A new year's resolution? Walk more, write more.

Yes, I see how you might think that those are two separate resolutions but they are not. They are my morning ritual, and I miss them dearly.

Via twitter today, found this post about journaling, which breaks the process into levels, such that if you are timid, you can start with Level 1 first and then expand.

"Do you think you look like Colin Farrell?"

(Charlotte, to Anthony Marentino, in the last episode of Sex and the City)

In this moment, Charlotte has gone into Chanel to find something to wear to meet the biological parents of the baby she and Harry are intending to adopt. And Anthony says, it's so "TV movie," because the parents are from, guess where? Charlotte! And in the movie, he would be played by Colin Farrell. Charlotte pauses, and says kindly, "Do you think you look like Colin Farrell?"

I had one of those moments today. (Or I think it was today.) (Sorry, the cold is making me all fuzzy.) I was g-chatting with someone and shared that I have a crush. And I shared the age of that crush. And there was a HUGE pause. And finally she said, "Do you think he's interested in you in that way?" And, um, NO. There is no indication that he sees me as anything but this older woman that he is friends with in a class that will be ending in five weeks. Which is why it is a crush. (The thing is, there are no available men in my life that are my age.) (Currently.) (Hoping that will change.) But what I said to g-chat friend was this: the fact that I have a crush (and baby lust? moi?) is letting me know that I am still alive, there is still some kick left.

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I realized something today. I used to use blogging as conversation. Instead of talking to people in my life, I blogged for people "living in" computers. Today, instead of blogging about the crazy weekend that included a family wedding, I emailed my sister and told her what really upset me. And she responded with what really upset her. And you know what? Instead of us both stewing, we shared our equally valid strong opinions with each other. We're communicating!! And life is good. She said she liked that I had opinions, it was very Elizabeth Bennett of me. Which, coming from my sister, is a high compliment.

So...it's an adventure, discovering what this blog is going to become, now that I'm back occasionally. I want to go back and read what I wrote, but I want to move forward too.

Time to go to bed.

Writing vs. Blogging Part Deux

So, ironically, here I am, again, less than an hour later.

I'm trying to build an arsenal of writing prompts. There are a lot of websites, and it's super easy to open my google documents and open a window with writing prompts.

This is the one I found today: Creative Writing Prompts.

I find that I'm a lot better with the prompts that are like "write about an empty glass" (which I did) than write "I remember..."

Okay, I did today's writing, back to Season Six Part One. Miranda has figured out she loves Steve, Berger's book option got dropped, Samantha is helping Smith with his acting career, and Charlotte is sad because she lost Harry, after she converted to Judaism so they could get married.

And a plate of pommes frites is all I need...

All the way home, in the snow blowing down 279, my tires coated in snow, I had one thought. It was a negative one. How easily we get stuck on that broken record groove.

My dad has a huge record collection. I have never actually seen "My Fair Lady" all the way through, but my favorite part on my dad's record is the song "A Patient Man am I" because the record skips and the guy keeps singing "A patient man am I, A patient man am I," as if repeating it makes it so.

Which it doesn't. Repetition, I mean. The negative thought that I had on the way home may or may not be true. But whether or not it is, it needs not flood my mind as I drive home in the dark, snow billowing around.

I have been struggling with this blog lately. I got rid of the site meter (it was making me crazy!!) and/but now I have no clue how many people and which ones are reading unless they comment. (Or walk up to me at my library and tell me so...) (Thanks!!)

I have been struggling at how private/public to be. There are some things I'd rather share with people in person than via this blog...I don't want this to be a substitute for getting to know me, or that me reading other people's blogs becomes a substitute for getting to know them. Of course, blogging isn't all about becoming friends--that can backfire too.

I have to build boundaries around my life. I want to keep my life fresh, unmarred...and yet, I am broken. I am banged up. We all are, just some of us are more prone to admit it. Sometimes I can't keep it in--I will explode. And this year, with the loss of three close friends, I feel a void of people to share my life with. And yet, this week, I have had many chances on and off line, in person and by email, by cell and regular phone to connect--and I thank you all for that. When I called my mom tonight to let her know I got home safely, I said, it's sometimes so hard to focus on what's good when you have that one negative thought. Wisely, she didn't ask what the thought was, and wisely, I didn't blurt it out. We focused on the good. She told me about this new technology at her school--she was so excited about it (I smile as I write this--my mother is such an amazing person and though I will be glad when she retires, I am grateful that she loves teaching so much--she is so good at it.)

I don't know what else to say, except thanks, to a few people who have made this week worthwhile. I bet you know who you are. And please, let's keep in touch. It's a rough world out there.

I guess I'll also say this: if I'm not reaching out to you, it's because I'm protecting myself in the only way I know how. This blog is anonymous for many reasons, but one of them is that it protects the breathing, heart-beating person that lives in the third floor garret. Maybe you are protecting yourself the only way you know how to as well. Only time will tell.

And this too: tears (the kind you cry) and tears (the kind that's ripped) sometimes make us stronger. I am not afraid of mourning this loss, if it is one, but I am not against stitching up the brokenness, either.

And if you don't have a clue what I'm talking about, that's okay too. Sometimes I just want to be a mysterious woman...who needs to defrost her refrigerator.

In other news, I got a letter from Lorelei today. All is well in the world. (Even if it isn't.)

Where other people are obsessed with the idea that I am always reinventing myself, I'd rather think that I'm shedding my layers, and slowly revealing

myself. It feeels to me like I'm just getting closer to the core of who I really am. (Madonna)

Yesterday I was in a conversation with a woman after the budgeting class I've been attending and I said, I feel like I'm getting younger, as I deal with things. She asked me how old I thought she was. I, flabbergasted, said, I have no idea. The woman is fifty. I would have said 43 if pressed. She is gorgeous. And she's dating one of the nicest, most scatterbrained guys at Bellefield. He does roofs.

