The Miracle Dog

 

5 years ago today, this miracle was born.

Let me start this off by saying what probably seems obvious: I don't have any children.  I am never going to have any children (by choice, not biology).  So, as is so often the case with people such as me, my dog is my baby.  When people bust out pictures of their kids, I bust out pictures of this guy.  When they go through unimaginable anxiety because their kids are sick, I go through that for this guy.  Buddy is my baby.  So if you can't understand that, you may want to skip this.  But if you do, then none of what I'm about to say will sound crazy and I invite you to read on.

As I was saying, 5 years ago today that awe-inspiringly adorable little man was born.  He was part of a litter of 4.  He was the second smallest.  And from the second I saw him, I was hooked.  That's all there is to it.

Since then, he has become the focus of most of my and my partner's thoughts, worries and affections.  He is integral to how we structure our day.  He is part of what we think about before we go to bed at night, part of what we are most grateful for in life, part of our family in the most fundamental way possible.  Like I said, my baby.

Its hard to put into words how incredibly grateful I am to have him in my life.  His pure, unfiltered joy infects me every time we play fetch (his favorite activity).  His soft little body physically heals mine every time we snuggle (probably his second favorite activity).  His simple mind inspires me to be mindful every time I see him smell, eat, run, bark, roll-around-in-whatever with wild abandon.  My life is better because he is in it.  Period.

And today, because it's his birthday, I just needed to say: I fucking love that little dog more fiercely than I've ever loved (or could ever love) a human.  And although I do honestly thank god everyday for him I am especially aware and grateful today.  Happy Birthday, Buddy!

The Myth, The Legend

So all of this has gotten me thinking: what does it really mean to us when an artist dies?  I've been seeing it all day- people saying they're sad or even devastated by his death.  And the cynical part of me thinks: But you didn't even know him!  And it's true. especially for someone like Bowie who was so smart in cultivating a public image that was very different from the real man that he kept private for the true loves he had in his life: there's a small, select group of people that are mourning the man today.

But what about the rest of us?  No, we didn't know him.  But does that mean we didn't love him?  And the resounding answer, of course, is no.  We did love him- not the man, but the legend.

All I've been hearing all day is deeply personal stories of how he's touched people's lives.  Song lyrics that gave voice to a small part of the soul better than the possessor of that soul could.  Experiences had at his concerts or while watching his performances that were instrumental shifts in the lives of the people who had them.  Other artists who were inspired by this beloved muse and used what he gave as a jumping board to launch their own crazy and wonderful expressions.

Because that's the nature of art- it touches us on a sub-conscious level.  It's visceral, it's deep; deeper than what we talk about or the stories we tell.  It becomes part of our infrastructure.  It helps us express the stuff that makes us us.

So yes, it does make sense to be sad.  We all have a right to that grief.  But here's what we have an even greater right to: joy.  The joy that comes from loving what an artist gives.  The wonder that comes from watching how that artist changes the world.  The awe it inspires when we realize how much of what we now enjoy was inspired by that artist.  Those are the emotions I'm feeling most today.

I'm not sad that he died- I'm grateful that he lived and that in that life he gave me (and all of us) some awesome, inspiring part of himself.  Because that part- the legend- that never dies.

The music doesn't stop being played and loved and it doesn't stop inspiring other musicians.  The pictures won't fade or vanish and they won't stop inspiring other fashion icons and designers.  The stories will carry on in all these circles.  The memories we have of those moments where we were truly touched and changed won't go away.

Yes, the man is dead.  But the legend?  Well that will never die, my friends.

And to David Bowie all I have to say is this: I will always love you.  Thanks.

Breath Work

In the breath there is peace.
The calm, quiet space between words.  The small pause before speaking.  The slight hesitation before action.
Regardless of the chaos that may abound just outside, in the breath there is peace.

In the breath there is stillness.
A small space in which to just be.  Without responsibility, without chores or tasks or to-do lists.  Without demands or deadlines.  Without the impatient persistence of all those who require you to do.
In the breath there is space to be in the stillness.

In the breath there is control.
No matter what, however haywire life can get or what stress causes the heart to pump and the body to freeze in fear- none of that can stop the breath.
Slow.  Deep.  Easy.
Just for a second- stop.
Breathe and be in control.

In the breath there is god.
The universal life that flows through every single living thing.
We are not separate.  We are not alone.  Only the mind's lies convince us of such.
We are part of the same energy that sustains all life.
The life found in the breath.

So when life feels as though it's swallowing you up-
When events seem to conspire to take what's yours away from you-
When it feels as though you have nothing left-
just close your eyes
and breathe...
and be...
in the breath.

Time to Forgive You

Sure, you gave me stories to tell.  Ways to relate to other victims.  First-hand understanding of what it means to be in an "abusive relationship"- a term I would never have used while we were together and one that others who loved and cared for me called it long before we ended.  But there was value in that: lessons learned and hard-earned battle scars.  A right of passage, maybe.

