I've been busy, too busy to blog, which is beautifully ironic since I've been busy writing. And it's just as it always is, a paradox, a labor of love and sweat, both fun and painful, fulfilling and yet never enough.
A couple of weeks ago, I published this article in the Bohemian, which also happened to be the very last issue with the fiesty Gretchen Giles as editor:
www.bohemian.com/bohemian/10.20.10/news-1042.html
I had a great time crunching that deadline, re-reading paragraphs until I had them memorized, editing as tightly as I possibly could. On the opposite extreme, I had an absolute blast letting my uncensored voice romp the pages of my journal in a Day of the Dead-inspired workshop last weekend. Nestled in the back of an herb shop, with fresh-baked empanadas and pumpkin cookies for fuel, five of us found words for our uncoiling honesty. We laughed a ton and teared a little. I channeled something potent. I turned one ten minute writing exercise into a short story. All thanks to the fabulous Petals and Bones, which you should check out:
www.petalsandbones.com
On Thursday I completed another Petals and Bones workshop, this one a four week series in which I got to workshop a few essays that are striving for completion. I came away inspired, ready to try writing fiction, ready to enter some contests, and unable to stop working on my Jesus essay. That's all I've been doing since I got out of bed this morning.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
All She Wants To Do
I've been dancing my whole life.
When I was an awkward 9 year-old, my dancing took the form of dramatic ballerina-like twirls around my pink-carpeted bedroom. I'd call my mom to watch from the doorway. I re-played Dirty Dancing and Girls Just Want to Have Fun like they contained the secrets of the universe, marveling at my heroes of movement, Patrick Swayze and Sarah Jessica Parker.
By junior high I had a tight circle of friends, bound together by our common interests of junk food, Saved by the Bell, and endless silliness. We danced on trampolines, beds, porches, basketball courts, basically anywhere we could find footing and an audience. Sometimes we video-taped our moves. Were we any good at it? Who cares?
In college I found another tight group of friends, this time bound by our love of Mr. Hanky, dining hall veggie burgers, and snowy goofiness. In the scores of sticky-floored venues across Burlington, we swirled in smoky bliss, relishing show after show: Rat Dog, Leftover Salmon, Israel Vibrations, Dark Star Orchestra, Pork Tornado, and of course, Ani Difranco all spring to mind. I'll never forget the feeling of stepping into the fresh night air, my body's internal heat a shield against the freezing dagger of Vermont wind.
Today my dance posse consists mainly of familiar yet name-less faces. On Sundays at noon, 30 or 40 of us pack into a mirrored studio and writhe, wiggle, gyrate, shake ourselves exhausted. We are bound by the common goal of burning calories, something I never ever thought about in all of my previous dance modes. But it's much more than that. Emboldened by our anonymity, we are fearless, a sisterhood (with the random male thrown in) of acceptance. Any faithful follower of Zumba will tell you that it's really about having a blast. I would laugh way more if I weren't struggling for breath.
***
For all of you who love cutting up the dance floor, go to You-tube and search for "Dancing at the Movies." Four minutes of fun. (I spent way too much time today trying unsuccessfully to post that video here. Sorry.)
When I was an awkward 9 year-old, my dancing took the form of dramatic ballerina-like twirls around my pink-carpeted bedroom. I'd call my mom to watch from the doorway. I re-played Dirty Dancing and Girls Just Want to Have Fun like they contained the secrets of the universe, marveling at my heroes of movement, Patrick Swayze and Sarah Jessica Parker.
By junior high I had a tight circle of friends, bound together by our common interests of junk food, Saved by the Bell, and endless silliness. We danced on trampolines, beds, porches, basketball courts, basically anywhere we could find footing and an audience. Sometimes we video-taped our moves. Were we any good at it? Who cares?