I feel like as I let go of Joy's death and Peter's death and as I let go of the sludge of my early dating life, I am becoming lighter. More Sarah Louise. The layers are coming off.

ooh ooh! Two literary allusions:

From the Voyage of the Dawn Treader, when the boy becomes a dragon and then de-dragonified, and from The Ragman.

Hold the phone, lemme get my books.

From How the Adventure Ended, the de-dragonifying of Eustace:

"...and I thought to myself, oh dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off?
...
...then the lion said...You will have to let me undress you. I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty near desperate now." (p. 89, C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader)

From The Ragman, (one of my favorite short stories of all time)

"...I myself walked up to the Ragman. I told him my name with shame, for I was a sorry figure next to him. Then I took off all my clothes in that place, and I said to him with dear yearning in my voice: 'Dress me.'
He dressed me. My Lord he put new rags on me and I am a wonder beside him." (p. 6, Walter Wangerin, The Ragman and other Cries of Faith.)

I'd write about this and stuff, but it's time to get this morning going, and as usual, I have quite a day ahead.

Oh, and check out a new link on Church Shoes, Adrian, a friend of Pat's who I think lives in SanFran. He's got some pretty interesting stuff on there, and it's easier for me if it's a link on the left, so there you go.

Oh, and last night (or this morning) I dreamt I went to Chestertown.

Learning to be me...

A few things:

Like Chandler, I use humor to disfuse situations. You will rarely find me posting about something of deepness without a tidbit at the end that disfuses it.

(That long pause--you didn't notice it?--was me looking for a good Chandler quote. What good is the Internet for if not for quotes from the bestest TV show ever, Friends?)

Okay, here's one:

Rachel: Guess what, GUESS WHAT?
Chandler: The fifth dentist finally caved and now they ALL recommend Trident?

I got it from imdb.com, the librarian's answer to "who was in that movie with that girl from 90210?"

See, I'm doing it again.

Last year at Lent, I had a journal. In the front, I had a quote from Soren Kierkegaard, "And now, with God's help, I shall become myself." I have to interject here that I've still not read any of Kierkegaard's books, I'm still relying on random quotes. Same with Camus. Maybe that should be my New Year's Resolution: to read Kierkegaaard and Camus.

Oh, did I get off track again?

This is one of those "experiment in writing" posts.

And I haven't had breakfast yet...

Well, anyways, tune in tomorrow, when I gather my brain cells once more to bring you the loveliness of my bloggy mind.

Oh here's a tidbit. It wasn't last year at Lent, it was this year. Except that my mind is still tuned to the academic calendar. Oh boy. I need breakfast.

The tale of five friends

Writer's note: This is an example of not writing what you woke up thinking about because you didn't really want to write about it even though you really did.

Pat's tagline for his blog, Urban Saddle, is "An experiment in writing." I like that, because blogging sure is a different medium. I give you, then, the tale of five friends, which is truly an experiment in writing.

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Don't walk in front of me
I may not follow
Don't walk behind
I may not lead
Walk beside me
And just be my friend.

(Albert Camus)

So...this morning and this evening I'll be seeing two women. I thought our friendships were irreparable, dead, and yet these two women are dearer to me than they were in the first blush of friendship--they are women that I celebrate and that celebrate me. I'm having dinner with Kelly (yes, there are a lot of Kellys) and I'm seeing Sally before work (yes, there are a lot of Sallys, too.)

Writer's note: Sally is a specific alias (all the Sallys have the same root name), Kelly is an alias that applies to most friends with the letter K at the beginning. Assume that most names in my blog are aliases.

Kelly is a woman I met when I was exploring being Catholic. I was a true blue Catholic, confession and Eucharist for about one year. I attended daily mass for about three years, while I was in Virginia, started the RCIA (adult class to become a Catholic) class there, and returned to Pittsburgh, where my Presbyterian church had a new minister. For the year I was in grad school, I floundered. I basically got to church at the tail end of the sermon every week. I was thankfully back with the women at my Tuesday morning Bible Study, women that have sustained me on and off since my sophomore year of college. So I was getting fed on Tuesday but not so much on Sunday. This post is clearly becoming about my spiritual walk, not about my four friends and I, so let's get back on track.

Kelly and I followed similar paths: she was raised Catholic, "became" Protestant during college, through Campus Crusade for Christ. After college, she attempted to raise support so that she could go into ministry with CCC and her Catholic friends and family would not support her. They encouraged her to reexamine her Catholic roots, which she did, and she is now a stronger Christian and Catholic as a result. I had a similar, but opposite path: I was raised Protestant and when I went to Virginia to learn how to be a functioning bipolar as opposed to a non-functioning one, I started attending daily Mass at the local Catholic church. I still went to church at the local Baptist church most Sundays, and attended a fellowship for young adults at a nearby Episcopal church (actually, The Falls Church, which is what named the town in which my parents reside.)

When I returned to Pittsburgh, I met a young man in my evening Bible Study who was Catholic and a student at CMU. At the time, there was Sunday evening mass at CMU and since (see above) I was not getting fed Sunday mornings, I decided to attend Mass again. I did not take communion, as I was still Protestant, but I started thinking--if this is where I'm spiritually fed, I should be able to take communion. So, the short story is that I contacted the Newman Center, worked with a nun to prepare for becoming a Catholic on Easter. Which I did. So I broke ties (not completely) with my Protestant church and moved forward, now, as a Catholic. At the time, my therapist was trying to get me to date someone, anyone. So when another client of hers told her how he had met his future wife through Catholic Alumni Club, she recommended it to me. Which is how I met Kelly.