The actual story, I later learned, was nothing special.  The tools you employed to keep me in place were part of the rule book everyone seemed to know about.  The experiences I had with you, the intensity of the emotion, that time I later realized (with great horror) actually did fit the definition of rape- all of these were common tales told by others like me.  Nothing unique, nothing new.  But the time lost with friends and at my beloved learning place paled in comparison to the changes within myself.

That's the soul-wound.  That's the cut that didn't heal.  Long after you were permanently out of my life that wound continued to sting and those thoughts continued to control me.

Brain-washing seemed like too strong of a term.  But how else to describe such a thing?  Being trained to doubt my own thoughts, my own judgement.  Being told I was 'psycho-analyzing' anytime I tried to speak my mind.  Being laughed at for showing the parts of myself that weren't approved of, that didn't fit the role I learned to squeeze myself into.  Being shut down with the ever-dismissive "I don't need this."

It's training.  It's deep, intensive study in how to stifle yourself, how to diminish your own soul.  And it lasted years beyond the landscape of our time together.

Of course it made the road rough for future relationships- the trust issues and difficulty opening up and terrible communication patterns.  Being afraid to say anything when I was unhappy, being petrified of how my new lover would respond if I was honest.  Shutting down and sealing up rather than letting him know.  Shocking that the relationship would implode when I operated that way, and damned lucky I found a partner willing to be patient as I learned healthier ways of interacting.

But that wasn't the relationship that suffered most, that was just a casualty in the overall war.  The war was with me.  The relationship that suffered was with myself.

It's not that your voice was the one in my head keeping myself down- that voice had always been there.  But you taught me to listen to that voice.  You gave credit to those criticisms, agreed with those thoughts, validated that self-hatred.  You helped the annihilator grow.

And that is what I need to forgive.  Not the actions, not the events- but the voice that was so nourished, so supported by you.  And everything it prevented me from doing, everything it delayed me from becoming.

The things I would have been daring enough to try if I hadn't shut myself down before even starting.  The feelings of love I would have had for myself if I didn't keep myself silent and scared.  The others I would never have allowed to treat me as they did if not for the belief that they had the right, because I believed I wasn't worth more.  The person I would have become if that voice didn't keep me trapped in a small box I never fit in.

But I'm not in that box anymore.  I am becoming everything I was always meant to be.  I am living without fear, without criticism, without judgement of my own worth or doubt about my own soul.  I am the living, breathing, brilliant version of myself I was always meant to be.  And I got myself here because I finally stopped listening to that voice.

And it is because of that that I can finally forgive you.  Because of who I am that I can forgive who I was, who you trained me to be.  Because of my fearlessness that I'm finally ready to give up the story of the victim.  Because I have healed myself, that wound is now just a scar of wisdom.

So I will give you up.  Not just who I was because of you, but all the fear I've held onto all these years. Not just the nightmares and dreams of you coming back and ruining what I have created.  And not just the random fantasies that would sneak into my head about how I would react, what I would say if I saw you again; how violently I would reject you if you dared to enter my life now.  But the story of you, the story of me as victim.  It no longer serves me.

So tomorrow as I engage in yet another self-healing ritual, yet another dialogue with my own heart; I will evict you from it.  You, and the years of anger at myself for allowing myself to become what I was.  The years of self hatred I experienced for not getting myself out of it sooner, or not saying no from the very start.  The years of me as the victim of you, and as perpetrator of my own continued abuse.  I will let go of all it so I can make room for everything I have yet to become but now fully realize I am capable of.

So really, in the end, it's not about forgiving you.  It's about forgiving myself.  And I do.

Web Magic

Even now she can feel them- their eight limbs picking their way across the landscape of her body.  That sudden movement at the base of her scalp. It must be just a stray hair?  The itchiness on of the surface of her skin; her nails chasing the cause but always finding nothing. The sticky strand across the face- strong but impossibly soft.  Her eyes dart looking for the unmistakable shape but though always present they remain ever outside the periphery of her vision.  Is this madness?

She'd followed the ritual exactly: the words spoken from nervous lips in the midnight hour, the candle evoking the goddess of creativity, the herbs and incense piled atop as she bathed in the smoke of it.  She knew this was nothing to trifle with and she hadn't been trifling.  But what had she been inviting?

Her mind went back to the old woman in the shop with her layers and layers of ribbons and jewelry.  She'd said that every symbol had a meaning and helped attune a specific vibration.  She'd listed the spells that could help her and warned against diving in too deep.

But she was cocky, and only half believing.  Surely this must be a joke?  Something that crazy people do to make themselves feel better about not being in control of their own lives.  This woman with her incense and totems was a new age fishmonger selling trinkets and kitch to people too stupid to know better.

But Darcy, her free-wheeling and boundless friend had sworn this was the answer to her problem and desperate times do call for desperate measures.  So she'd swallowed her pride and bought the spell kit, hating herself for being so weak that she'd seek out something so hokey.  But she'd felt empowered as she left the tiny, cluttered shop.  No longer close minded.  No longer limited by a construct that maybe didn't quite fit.

