commitments come on board.

I suppose this is natural. I suppose this is part of life. Life certainly isn't static, although sometimes we want to control things so they always stay the same. Our plans have a funny way of changing on us, because we change and the world changes, buildings go down, new ones go up, some people move away, other people step in to your life. What you want changes. Does who you are change?

I feel pretty much the same person I was ten years ago, but many things about me have changed. And that's a good thing. I look forward to these changes. I suppose I expect them to happen-- I just don't want the changes to be for the worse.

Maybe it's better to go with the changes, consciously recognize the new choices you have, and how things around you have transformed, and then accept them. I think that gives you more control in how your life turns out than if you resist the changes, trying to hold onto the old ways.

It gives you control because you don't have to fight against life. Trying to hold the ocean back is a fruitless endeavor. Allowing things to change allows you to choose the new paths you take, instead of getting stuck, stranded in your dry land of "HAS TO BE" while surrounded by all these unasked for changes.

So, here I am, things switching up around me. Now, what am I gonna do? Try to maintain my old habits and plans? Or am I going to re-evaluate the goals here. Try find the things that are most important to me-- which may have changed-- and then try to find the ways to make these things happen.

I think this is what I want to do, I think this is the way to move forward and keep growing and make sure those changes are positive ones, or atleast constructive ones.

I think it's gonna take a bit of thinking on it.

And then it's gonna take a lot of action.

Life Stirs

Lately, I have wanted to write.

This is not an inconsequential thing. Writing has been a "someday" proposition for quite a while. There have been all sorts of have-tos before I could ever get back to writing my novel. I "have to" figure out what I am writing. I "have to" get a new computer/get the old computer running/head to the computer center and buy some time on a computer that works. (How did anyone ever write anything longer than a page in the days before home computers?) I "have to" re-read and edit what I already have. I "have to" stop complaining and just write.

But all of that "having to" just made me tired.

Now, I WANT to write.

Maybe it's because I finally did get my new computer. (Yeay!) Maybe it's because I have been waiting table/bartending for long enough that the novelty has worn off, and I am back to remembering that I really need to do something important and productive with my life. (Wait, that's another "have to".) Maybe it's because I am in a new relationship with a new man, and Spring is finally here, and life has turned over and started to wake up. (Gr-roan, grumble, what time IS it?)

I have been transcribing what I have already written into my new computer. The beast (the computer, that is,) I borrowed from a friend is an ancient and tricksey thing. So I have to re-type everything. You would think that this was a pain in the ass, but actually, it's been really valuable.

All that old work, so much of it stream of consciousness, is now being molded with the vision I have been developing in the long months of being technologically challenged. I was "forced" not to write, but that made me think deep, and long about my book, and sent it back into the soup that is my brain. What has floated to the top of that soup is some sense.

I don't know what sense it is entirely, but it's starting to mesh. The random half-formed pieces are being placed next to each other, and I am am surprised to find them fitting together to make something whole.

I feel that having patience with my novel is paying off.

Lies! I didn't have patience. I wanted my novel, I wanted it written, and I wanted it done NOW, no YESTERDAY. I would force the words out of my head, because I had to write PAGES. I had to have writing practice. I had to BE a writer, or what use was it to quit teaching?

But that's why having my computer crash back in September, and losing half my novel, and having to struggle with so many tech blocks to writing might actually have been the best thing for my story. Because if I didn't have all the glitches, I might just have kept writing forward because I was impatient to have something written. Some sort of product that might someday get published and make me a REAL writer. Forcing it to come before it was time, a premature birth of my work, possibly never able to breathe on its own.

But now, let me repeat. I actually WANT to write.

Now, I feel the movement of the story under the surface, or not quite under the surface. And I think it might be able to survive being born.

Spring has Sprung!

The snow has melted away, the clouds flitted off to other corners of the world. The sky is blue and there is a soft breeze. It isn't quite flip flop weather yet, but the promise is in the wind.

Not only Spring, but I feel new things brewing.

I am excited to write.

Wonderful things. We think we always have to be so anguished about doing this stuff-- the suffering artist. We have to grip the deep dark insides of our souls and pull them out like taffy. Work, strain, struggle.

Sometimes, maybe we have forgotten all the things that made us want to be artists in the first place. The thrill of getting caught up in another world of our own creation. The feel of the keys under the fingers, or the way the paint spreads out from the brush, or the vibration in the throat when that note hits just write. It just feels good, creating.

It can't always be that awful and hard to be a writer or an artist of every stripe? No one would willingly sit down to torture everyday unless they were getting something out of it. It's not like we're at the mercy of some outside force, here. I know that there is no one else but me there when I sit down to write, or think about writing (or not writing as the case may be.) I can only come to the conclusion that I am the one who is torturing me.

Sicko.

I think I will spring into Spring, and into all the action, creativity, fertility, and pretty flowers that entails. Sunny Side of the Street. Optimism. Possibility.

Is this a New York City girl?

Even New York can be rose colored in Spring.

(Just please, god, don't let winter come back for at least nine more months.)

Back in Business

I finally got my laptop. Yeay!

Here I am. Ready and waiting to face the world, to face the words.

It's exciting, the new toy aspect of it. But it's also scary. Now it's time to get down to work. Now it's time to turn back to my novel. Open up those doors and jump through. No more stalling, no more excuses.

This is the opening to the rest of my life, the latest opening, anyway. The doors keep stretching wide, and I keep walking through them and being introduced to new doors, new mouse holes, new windows.

Are those doors the opportunities I am faced with? Are they the choices I have made? The actions I take?

Sometimes I think we don't realize how much control we have in our own lives. It's a lot easier to talk about how stuck we are and we have no options and all possibilities really just aren't possiblities.

I think I know why we do this, why we trap ourselves in our own helplessness.

Because it's hard to be responsible for your own life. It's hard and scary, and a big pressure. There is no telling what the results of you taking responsibility for your own life might be. You might fail. You might suck. You might work and work and work forever and ever, and STILL never get anywhere. You might be great. You might get famous. That's almost more scary than sucking. What doors, what new scary, awesome possibilities might be through THOSE doors?

Oh, fear. We-- I have given fear so much power in my life, that it became my king. I lived that fear, daily, hourly, each tick of the clock.

But there came a time when I got tired of the Fear King, when I realized that as long as fear ruled over my life, then the things I really wanted would never come true. They would never be manifested, because I would be running as fast and as far as I could from what I wanted. And the more I wanted it, the farther I would run, because the more it mattered, and the more scared I was.

Change my relationship to fear.

I'll step up to my own throne. Queen Rowena, I am. Goddess Rowena.

Frankly, old King Fear still has a place, I'm not gonna lie. It scares the shit out of me to pick up my novel again, or to paint large paintings that someobody might actually want to buy/sell/hang on their walls to impress their friends, or to dive into a relationship that really might go somewhere.

But Goddess Rowena is never at the mercy of King Fear. He is an advisor, that is all. And he can be sent away. He does not have last say, anymore.

So, that said, it's time to get down to work.