Catholics have wonderful traditions and one of them is that Mass on the first Friday of a month is particularly sacred. So CAC had a tradition of picking a parish, meeting there, and having dinner afterwards. On that fateful Friday, I decided to try this tradition out and hopefully also meet some folks. Kelly and her friends also decided to check out CAC. After Mass, we all went out to an Italian restaurant and Kelly and I sat next to each other and just clicked. She and her friends decided that they would meet me at the CAC dance in a few weeks. Kelly and I started emailing. All of us were disappointed by the dance and became sort of disenchanted with CAC. I went to a few picnics but didn't meet anyone male or female that seemed interested in widening their circle of friends to include me. Kelly and I stayed in touch and I went out to visit her for a weekend. (She lives in Ohio.)

Can you see that I still am not really writing what the title purports, not really?

Anyways, our friendship was pretty strongly based on the fact that we were two Catholic girls. So when I started attending the OD Sunday evenings in addition to Sunday Mass (where, guess what? I wasn't getting fed) and eventually just went back to my Protestant church and did Sunday morning and Sunday evening and eventually just Sunday evening, Kelly was not thrilled. Rather, she felt that I was going back on the entire basis of our friendship. So last year, we met for dinner for my birthday and I wrote about the anticipation here.

We stayed in contact, but it wasn't the same.

Okay, it is almost 8:30 and I still haven't gotten to why I'm writing "the tale of five friends."

Fast forward: Kelly and I are now stronger friends and accepting of each other's denominational differences. We're having dinner at IKEA tonight.

Sally and I went through years of not talking, mostly because of geography (she moved ten blocks away) and children (she now has two.) We have overcome both of those hurdles.

Alleluia, Amen!

But I have two friendships that are frozen. I don't feel like talking to them and it seems it's mutual since we've subsisted to email or text messaging. Yesterday at women's Bible study, Beth Moore talked to us about Joseph and Jacob/Israel and the boyz and reconciling with folks.

After all this writing, I see that I may just need to give up trying to fix my life and these friendships and wait for organic opportunities. (Organic is Babelbabe's word for just let life happen.)

'Cause here's the thing: sometimes you know why you don't seem to have a common ground for conversation and sometimes you do. And sometimes time is all you need. And sometimes you need an intervention. But it ain't gonna happen overnight. And as my hero Jim Collins says about business: inside that black box is another black box. There are no easy formulas.

So that's the tale of five friends. It's 8:30. I'm getting breakfast and getting ready for work.

Brothers and sisters I'm telling ya about a televangelist!

I dare you to read this. Cause there are some good funny sentences in there--I promise! And isn't part of NoBloMo (whatever it is...posting every day in the month of November) de-lurking??? I gotcha!

Oh my oh my. When I fall asleep with the television on, there is no accounting for my dreams! I dreamt about the Little Giant, which 24 ladders in one (or something like that). In my dream it was 8.99, but in reality it's 4 payments of 89.99. But in my dream, I was going to buy one for my Daddy for Christmas and I was trying to show it off to my Mom. Jimminy Christmas! Let's see--I had dreams of success on the stock market, and I swear, there was a soap opera on in the wee hours. Not like the OC--this was like Days of Our Lives or One Life to Live only it was on FOX! I rolled over. Did I turn the TV off? No, I rolled over. What got me started was MADtv, which I started watching back when I lived in Virginia--my sister would watch it. Last night, it was so funny--they used John Kerry as the running gag--it was funny. (Note that I stopped there, because I know some of you like him and you just go ahead.)

But oh my, did I wake up when the TV told me this was a paid religious program and not necessarily the views of the station or its staff. Cause I figured it was going to be...well, anyways. It was Kenneth Copeland. Who I've watched before and I couldn't remember if I liked him or not. But he was dealing with thoughts and how we have to bring them captive and we can supernaturally forget and as a writer I thought, hmm, do I want to forget EVERYTHING because then what will I write about? I mean, I do not want to be writing Christian romances that sell for 75 cents used at the library bookstore because they have no backbone! I have lived some stuff that would sell for full price at Barnes and Noble!

And somehow, I slept with my glasses on but at some point I took them off and so I was worrying about where are my glasses and wasn't paying attention to Brother Copeland...who was doing a rally. And was dressed in denim and his podium was like the front of a motorcycle. The entire stage was full up with motorcycles. And the man was reading from a text that seemed older than the King James. I mean, the thees and the thous were just coming out. I thought, doesn't he know there are modern translations?

But he was precious. He truly was. And I will not say that about very many televangelists, yo.

I mean, a guy who is wearing a denim jacket with no sleeves and the back says "Tribe of Judah" with a big yellow cross and then underneath "Jesus is LORD"-- and he says something and reaches down for his water bottle which has fallen over under his motorcycle podium and he says, "I'll drink to that!" and takes a swig of water. This was drama at its best, folks!

So he said a bunch of great stuff and then he said, "write this down, if you're taking notes." Like he understands that half the congregation (or whatever they were, the gathered) is like with their jaws down to their chins but maybe some geek has their pencil ready (that would be me). And he gives 3 points. I'll share them with you. Oh, and his main text was from 2 Corinthians 10:3-6.

1. Our sin is Jesus' business. Which means if the Devil comes along reminding you of your sin, as much as he might try to sound like Jesus, it's not Jesus, because Jesus wouldn't do that. Your sin is not the Devil's business!
2. Jesus is faithful and just (or righteous) 1 John 1:7-9. Basically here he was saying that Jesus forgave your sins, so he would be unrighteous to NOT forgive your sins if you confess and believe (not if you only confess but don't believe). He said, Jesus is not going to sin for the likes of little ol' you!
3. Purge the memory. Begin to speak the Word.
   

Then he went into some story about how he was riding his motorcycle and a thought came by that he would be hit by a semi and and how then he started rehearsing it in his mind...and he came up with a gem:

"Don't sit there in that tone of voice like that ain't ever happened to you." Which is exactly what I thought last week when Beth Moore was sharing some stuff. I mean, I was with her, but everyone else at WBS was sitting there like they were ghosts and they had no idea WHAT she was talking about. Right.