"This is what you get" was the thought that came to her when she felt the thick weave binding her.  She startled out of bed with a panic and thrashed in the sheets.  Only a dream.

But then the itching started.  The scuttle of impossibly fast bodies.  The strands of silk roping across her.  The breath catching in her through as she sensed them.  But her eyes showed her nothing and her hands always reached for invisible culprits.  She was losing her mind.

But no- she will not roll over to whatever dark magic she stupidly opened herself up to.  Buyer beware isn't enough to make her sink into the murky shadows where this energy would undoubtedly consume her.  No- she will defend herself.

Her feet beat a rhythm into the pavement as she walked- each step pounding with the beat of her rage.  The street reverberates with the strong, low hum of her feet like a giant drum.  It's so loud- surely others must hear it?  Or is this another sign of her emerging madness?

She throws the door open and marches to the back of the store where the woman is instructing some other hapless dupe.
 

"What did you do to me?"  She hadn't intended to scream it.  But she felt fiery and wild.  The feelings were equal parts foreign and exciting and she invited the anger. 

"Excuse me?" the old woman asked, as if she'd whispered rather than thrown the accusation.

"I did the spell like you told me and now there are spiders all over me- I can feel them..." and even as she said it, she did.  There was even a heaviness in her voice now, as if somehow the web weavers were inside her throat.

"Spiders are the spirit of creativity and feminine energy- they will help you beat your writer's block.  Help you weave a yarn, so to speak." She said it as if she were terribly proud of the joke,  "This is what you wanted, yes?"

"No!" she screamed.  But it wasn't a scream, it was the same whisper she'd used when she recited the words that began this nightmare. 

"You're fighting it," the woman said, completely unfazed by the hysterical woman.  "You have to surrender to it.  Invite the darkness in, and then you will be able to access your true voice.  We cannot fear ourselves if we hope to be free."

She whimpered, feeling so bound in by the webs that she couldn't move now.  They were everywhere now- her hair, her clothing, her skin.  Their silk covered her eyes and she could no longer see.  Soon there would be nothing but a bound figure in a cocoon waiting to be devoured by thousands of tiny, hungry arachnids.

"You're getting heavy now," the old woman whispered.  "You're letting it happen.  But tell me- what happens when you wake up?"

Her eyes shot open and suddenly her vision flooded with familiar sight of her room.  Nothing had changed, all was as it had been before she went to sleep save that the light had changed.  She sat up, still searching for the arthropds.  But the dream was over.

Suddenly, her mind flooded with thoughts and ideas that could not be contained.  She reached for the notebook and pen the old woman had told her to keep by her bed and began scribbling furiously.  She felt almost giddy with the sudden rush of creativity.  The damn had been broken and her hand could barely keep up with the deluge of words.

Sleep Speak

When I was little my father used to speak Russian in his sleep.  My great grandmother never learned to speak English so he and his siblings had to learn Russian in order to communicate with her.  After she died, he had little need for the language and his grasp of it all but vanished... save for when he slept.

My brother and I would creep close to the bed like knights besides a slumbering giant- desperate to observe but petrified of waking him.  My father's chest would heave up and down as he snored and we'd hold our breath waiting for the words to come.  Knowing absolutely nothing of Russian we had no idea what we were hearing but it was magic all the same.

A secret language- one that even my father himself could not speak or understand- coming from his mouth in pieces and fragments.  Stories and memories and an entire history murmured through a slack mouth.  It was like watching one of the fairy tales coming true in front of our eyes.

I used to wait for the next piece- for some magical character he'd inadvertently summoned to appear, or for some spell to seize us in its power.  And even though all that would happen was my mother shuffling us out of the room to let my father sleep in peace my mind would still race with the possibilities.

I could use that kind of magic in my life.

Insecure Writer's Support Group: Bev is Back!

 

Big thanks to this month's awesome hosts  L.G. Keltner, Denise Covey, Sheri Larsen, J.Q. Rose, Chemist Ken, and Michelle Wallace!

 

A little while ago (read: New Year's) I set a goal for myself.  It's a rather lofty goal and while I've only been doing it for a few days I'm already thinking it's the right call.  In spite of all the unexpected interruptions that will undoubtedly make it challenging I'm thinking it's just the fire I needed to get cooking again.  Here's the goal: write everyday for a year.  366 days (because of course I had to do this thing on a leap year!), 366 posts on this blog.  That's it.

I didn't set any other limitations on it than that.  Obviously, I'm hoping this will inspire a lot of fiction.  That's the whole point of the exercise.  But 366 is a lot and I'm not expecting myself to be a writing machine.  So there's gonna be a lot of non-fiction, too.  Memoir-style entries, book reviews, blog hops (like this one), thoughts about this crazy, life-altering yoga journey I'm on and a whole lot of other random and not easily categorized things.   No rules, no limitations, just writing.

And I have to say, it's going pretty well so far.  I've been pulling ideas out of these writing exercise books by Brian Kiteley.  The 3am Epiphany and the 4am Breakthrough.  They're gold mines for weird, introspective, deep, silly, intellectual and insanely creative prompts and there's a lot of knowledge about the art form in the pages.  It's getting the creative juices flowing and getting my fingers typing and after such a long time without that this has been a big buoy to me.

But, credit where credit is due: I am the one writing.  And I'd like to think that maybe one of the most fundamental lessons about writing is finally starting to sink in: you gotta write crap.  Stupid, incomplete, unpolished, insane, unintelligible and just plain terrible crap.  Why?  Because that's the manure the good ideas grow in.  That's where you plant the seeds for the brilliant bursts of life that grow and blossom and bloom into amazing works of art.

I've been hearing this a lot: creativity is like giving birth.  It's painful and super messy but in the end you wind up with something awe-inspiringly beautiful that's going to grow in ways you can't yet imagine.

I've been told these things for years.  I've been encouraged to give myself the gift of wild and reckless writing since as far back as I can remember- my earliest writing workshops in high school.  But I never got it, I never understood how you could let your work out there when it turned out so differently than that perfect idea you had in your head.  So for most of my life my inner critic ruled the nest and I edited myself so severely I nearly lost my voice altogether.

But I'm done with that.  I'm saying it with confidence now- DONE.  No more quieting that crazy, creative voice.  No more editing to the point of having nothing left.  No more judging and criticizing and scrapping my messy never-goona-win-a-pulitzer stories.  I'm letting them out.  Out of my head, out into the world.  And it feels good.

Yes, there's still a part of me that says "oh this is terrible" every time I read through what I've written.  But there's a louder, stronger part of me now that says "GOOD!" and slams down the "Publish" button with fierce, unbridled excitement.  Yes, it probably is terrible.  But boy if something wonderful isn't gonna come out of it.

So that's where I am today.  Less insecure than I've ever been.  Happy about finally writing again.  Bursting with ideas and tappy-tappy-tapping away on my keyboard like a two year old with a toy piano.  And all because I'm finally doing what i've been told to do for years: just write.  That's all.

It's finally sinking in.

In The Dark

In the dark there is a warm body wrapped in tangled sheets and a down comforter leaking feathers.  It is the instantaneous comfort of your favorite person's embrace.  It is the light sound of their snore and the heat of their breath on your brow as you snuggle close to them.  It is the dark of pure sense, heavenly touch, euphoric feel.  But it cannot be planned, it cannot be scheduled.  It exists in the snooze of the alarm, the late morning delay, the weekend withdrawal.  It is the most desired dark place. 

In the dark there is possibility.  Fantasy, perhaps.  Paranoia.  Too many horror movies.  But there was a sound, no imaging that.  And there are no flashlights, no cell phones, no matches.  In the dark there is fumbling and whispering and desperately beating hearts as blind hands grasp and hesitate and desperately seek the light.  It is the dark that is vanquished so quickly it leaves one laughing in the easy reality afterwards.
   
In the dark there is the unknown.  The great glacier of Freud's vehicle.  The unspoken words, the fuzzy rememberings, the facts that prove inaccurate when pursued.  It is the thread you pull that unravels a broken story and leaves the mind fragmented and frightened as witness to it's own fragility.  It is the darkness of madness to those who wander too far in.

In the dark there is earth.  The moist, black soil.  The endlessly tangled roots.  The burrowing rodents.  The insects and invertebrates.  The stones and sand and minerals.  There are many stories about what else lurks in the darkness.  Some say the mother herself, incarnate as the wise crone.  Others say it is a pathway to other worlds, other realities.  Still others argue that it is just layers upon layers upon layers- endless in complexity and composition.  It is the dark of the ground.  Heavy, shifting, settling and getting ever darker.

In the dark there is evil.  Pure, unadulterated and unrelenting.  Some describe it as the devil or demons.  Some give the monsters other names, other origins.  But all are that which is not good.  That which is not godly.  That which is not pure.  It is the dark of nightmares- the ones that steal your breath before you can scream and crush your chest with an iron fist.  It is the dark of unspeakable facts and occurrences.  It is the dark of mankind's soul; and its stories are found in every culture, every language, among every peoples and tribes.

In the dark there is cold.  Biting, unforgiving and deadly if uninterrupted.  It is endless, it is harsh and it is the way it has always been.  It's why people light candles and drink hot brews in winter.  It's the stuff the stories used to frighten children are made of.  It contains nothing and all things, all at the same time.  But, some would argue, these are overly sentimental observations.  In the end it is just the dark.  And the dark has no use for sentiment.

The Casket Reveler

I know what you're thinking- some sicko, right?  Who the hell would want to sneak into a funeral?  Must be crazy, call the cops, and the like.  But here's the thing: funerals are self-contained explosions.  It's often smaller, quieter than you think such a destructive thing would be- but no one gets out alive.