Then I have some side notes: Psalm 103, Are you hearing me, what do your feelings have to do with anything? which he expanded to "Your feelings come from the same place as those thoughts!" (like the one with the semi braining him or his children.)

Then he talked about talking and walking around your house until you feel in your voice that you have some blessing or victory.

This man was CRAZY! But in a good way.

And then at the end, he was actually selling something. Not, if you give to our ministry we'll give you a DVD, but this is good stuff, you want it, it's $20. I was so impressed! Then you could buy this week's message for $4 on CD! And there was no nonsense about how our ministry needs your money. WOW!

So I have this little pink piece of paper, a mending slip if you'll know the truth (it's from the library and you tick off if there are torn pages, loose pages, a worn spine, etc.) that has these crazy notes. And I'm starved, so it's time to walk to Tazza. I have to go to work at 1 (which I hate, working on Sunday) but I have the morning at least, so I'm going to get my oil changed in my car, Hallelujah!

And my blogging self is thinking: if you keep writing stuff like this, you're never going to get any comments! So I dare you. (Watch I'll get some splogger trying to sell me something sunshine.) (Which really happened!!)

Oh, and the last thing Brotha Kenneth had to say was "VOTE! I'm not gonna tell you who to vote for, God will tell you that, but vote! Don't go staying home and wasting your seed." Yes, your vote is your seed. I'm telling you, this guy was precious!

She awoke to the hum of the furnace and could feel the warmth in the air. Clank clank went the radiators. Her heart sang. IT'S FRIDAY!!!

Perhaps my "not liking blogging" is due in part to the fact that it has been a point of connection for me and right now I do not feel very connected. I feel like the neverending loop in my head is, "Was it me? Was it something I said? Was it something I did? Tell me, so I can make it better! Break the silence, I can't stand this anymore!"

Relationships are the most important thing in my life. When Em and I talk about where we would want to get married, she thinks about the qualities of a building and I think about Bellefield, where I have so many relationships--I couldn't imagine getting married anywhere else. I don't use this as a "singleness" moment but just as an illustration of HOW relational I am.

The piece I'll start re-working come January, the piece that will be submitted as portfolio for the Carlow MFA in writing program, is all about relationships. What happens when best friends get other friends, and/or boyfriends and what happens when things fall apart.

So, I was intrigued by the following book, the Myth of You & Me by Leah Stewart. I wanted so much to love it. It has a photo on the cover of two hands holding, one gloved in red, one not. The premise is this: Cameron lives with her employer, a literary critic who is dying. One day she gets a letter from her estranged best friend from high school and college, Sonia, who is getting married. Cameron does not want to deal with the letter, much less respond to it. (Play some dramatic music here.) Eventually, Oliver dies, and his bequest to Cameron is a package that must be delivered in person to Sonia as a wedding gift.

So in what turns out to be a wild goose chase, Cameron leaves Oliver's house in search of Sonia. This is where it gets a little too convoluted. We meet Sonia's co-workers, ex-boyfriends, Cameron's ex-boyfriends...it's a little too much. When Cameron does finally find Sonia, Sonia says, "I wondered if you would really come," as if Sonia meant for the goose chase, which (my supposition based only on the text) she probably did not.

The gift, once opened (I know, spoilers, but the CONCEPT of this book is better than the book, trust me on this one) is a letter to Cameron (yes, not a wedding gift for Sonia, as we had been led to believe) telling Cameron that he, Oliver, is a imposter. He had the same birthday as a guy he met in the army? and (I care so little that I'm not going to go back and re-read it) and so when that guy died, that guy's aunt took fake Oliver in and said, "Do you want to be Oliver?" Which meant he had to eschew everything from his old life, including Billie, his once amour (who was barely mentioned in the beginning, but Cameron has been carrying around a photo of this woman). It was so anti-climactic--like Oliver was the most selfish bastard, I'm dead, my wedding gift to your friend is really for you, it is my true identity.

Here I'm hoping to read insight into the reunion of these friends who have crossed each other in the worst ways possible (sleeping with almost fiances and leaving the other in the middle of Texas at a gas station) that love does conquer all. I get that, but Oliver's story is distracting. I felt cheated.

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I had a friend. I chose the wrong airport, I didn't pay her back right away, and seventeen years are gone. (Of course, it is never that simple.) I had a friend. We met every week for coffee. Now there is a silence I don't know how to broach. I had a friend. I cut it off because I realized I was getting too close in an unhealthy manner. Relationships are HARD work. But for me they are the most important work I'll have this side of glory. I want to do the work. I had a friend. She stopped coming to work. We used to eat lunch every week. I don't know how she is. I had a friend. She got engaged and then he dumped her. We usually talk every other day on our cell phones. I haven't talked to her since Friday night. She called last night and I just did the uh huh, uh huh, even when she was talking about my birthday party.

There is a line from About A Boy (the book, not the movie) that sums this up for me: in the opening sequence, Fiona, Marcus's mother has just broken up with her current boyfriend, just before the pizza was delivered. Marcus ponders,

"He didn't think he'd ever get used to this business. He had quite liked Roger, and the three of them had been out a few times; now apparently, he'd never see him again. He didn't mind, but it was weird when you thought about it. He'd once shared a toilet with Roger, when they were both busting for a pee after a car journey. You'd think that if you'd peed with someone you ought to keep in touch with them somehow." (Nick Hornby: About a Boy, p. 1-2)

I guess that's the way I feel about it, in a litany of moments shared with different friends: I borrowed eggs to bake a cake. I borrowed your hairdryer the morning mine broke. I was there the day your child was born. I talked you through chemo. We walked your dogs in Frick Park. I listened night after night as you told me about your fiance. And today, if I called you on the phone, what would we talk about? We live our lives next to each other and then one day we change and we forget to tell each other.

I miss you. Not you, one person, but the plural you, all of you. I do. I realize I may never see you again, it will never be the same again, but I wish that it could be. I wish that it could be different, if that would make it possible for us to live our lives together again.

Go hug someone. Don't drive home alone in the rain singing along with Cyndi Lauper. Pull over, use that cell phone, and call someone you miss, someone that may very well be missing you. Go! I'll be here (and all of a sudden I burst into song) "when the day is new, and I'll be dah duh and you'll have things you'll want to talk about, I will too." (Lyrics courtesy Fred Rogers.)

And I just visited BTS where BB is not only perking along with her novel but dazzling us all with perfect posts. She's gonna be famous--wait, she already is!

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Oh and in other news, I really gotta do laundry, pay the bills, and do the dishes. None of which will move me forward in the relationship arena...if I think that all my relationships are outside this drafty garett. But if I remember that the most important relationships ARE right here, I'd think that taking care of me is pretty darn important. Darn, how could I have forgotten that, so quickly?

Blogging as a Spiritual Practice, and Listening

So, I've been cleaning out my work email, and came upon this link. It talks about journaling as a spiritual discipline and gives writing prompts.

This blog has become sort of a spiritual practice for me--if I'm writing only for myself, I save it on my PC or in my "drafts," but if I want to share my thoughts, I pen them here. This weekend at the OD retreat we're going to talk about the practices that define our community: listening, learning, eating, encouraging, giving. I said I would be willing to share a story on listening...

Writing is, for me, a way of listening to myself. Often I don't know what I think about something until I get it down on the page. That was certainly the case this past Saturday morning when instead of taking a walk, I wrote and wrote and wrote. And re-wrote--because all good writing is re-writing. I probably went easily throught eight drafts. And I read it out loud. And I timed my readings. And each time, I tightened the writing. And I stayed at my desk, writing, until I found the happy ending. I don't always have that luxury, of course, but it was nice that that morning I did.

My walks are another way I listen. I have a portable CD player that has its own specially decorated purse and it has one of three or four praise music CDs that I rotate on a semi-regular basis. Right now I'm listening to Surrounded, which is a CD produced by a praise team at Hope College. My brother gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago. For a few years, I walked the seminary nearby, listening and praying as I walked. But this summer I ventured east and now my standard walk takes me past the tennis courts and between the horses that guard the entrance to Highland Park. There are 17 tracks on the Surrounded CD and depending on the legnth of my walk, I may get through 5 or 8 or all 17. My favorite is an old hymn that recently has been set to at least one contemporary arrangement: Take My Life and Let it Be. It is the 5th track and often I will skip forward to it. We've been singing it to a different tune and arrangement as the benediction for our series on the Practices at the OD.

On the CD, right after Take My Life.. comes a spoken word piece from Psalm 139. "God, investigate my life..." Interesting that until now, I thought it was "God, you investigate my life." But the text, as I just pulled it up from Biblegateway.com, is "God, investigate my life," which is a declarative statement, a request. Other translations say "You have searched me..." or "You have examined my life."

Lately, I have had to listen harder. There's been less actual sound--today when I called to chat, all I got were machines. And I don't have my site meter up on the beta so I have no clue if yins really are showing up. (Although pictures of shoes seem to always garner comments...)

I've been learnign to listen to my body, which ironically often involves me chatting. Em will sometimes call in the morning and just listen as I try out ideas for the day. I'm learning that it's not enough to have a plan for the day--said plan may get thwarted, like today's plan to get ready for the retreat BEFORE work. (I snuggled under the covers, dozed into the early afternoon, as I fought my cold to the health of it.) Sunday I had planned to go to the 11:20 showing of One Night with the King at the Waterfront, but that was thwarted by my watch stopping. I was delighted that it was still 10:20 as I walked home from Tazza. I was surprised when I got home and realized it was already 11:00 and I still had dirty hair. So I changed plans and ended up going to the movies in the North Hills (where I pretty much live anyways) where I was able to rendevous with Eileen briefly before my trek back to the city. Saturday night, I was supposed to go skating. Instead, my body decided to take a nap. Which meant that I didn't miss a call from my dear friend Katie.

Today, as I wrote an email to Eileen, I realized I didn't have to be superwoman and be a driver for the retreat. Which meant a few things: I could wait to get my oil changed, I wouldn't have to study the map, and I wouldn't have to clear out my car! Had I not sat down to pen those words to Eileen, the thought might not have occurred to me.

Right now, my stomach is saying "I'm hungry" which it has every right to do, as my dinner consisted of a can of chicken noodle soup. I'll stop at Taco Bell on the way home.

And I feel like I'm running out of steam, big time. Sleep is calling me...I have 26 minutes left at work and then a half hour drive home and then a visit to Walgreens.

Listening suggests that there is something to be listened for. If a tree falls in a forest and noone hears it, does it make a sound? If there aren't ears to hear, is there sound?

Who do I listen to? I listen to my friends, I listen to my boss, I listen to my family, I listen to my body, and I ultimately listen to God.

I'm listening for you...are you there?

And when October goes....

(yes, Barry Manilow, though I heard it first on a folk album)

THERE WILL BE MUCH REJOICING!!

This so far has been the best October in near history but it still is vile.

Today was a great day wherein I hobnobbed and heard authors, not the least the most recent Newbery winner, Lynne Reid Perkins. I got to be a part of a writing workshop led by the same (!)

It was also a day wherein I spent 20 minutes trying to get to the Children's Museum once I'd reached the North Side. (Read: driving around in circles, Pittsburgh style--you can't get there from here.) But, once I got there, I did find parking and I was indeed signed up for the conference and the DELICIOUS LUNCH where I got to sit with Very Important Librarians, queens in the Children's field in Pittsburgh.