One of the side effects of such a setting in that no one is really paying any attention to who is there, especially not the family of the deceased.  You get in the line, shake the hand and say a few sympathetic words and you're off.  The nose blowers don't even look you in the face, the awkward youth never ask any questions and the blank-faced shock victims give robotic responses.  No one remembers you, no one registers the intruder.

As for me and why I'm here- well... let's just say I got my reasons.  If you believe in such things, it's not up to you to decide whether they're good or bad- someone else is in charge of passing judgement.  Perhaps the reason it's never bothered me too much is because I don't believe in such things.  I've never seen any reason to, and nothing's ever come out of the woodwork to convince me otherwise.  So I come- viewing after viewing, suit after suit- and I sit.  And I watch.

It's not exactly entertainment.  I could be binge-watching Netflix like everyone else if I wanted that.  This is better.  It's an experience.  The gauntlet of human emotions out on display with no commercials, no censors, no screen.  The faces are only part of the play.

There's the tissue-talker muttering 'thanks you's and agreements to offered compliments through a wadded up paper.  Small, hunched and held up by tall, awkward boys on both sides.  They stand like pillars, doing their damndest not to move as the plump, round yet desperately fragile woman between them snivels and snorts at all the greeters.  She smells like grapefruit as I pass and I can't help but think of the nursing home they stuck my uncle in before he went.

There's the statue standing there like a sentry at the end of the line.  His hands clasped to each other so tightly his knuckles are white, his arms pressed so firmly in front of him he looks as if he might tip over if you knocked into him.  And his gaze is locked straight ahead like he's trying to stare through the wall.  It all gives the illusion of immobility and permanence.  Like he's part of the scenery- cold, hard and inanimate.  That is, until someone proffers a hand.  Then he springs into action like a jack-in-the-box: grasping and shaking and smiling with a great act of real emotion.  But you follow long enough and see the same dead expression wash over as soon as the person passes.  Action, reaction.  Like a reflex.  No thought, just meaningless motion.

My favorite is always the drunk.  There's always at least one, no matter what the crowd.  There's a few different flavors of them, of course.  But they always monopolize the action.  The infamous loud, belligerent tornado who lobs accusations like a fountain- hitting anything near without aim or purpose.  Or the quiet hiccuper whose glossy eyes can never quite focus and who needs to be pushed upright every so often lest they splay themselves across a neighbor's lap.  Or the sobber- the ones crying with such abandon that only alcohol could explain the ceaseless noise.  They're louder and scarier than the regular sobbers.  And redder.

I don't know why they're my favorite, exactly.  Maybe it's the way they demand everybody's attention while everyone around them pretends not to notice.  Or maybe it's the way they put it all out there.  While the mourners are acting and strutting around like show dogs before a panel of judges they spit and growl and bark with no regard for the audience.  It seems more genuine somehow, more authentic.  In a conference of actors they're the only real participants.

You can think whatever you want of me for liking it so much.  You can judge and scorn and chastise in your own indignant fashion.  Won't bother me.  Because while you're doing all that I'll be watching you, forming my own judgements, my own labels, my own studious observations of character.  It's all part of the experience. 

And why not enjoy the experience?  The one in the casket can't.  So you might as well revel for them.

Graphic Novel Review: The Sandman Volume 6- Fables and Reflections

This is the 6th book in the life-changing series written by Neil Gaiman and illustrated by some of the most brilliant artists on the planet.  If you're unfamiliar with the series but even remotely into... well, pretty much anything creative then you owe it yourself to check it out.  Start at the beginning, knowing that it warms up pretty quick, and let your imagination revel in this alternate reality that Gaiman has crafted.

By now, this series has firmly inserted itself into my psyche and with this volume Gaiman succeeds in sneaking it into memories where it previously wasn't.  The more I read, the more indistinguishable these characters and stories become from what I understand of history (which is the point, of course).  This dream king has now made his way into the old Greek Myths, added a taboo factoid to Roman history, inspired the endlessly popular Emperor of the United States (who I know from Christopher Moore's works even though he's found just about everywhere), jump-started Mark Twain's career, slightly altered the French Revolution, inserted a chapter into Slavic folklore, created a catalyst in Marco Polo's career, added to the pantheon of biblical characters and forever immortalized the golden age of Baghdad.   And all in one volume.

Each of the stories is steeped in the setting they invade with appropriate alterations not only in artwork but also language, theme, and character.  It's not just that Gaiman is a chameleon; he's the king of chameleons.  And all of it maintains the same dream-like quality he's weaved so subtly into the stories since volume 1.  It's very easy to drift off while reading a chapter, lose touch with reality.  Even while siting in a quiet, well-lit room on a weekday with all of its tasks and chores it's easy to look up at the end of a chapter and wonder if you've been dreaming.  It all has that same not-quite-real feel to it and it seriously screws with your senses.  (Which, again, is totally the point.)

The further I get into this series the more I wonder how I ever lived with out it.  It's so ingrained in my imagination now I consider it a part of me.  It's changing the way I imagine, allowing me to believe that all these stories were always in there, I just forgot them.  Just like a dream: you realize you've seen it, heard it, felt it before.  But you forgot, because you woke up.

Echoes in the Cavern

Even after the screams stopped.  After the cries and calls faded.  After the fall... their voices still echoed in the cavern.  In the small crevices, the hidden nooks, the forgotten places.  She could hear them as soon as she entered.

One exhale in the stillness, and then a promise.  She would find them all.  She would tell their stories.  She would seek them out of the dark places and bring them all- every one of them- into the light.

"And so it begins," she said to herself.  And then, to the great expanse in front: "I'm here.  I'm listening."

She exhaled- a single movement of air in the dense interior.  And then, with no more than a lean of her body, she took her first step forward.

2016: The Year of Writing Dangerously

(My vision board for 2016.  Note the left side, in purple.)

So, of course I have a lot of goals for 2016.  Meditate- every single day.  Read more.  (A lot more!)  Eat healthier.  Run more.  Stop wasting so much damned time on my phone.  Finish my 200 hour yoga certification.  Paint.  Spend more time in nature.  Teach a regular and ongoing yoga meet-up.  Get on the phone or skype with my awesome friends more.  Clean and organize.  I'm sure there are others...

The old me would have felt anxious with the number and scope of these goals.  I would've set challenges to try to get myself to do them.  That drill sergeant voice would've kicked in telling me to "GET IT DONE!".   The annihilator would've followed up with all the reasons why I couldn't.  (It's a viscous cycle.)

But I'm doing things different nowadays.  I'm approaching things with a gentler, kinder attitude towards myself.  What I was saying yesterday- it's not about the finished product, it's about getting super messy while making it.  I want to approach this goal with the reckless, joyful abandon of a two year old.  I want to soak it in.  I want to breathe.

So as strict as this goal may seem, it's not.  I'm not approaching it that way. I'm approaching it the same way I do my meditation practice- it's not about scrambling to make the time to sit and breathe for ten minutes.  It's about giving myself the gift of space in which to exist for ten minutes.  It's a break in the chaos of the morning rush.  It's a quiet moment that is just for me (and God, the universe and everything).  I want this to be the same.

I've won NaNoWriMo five times.  For five November's I've barreled past the 50K word mark.  And I did it by following the rules: being creative without judgement.  Not editing.  Writing like I was being chased by a shark and the words were the power to my lifeboat.  Swinging from idea to idea like a crazy, squealing, poo-flinging monkey.  Those are the rules of NaNo.

And they're the rules of The Night of Writing Dangerously- their annual event where they pack a bunch of writers into a ballroom in San Francisco and feed them coffee and candy to get them to write as much as they possibly can in a night to raise money for a NaNo charity.  (I've never been but if I lived anywhere near San Francisco you can bet I would have.)  Needless to say, in that kind of environment, a lot of a amazing stuff takes place.

So I want to approach this year with that same attitude: holding the space for that wild abandon to take place in.  (Thus, the title.)  Giving myself the gift of time to write.   Going at it with unbridled, enthusiastic passion AND the quiet wisdom of a yogini.  Combining all I've been with all I am becoming.

One year of daily writing.  For me.  And of course, I have to believe the rest of the world will somehow benefit from me finally figuring out how to tap into this wellspring of writing desire I've always had.

The rules I'm setting for myself are simple: write everyday.  Try to make at least one entry a week be fiction.  Don't edit (save for typos).  Be crazy, be daring, be dangerous.  But above all, have fun.  Don't hate it.  That's the real goal.  Writing while not hating writing.

I assume there'll be A LOT of non-fiction.  Me talking about yoga, about life, about whatever insight I feel like writing down that day.  I'd be lying if I said that's why I'm doing this but I'm not being so strict as to say that some pretty amazing stuff couldn't come out of that, either.  Hopefully there'll be some poetry.  I really like poetry and I'd love to write it without immediately judging and scrapping it.  And hopefully I'll finally get those stories- the ones that have been nibbling at the corners of my consciousness but I've never taken time to write because of my firm belief that they couldn't possibly come out the way I want them to.  That's what I really want to tap into.

Of course, I hope you'll all join me on this journey (otherwise, why would I be posting it online?)  But really, it's about me.  So even if no one ever reads this stuff- if it never goes anywhere, I never try to publish, not a single thing other than me having written comes out it- that'll be more than good enough for me.  It's practice, afterall.  It's the journey, not the destination.  It's the space in which to write... dangerously.  ^_^

Reflections and Predictions

As I was meditating this morning (a practice that, after years of saying "I should do that" I've finally gotten myself to start doing consistently) I was thinking about this blog post.  What I wanted to say, how I wanted to say it, how the hell to sum up such an astoundingly life-changing year for me.  I realized I couldn't possibly.  But then something else occurred to me: I don't have to.