It was also a day of deluges of rain and umbrellas going inside out for the wind.

It was also a day of bad rush hour traffic and wrong turns once I figured out that I wanted to go to Goodwill in Cheswick. I got waylaid on the way there and made a few wrong turns on the way home. (Read: it took an hour to get home from Cheswick. It should take 20 minute

Home, I expected to have a few hours before sitting in front of ze TV and watching the season premiere of Crossing Jordan. Which has been moved to an undisclosed date.

Did I mention, though, how pretty the trees all are and how I spent $33 to buy four (yes four) pairs of Liz Claiborne or Bill Blass pants and other sundry items. (Inclusive was that $33--I can never go back to retail.)

This, however, was one of the biggest disappointments of the day. I so rarely get to the North Side and this cafe was started by seven of my brother's college friends.




November, come soon!

Tomorrow: Mother Daughter and then in the evening, ICE SKATING, Praise the Lord!

What I do on Sundays

• Listen to Jeff Foxworthy. Today he talked with Blake Shelton, who had a song "Austin" out a few years ago. It's one of my dad's favorites. My brother now lives in Austin. (Oh, and I got to talk to him last night!!)
  
• Go for my morning walk. Sunday is one of the days I hardly ever have a morning thing I have to be at, so I can be leisurely. Today I just did the west route to the Park. Now some of the dog women know me and wave. Their dogs smile at me. I smile back.
• Depending on my wallet, go to Tazza. Last time I went, I was reading The Myth of You & Me, a heart wrenching novel about a friendship that was great and then broke. I sat there and cried, wiping away the tears. (I have set that book aside for a while.) Today I got my Tomato and Cheddar samwich and read about Bob O'Connor, our late mayor. Hey, I saved the paper from September, I'd better read it, huh? When I finished that, I continued with Riding the bus with my sister, by Rachel Simon. I cried, wiping the tears with the white square café napkins. Then, as I was gathering up my trash, I noticed someone that looked familiar--it was Jake, who used to work with me at Fox Books! He's a poet and teaches at Pitt, so we talked about writing and life. I haven't seen Jake since right before I moved to Virginia, so like eight years!
• (Sometimes) Go to the movies and/or watch a movie at home. Today I think it's Jerry Maguire at home and if I go out, either The Illusionist again or One Night with the King. But I really want to laugh, so it might turn out to be Little Miss Sunshine (this would be #3?).
  

Then of course, 6ish, I head over to the OD.

If I get inspired either today or tomorrow, I'll pull out "favorite posts" and snazz up the sidebar. I am liking Blogger-beta. I realize there are glitches and annoyances, but that's why it's called BETA, folks!!

Oh, and last night we had a real frost. Oh how I love the cold weather!!

making this quick: white heat rage!!

OMG--there is this horrible thing called bit, bit, bit something that is stealing RSS feeds and using google adsense ads to make money off other people's blogs (without their permission!!)

Go here and here and here and weep and then tell everyone you know. More on this later, I PROMISE!

And thanks to Jen, who I've never met before who left a comment on Ramona which is how I found out.

Even if you can quote Balzac and Shakespeare and all them other high-falutin' Greeks.

(from The Music Man)

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

I needed a quiz to tell me this?

Quiz, lifted from Badger's blog.

October is the cruelest month, actually...

So today was my day to visit Bellefield Towers, home of major studies of bipolar disorder. There are only 17 places in the nation that conduct what is called STEP-BD. (Systematic Treatment Enhancement Program for Bipolar Disorder) I was in the STEP-BD program for a while but now am in a different study, Bipolar patients of Western Pennsylvania (or something like that.) As a study participant, I see my social worker and psychiatrist at least every two months at which time I get asked questions about my sleep schedule, any anxiety, depression, etc. At each visit, I get a stack of questionaires: five pages to fill out before I leave their office and if it is a "two month check-up visit" I get another stack of about thirty pages for which I get paid $80 after I finish. Which is peanuts compared to how much this disorder has cost me in my life financially and in general over the past nine years of diagnosis and the approximately nine years I was undiagnosed.

Today my psychiatrist was late, so my social worker and I chatted about life in general. I told her how for me October is the worst month--summer in general is bad, but then September ship shapes everyone into order. But October--nothing. I suppose if I was a kid, Hallowe'en would be something to think about, but at this point in my life it doesn't carry much of a charge in the thrilling department. When I finally got in to talk to my psychiatrist (whom I adore: he is this blond Northern Italian man who is always cheerful and professional) around 2:30 instead of 2:00, he asked me how I was and I told him. This is actually the best October so far--for me. So I think that's why for the first time since I've seen him, he's divulged that all his other patients are doing pretty poorly and that October is one of the highest suicide months, up there with January and February. I backed up and said, don't think I'm doing perfectly--I cry and laugh every day when I take my walk, this is how I get through the days without thinking about how to end it all. (Although I am rarely, if ever, truly suicidal.) We talked about increasing my meds during my monthly hormone week. (This I think will be a true breakthrough.)

So if it seems that I have been posting A LOT, it's partly because to me, writing is living, and right now, I need to be living. If I am going to be grouchy, withdrawn, sobbing, laughing too loud, this is going to be one of the months it will happen. If I seem to be caught up on things that happened a long time ago or reacting excessively to things that didn't even catch a blip on anyone else's radar screen, it's because I am extremely close to the edge.

This is one of my favorite quotes. I haven't found the source, but I will, soon.

"Come to the edge," he said.
They said, "We are afraid."
"Come to the edge," he said again.
They came.
He pushed them...and they flew. (Guillame Appollinaire)

There are a lot of you out there lurking. That's fine. But don't be surprised if I am checking my sitemeter (gotta figure out how to add it back, now that my blog has switched over to the dark--I mean--beta side) to try to figure out who you are.