Because it's not about ending.  Not really.  It's about the path itself.  It's about being in the thick of it and reveling in every step along the way.  One of those many things I've heard and even touted for years that is now finally truly taking hold in my understanding: it's not the destination but the journey that matters.  I am on the journey.  And it's amazing.

It's not that I've found God (though of course, that awe-inspiring realization is utterly soul-shaking in and of itself)- it's that I've finally developed a sustainable relationship with God.  It's not that I've found myself, even- it's that I've finally figured out how to honestly love myself.  It's everything; all things.  And it's going to go on for the rest of my life.

If I'm not making sense to you I apologize.  Actually, I don't.  I'm done apologizing.  I've been apologizing my whole damned life.  And, while we're on it, I've been criticizing myself my whole damned life.  I've been cynical and judgmental and dismissive my whole damned life.  And I'm done with it.  I'm done setting up barriers to keep everything out.  It's time to let it all in.

Not just God.  Not just love.  Not just understanding and passion and connection- but the whole wide universe.  All of it.  I'm letting it all in.  And I'm giving it a good, honest look- without judgement, without criticism, and certainly without dismissal.  I'm soaking it in, for real.

Needless to say, I'm a completely different person.  It's not that I'm unrecognizable- everything that's happened has led me here, after all.  But I am incredibly different.  And people have seen it.

My best friend who, despite being my cheerleader through so many of my greatest accomplishments has had to deal with quite a lot of negativity through the years, telling me how much better she likes me now that we're on the same wavelength about so many more things.  (Thank you, Kelly!)  My work wife who not only held the door open for me but fielded questions and freak-outs and endless "holy shit!' revelations along the way.  (Thank you, Jen!)  My friend who I haven't seen in a loooooong time but instantly remarked upon seeing me how much my energy has changed.  (Thank you, Jemma!)  All my yoga classmates who week after week have cheered and roared with excitement as I came out with things they've never heard me say before and express sentiments that only a short time ago would have been ridiculous to me.  (Thank you Olivia, Suzanne, Tracey, Gisette, Ericka, Jen, and Lauren!)  My yoga teacher who week after week has coaxed out and welcomed the new wilder, crazier, truer version of myself into the world.  (Thank you, Danielle!)  All the other amazing folks who listen and watch and reassure me that I am on exactly the right path.  (Thank you Susan, Phyllis, Nessa, John, and Mom!)  Countless others...

It has been a life changing year.  And I anticipate the coming year to be even more so.  Not in the large milestones way, though of course there will be some of those.  But in the small, daily instances of awareness: here.  Now.  Aware.  And grateful.    Welcome, 2016.  I am ready.

Book Review: Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen

 *As always, WARNING: THIS REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS.
I'm not sure what it is about the mystique of circuses.  Maybe it's one of those things that is so deeply engraved in the landscape of our popular culture that we can't separate the stories and images from memory.  Whatever the cause, this book was familiar to me.  The setting, the characters, the scenes- all held some nostalgia even in the midst of some really horrifying events.  Too many movies set in the great depression, maybe.  Too many cultural references.

It's strange, of course, to have nostalgia for a time you've only studied in American history, for images you've only seen in movies.  But perhaps that's why I'm nostalgic- if I'd encountered any of these things in real life they probably would have been horrifying (not to mention that I'd be old enough not to remember having encountered any of it, anyway).  Rough men living day by day in harsh times, drunks slobbering and leering over scantily clad women, disabled and malformed people being stared at by frightened children, animals being beaten and tortured in horrific conditions.  None of these are happy things.  And yet there's that strange nostalgia- I have seen these things before.

The reason why is because Gruen does such a fantastic job of describing it.  The front cover includes a quote describing the book as "sensual" but that fails to cover it.  It's visceral.  The sounds, smells and physical sensations are described so exactly you feel it in your gut.  This book does a better job of that than anything I've read in a long time.

Which isn't to say that the characters aren't memorable on their own- because they certainly are.  But they're made far more real and alive because of the ways in which they react to this environment they're in.  Hell, we spend so much time inside Jacob's own body we damned near feel like we are him.  And that's a pretty impressive feat.

The plot was, in some ways, the most disappointing element of the whole story.  I'm not sure why, exactly, but boy meets girl just doesn't do it for me anymore.  Part of me wanted Marlena to end up being a bitch so Jacob could run off with Walter and the two of them could get into shenanigans of their own.  But alas, that's not what makes the big bucks and subsequently not where this book ended up.  But at least Rosie got her well deserved revenge in the end- one that I did not at all see coming from the prologue.  And in the very end, I suppose an old man running off to join the circus isn't a bad note, either.

Overall, very worth the read.  And I'm intrigued enough to see what else Sara Gruen has got up her sleeve.

Random Stream of Consciousness Entry (And Gratitude)

Today is Friday which for some us (the more organized variety) means Celebrating the Small Things.  I originally thought I would do the same but realized that this isn't really that kind of entry- that's just not where my head is.  This is a stream of consciousness kind-of entry.  A no holds-barred, explosion of neuroses, here's all the crazy stuff in my head at the moment kind-of entry.  And needless to say it's more for me than it is for anyone else (so no harm done if you feel like skipping it)- I just need to write.

I'm thinking a million things all at once, feeling a million impulses all at once, being pulled in a million different directions.  I want to write- novels, poems, epic tales of heroes winning their own private battles with themselves.  I want to sign up for NaNoWriMo next month and knock a beautiful, fully expressed story out of the park (as if it ever works out that way).  I want to finally write up at least twenty stories I've had in my head or in various stages of being written down but still desperately needing editing and post them all here.  I want to join a writing group and publish an anthology.  I want to submerse myself in the madness of creativity and surrender to everything that comes.

I want to finally get caught up at the damned office.  File all those papers, write up all those notes, finish the endless deluge of paperwork from every admission and discharge and supervision note.  I want to shut off my phone and my e-mail and just get it all done.  And I want to catch up on my freaking mandated marketing- phone calls and e-mails and invitations to link up at future networking events.  I want to get on management's ass about my training and getting it scheduled so I can prove how useful I am.  I want to return every phone call, every e-mail, every missed "oh I was supposed to.." there is.  And I want no time at all to pass during this magical process so I have time to do what I really want to do.

I want to breathe in the ecstasy of fall.  To forget about phones and television and traffic and simply exist.  In a deep forest where the sunlight barely penetrates the trees, in a thick pine grove where the scent is intoxicating, in a field where the wind whips through your hair and across the surface of your skin, in a pumpkin patch where the smell of dirt and growth and harvest is all you can think about.  I want to forget about reality and connect with the earth so I too can be pulled along in this amazing transition.

I want my soul to run free.  To burst forth from my body and touch every single living being on the planet.  True connection, organic ties, transcendence.  I want to leave behind thought and tasks and to-do lists and become one with the ether- the stuff that we cannot see or measure or understand using logical thought but which still exists everywhere, for infinity.  I want to forget every single little thing that keeps me a neurotic mess and just be light and free and whole.

I want to sleep.  I want to read.  I want to run.  I want to paint.  I want to pay all my bills and balance all my duties and still have time left over for crazy, unbridled creativity.  And everyday, in small and large ways, I feel like I'm failing.  I get small moments- this morning's yoga class where I forgot about everything for one second and just breathed.  That instance where you realize that you knocked a whole lot of things off your to-do list within a relatively small period of time because you got lost in the frenzy of work.  The quiet pauses where you're so immersed in something you forget about everything else that isn't that.  I do have those.  But not often enough, not long enough, not sustainable enough to calm this unquenchable thirst I have.  I'm scratching the surface when I want to drown.

I know that these feelings aren't necessarily unusual- but the work I'm doing in my yoga training is making everything boil over.  I'm like a volcano that has lain dormant for centuries finally erupting and I don't know when it's all going to cool down.  I know that this is part of the process, and I do trust the process.  But damned if I don't feel like I'm on the verge of completely losing my marbles.  It's wonderful and infuriating all at the same time.  And, as is so often the case, it's exactly where I'm supposed to be.

And that's what I'm grateful for today.

For More Organized thoughts check out the Celebrate The Small Things Linky:

1.	Lexa Cain	2.	Fiction and Film
3.	Writing Off the Edge	4.	Kidbits
5.	TheCyborgMom	6.	Thoughts and Ideas from Deanie Humphrys-Dunne
7.	My Inner Geek	8.	Eclectic Alli
9.	Intentional Insights with S. Kelley Harrell	10.	Constantine
11.	My Miracle Life	12.	Writing, Reading, and the Pursuit of Dreams
13.	My Creatively Random Life	14.	Shells Tales and Sails
15.	Lara Lacombe	16.	TF Walsh
17.	Caring for my Veteran	18.	Life, Yoga and Other Adventures
19.	About myself, by myself	20.	Suzanne Furness
21.	Elizabeth Seckman	22.	Avalon
23.	Cherdo on the Flipside	24.	Writing By Marilyn
25.	My Baffling Brain	26.	Planet Kimberly
27.	Shah Wharton	28.	Mere Joyce
29.	Victorian Scribbles	30.	Dandilyonfluff
31.	Tanya Miranda	32.	God, Entertainment, & Annoying Things
33.	Ann - A Friend of Jesus 2013	34.	Special Teaching At Pempi's Palace
35.	Square Pegs	36.	The Beveled Edge
37.	Patricia's Place	38.	Desiree Yearning
39.	Yvonne Van Dalen	40.	Anne Higa
41.	My Antimatter Life	42.	Into the Imagination Vortex
43.	Peace, Love & Books	44.	Bouquet of Books
45.	Entertaining Interests	46.	Lightravellerkate