Today Beth Moore talked to us about tests. How God tested Abraham. He knew how Abraham would act, that he would pass the test. But God had to test Abraham so that Abraham would know how he would act, and never forget the experience. And that Abraham's test had his name on it, just like all of our tests have our names on ours. Which means it isn't a general exam for everyone and it means that we will never have to take anyone else's test. Which are both reliefs and not. Don't we always think, "If I had her situation, I'm sure I'd deal with it better/differently?" But no, we have our own homework, and peeking over to Peggy Sue's paper isn't going to help us with our particular quadratic equation.

Sitting there, thinking about tests, I remembered how it took six times before I passed my driver's test: in Maryland they test you on three point turns and parallel parking. I was maneuvering a standard shift VW station wagon--and I don't think it had power steering.

I remembered how it took three tries before I successfully rode a bike, and that was in my early twenties.

And as Beth talked about the sacrifice Abraham was being asked to make (give up Isaac, his son named for laughter), I thought about the sacrifices made by my family: my grandmother's parents when Anna Van Dine went to Brazil in 1924 to teach English at an Engineering School. She married her first husband there. She returned to the U.S., divorced. My mother's lesson in this was that "her first husband wasn't a Christian." My grandfather also had a failed starter marriage. (His first wife wasn't a Christian either.) They had already met before they went off and married other people, so when my grandmother returned from Brazil, they were reunited by help of a mutual friend and eventually married each other when they were 36. (In the 1930s, this was REALLY old to get married, and NO ONE divorced!!) My mom was born when Grandma was 40. (While that happens all the time in 2006, in 1943, it was pretty unusual.) Then my mom grew up and went off to Tehran, Iran, to teach at a Presbyterian mission school. It was like while Beth talked about her own daughter going to England, I could see the pain of my grandmother and grandfather, letting their youngest daughter go halfway across the world, in the days before email. And then when my mom married my dad, how it meant we were all always gone. My grandparents didn't get to come to school plays. We visited them in the summers that we got Home Leave (I can't remember if that was every year.)

I always knew I sacrificed a lot as a child, being carted from country to country, powerless to the changes. But I had never really thought about what a sacrifice it was for my grandparents. My parents just did it. They had the choice, I don't know that they thought of it as "a sacrifice." There were sacrifices along the way, but my father's job required the travel, and my mother enjoyed the travel. I'm just rambling. I suppose these are thoughts that I'll come back to again and again, as I puzzle out my place in my family, in this world, in Pittsburgh.

Thanks for reading! I'm listening to Really Rosie performed by Carole King right now. And now I'll finish cataloguing it...

There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you.

(Maya Angelou)

A writer writes. (Sahara Jones)

If you don't want what you want, then you're not going to get it. (Madonna)

So take a new grip with your tired hands, stand firm on your shaky legs and mark out a straight smooth path for your feet, so that those who follow you, though weak and lame, shall not fall and hurt themselves but become strong. (Hebrews 12:12)

Soon, very soon, will be the time to start back on my writing project. It is bubbling up. I'll keep yins posted.

Embrace the grey...

Or, as we Americans spell it, gray.

I’m in love. No, not that. I’m still figuring out how to separate my public life from my blog—even with a pseudonym, a lot of yins know who I am…

I have discovered something: I like foggy mornings. I even like driving in the fog (it forces me to pay attention.) I have chosen (YES) to live in Pittsburgh for over ten years. When I tell people I like winter, they look at me like I’m nuts. When I tell them I get depressed in the summer, they don’t get it. Yinzers know there’s a term for what we get this time of year in these parts: Pittsburgh gray. I love it. I do.

This morning I looked out and yes, it was gray. I bounced out for my walk and couldn’t wait to check the chain link fences along the Forestry Office to check for spider webs. Yes, I am in love with spider webs. And on foggy mornings like this one, they are like crystal necklaces left behind by some aristocratic lady. My brain catches over thoughts of Guy de Maupassant’s story about the necklace and I think, these are the real treasures. Men created necklaces and chandeliers because they studied spider webs. I don’t dare yet to bring my camera out there—I know I would be disappointed by the results. And after a week of dry mornings, I needed the surprise of dew studded necklaces on the chain link fence, on the trees, on…I must have seen ten sunburst style (I need to get a book to learn the terminology) and four or five partials. I even saw one spider. I blew, I touched the edge of the web, he didn’t budge. Do spiders sleep?

Now, I don’t know how I’d react if I found one inside, so don’t think I’m getting all brave. But outside, in my Father’s world, I love them.

I’m training for something: I couldn’t wait to get back here to write about this, so I ran part of the way home. It’s a trick I learned while training for my trek over the Teton mountains: run, walk. Run, walk. So my mind is training for more writing, and my body is training for…I really want to get a bike.

Yes. Me, the girl who never learned how in second grade—how I remember that failed lesson with my mom. She allowed it. (I still see that day as a picture in my mind--one of the few clear memories I have from that year.) And while the lowlands of Bonn, Germany are perfect for biking, where we moved in third grade, Tegucigalpa, Honduras is hilly like the slopes of Sou’ Side. (um, I'll have to take some pictures--Google images wasn't real helpful...) I learned briefly in high school, but like most people with high school French, it didn’t stick. So every time I get on a bike, I have to re-learn all the tricks.

I live in Pittsburgh. I can’t change my oil on my street because of the slope. But I have found some flat land, and today I watched the bikers glide past me in the other direction, talking as they rode about getting hotels in Germany and Seville.

That’s where writing takes you, my friends. It takes you from a color, gray, to a natural phenomenon, spider webs, to a childhood dream: I wanted to live in New York and be a ballerina and not own a car but bike everywhere.

Well, Pittsburgh will have to do until I have a chunk of change, I think I’d rather learn swing (but not until I have a partner—I do NOT like dancing with strange men), and I’ve not had a car for a good chunk of my adult life. I know what it is to take the bus to the grocery store and come home in the rain, walking five blocks with plastic bags, thinking I will never forget that it has gotten this bad.

I do not feel safe walking in certain parts of my neighborhood, but a bike gives you a little speed. Stay tuned…

I remember biking in Austria—I’ll tell yins about that later.

My collage, in its first stage

It took too long to replace this, but here it is. (to no avail could I find the post where I explained the first installment of my "window above the sink." I'll keep looking...) (Here it is.)

I had to just put it up. It will grow, but I needed it up, my "window above the sink." I wanted it to be what the old one was, which I made ten years ago, but I am a different person, so the old rules don't apply.

This is from the foreword to Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg: the foreword is by Judith Guest, writer of Ordinary People. If you haven't read that book, run, do not walk, to your local book procurement (bookstore, library, sister) outlet.

"I had written a first novel and it had achieved phenomonel success. I had stumbled upon the secret path and uncovered the rules and been rewarded with much praise. Unfortunately, all of this was proving to be of little use to me in the writing of the next novel. I was having a terrible time of it. How could I have forgotten everything so quickly? For six painful years I struggled until I figured out the rules for Ordinary People simply didn't apply to the next situation. It was natural and understandable that I was having difficulty. I was writing a different novel; I was exploring a new path.

It is easy to lose sight of the fact that writers do not write to impart knowledge to others; rather, they write to inform themselves."

Go and do likewise!

Now what?

The writing class I was going to start next Monday, the one that I was going to use to prep me for applying to the MFA in writing at Carlow, got cancelled. I can get a full refund...maybe I'll see about an online class...

Oh fudge!

I am always doing that which I can not do, in order that I may learn how to do it.

(Pablo Picasso)

The runner up for this title quote was "Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist when he grows up." (also our friend Paul.)

So Mrs. Pom today wants us to list what unblocks us from our artistic blocks. As always, I'm playing fast and loose with the rules, so I'm including what unblocks me in general when I'm blocked, in life as well as art.

In no particular order, things that unblock me:

1. Re-reading old books. Right now I'm re-reading A Patchwork Planet by Anne Tyler. It is one of, if not her only, books that is in first person. It's a coming of age story of Barnaby G., who turns thirty by the third chapter. The book is full of dry humor, and as we read, we see Barnaby turn into a man with sufficient self worth. Barnaby is the "black sheep" of his family, working for a company that offers assistance to elderly Baltimorians. Rent-a-Back's services include escorting clients to the grocery store, helping them set up their Christmas trees, and putting out their garbage cans on trash day. Every time I re-read this book, I am struck by the wit. Such lines as, "Oh, my life was a wide-open book to half the old ladies in Baltimore," just slay me! (I guess you need more context, but this is a list of un-blockers, not a book review.) (Watching movies again and again also falls into this category.)
2. Taking a walk. As I awoke this morning at 4:15 (not by choice, mind you) one of the options available to me was an early morning walk. I generally walk five minutes out, five minutes back, routed through the Seminary near my house. Walking on the quiet grounds, looking at the historic buildings, I get my bearings back. Today I wanted to spend some time at the Union Project cafe, so I did half the walk.
3. Spending time in a cafe. There's something about being somewhere that isn't home that gets those juices flowing. Today I merely read more of my Anne Tyler book, since I had spent a lot of my creative juices earlier doing another thing that unblocks me:
4. Writing. I wrote a rather long email to Erin, one of my e-pals.
5. A deadline. When I had to create Station #(whatever it was, Jesus speaks to the Women of Jerusalem) I knew about it months in advance. I thought about it months in advance. But then I went to Baaston and then I visited my dear friend Susan and I couldn't really work on my station in either of those places. So when I returned to da Burgh, I had about a week left. I set aside two evenings, and went to town. But not before:
6. A trip to the art store. Even if you only buy a few things, just wandering around an art supply store gives ones creative juices a run for their money. I found great paper scraps and there was pastel/chalk on sale (5 cents a piece) so I was on a roll. But I was hoping for something else, I wasn't sure what, so I drove over to Joanne Fabrics. Which is where I found the linchpin of my project, the rack I used to hang my greeting cards on (The Station I created was the "Gospel in Greeting Cards," using the passage found in Luke 23:27-31, which is a very hard teaching.) (It didn't photograph well, which is why I never posted photos.) If I had not gone to Joanne Fabrics, and the wooden rack had not been on clearance, ($5!) I might have come up with an entirely different product in the end.
7. Just do it. I set up to work on the two evenings I'd set aside, and worked with what I had, made mock-ups, made the actual cards, and Voila! (Um, but it took both evenings, so don't think that #7 is the easiest part. It's just the hardest to explain, how I got creatively from point A to point B.)

Creativity isn't as hard as it might seem. I always get angry at people who say "Oh I'm not creative." Um, who dressed you this morning? You created an outfit when you picked those earrings to go with that skirt and top. I could rant on this for hours. But I won't.

A few books I've found helpful as an artist:

Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. Full of writing exercises, you won't be able to read this book straight through without the itch to write!

Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art, by Madeleine L'Engle. This book is more how to think about art. But it has been very helpful to me, as I think about what I consider art, and how art can transcend cultural, religious, and whatever other boundaries we might want to constrain it with.

Both of these books were gifts from my friend Lorelei and her mother. Her mother passed on recently, but her legacy in the way I think about art and creativity live on.

I live in envy of many fabulous creative bloggers. My favorite one is Il Bloggo, written by Hanna, a Swedish journalism student. I am always in awe of the work she does.

A blogger's blessing: may the keyboard rise to meet you, may the words come out in a lucid stream, may the photos download quickly, and may the spell checker not replace "blogging" with "blocking." Buena suerte! (Which is Spanish for good luck.)