In college I found another tight group of friends, this time bound by our love of Mr. Hanky, dining hall veggie burgers, and snowy goofiness. In the scores of sticky-floored venues across Burlington, we swirled in smoky bliss, relishing show after show: Rat Dog, Leftover Salmon, Israel Vibrations, Dark Star Orchestra, Pork Tornado, and of course, Ani Difranco all spring to mind. I'll never forget the feeling of stepping into the fresh night air, my body's internal heat a shield against the freezing dagger of Vermont wind.
Today my dance posse consists mainly of familiar yet name-less faces. On Sundays at noon, 30 or 40 of us pack into a mirrored studio and writhe, wiggle, gyrate, shake ourselves exhausted. We are bound by the common goal of burning calories, something I never ever thought about in all of my previous dance modes. But it's much more than that. Emboldened by our anonymity, we are fearless, a sisterhood (with the random male thrown in) of acceptance. Any faithful follower of Zumba will tell you that it's really about having a blast. I would laugh way more if I weren't struggling for breath.
***
For all of you who love cutting up the dance floor, go to You-tube and search for "Dancing at the Movies." Four minutes of fun. (I spent way too much time today trying unsuccessfully to post that video here. Sorry.)
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
happy
dear blog:
on this, our one year anniversary, i'd like to thank you for the essential role you play in my life, that of providing me the incentive and opportunity to complete a piece of writing roughly once a week for people to read if they so choose.
may this next year take us even higher!
on this, our one year anniversary, i'd like to thank you for the essential role you play in my life, that of providing me the incentive and opportunity to complete a piece of writing roughly once a week for people to read if they so choose.
may this next year take us even higher!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The Art of Work, Play, Nothing
My days have been passing like this:
week days, particularly Tuesday through Thursday, are grueling hard work. Early morning class at SSU, exceptionally fun, but I keep running out of time for what I've planned. I find myself rushing with five minutes of class left, the clock pulling their worried eyes, and me hurriedly collecting and dispensing papers. Not how I want to end our stimulating discussions and creative play. Not how I want to end anything, really.
At Nonesuch in the afternoons I watch my high school students get wide-eyed about the symbolism in Lord of the Flies and the risque dialogue of Angels in America. I teach them the steps of good persuasive writing and get so passionately attached it's hard not to write their essays for them. I come home exhausted, with papers to grade and more lessons to plan. By Thursday afternoon I feel like I could sleep until Sunday.
But then the weekend descends---magical and wide open. I work on my upcoming article for the Bohemian, pull my confidence out of the gutter and give it a good hose-down. I wash the week's pile of dishes and take a long walk around the Santa Rosa cemetery, breathing peacefulness and repose.
Saturdays are for adventure! Yesterday we headed to San Francisco for twelve hours of non-stop fun. We hiked at Land's End, where the cliffs are eroding into the Pacific and a few brave sailboats leave the enclave of the bay. I love watching the tankers roll in and the birds dive for fish. We walked ourselves famished, then headed to the land of the self-serve salad bar and thrift store wardrobes, the Mission.
And it just so happened to be the night of the Lit Crawl, where all the bars and cafes and bookstores are tuned into the hushed wisdom of the spoken word. We watched M's long-time friend Michele perform eight different characters in a puppet show retelling of classic fairy tales (using her own hand-crafted props). I bought a book called The Art of Swimming (first published in 1874) and Halloween masks. And I braved the overheated cafe to hear five poets proclaim their lyrical offerings, each one different, each one prompting me to think, I could do that, I could do that.
But Sunday should be for doing nothing. Nothing is the only thing I haven't done in weeks.
week days, particularly Tuesday through Thursday, are grueling hard work. Early morning class at SSU, exceptionally fun, but I keep running out of time for what I've planned. I find myself rushing with five minutes of class left, the clock pulling their worried eyes, and me hurriedly collecting and dispensing papers. Not how I want to end our stimulating discussions and creative play. Not how I want to end anything, really.
At Nonesuch in the afternoons I watch my high school students get wide-eyed about the symbolism in Lord of the Flies and the risque dialogue of Angels in America. I teach them the steps of good persuasive writing and get so passionately attached it's hard not to write their essays for them. I come home exhausted, with papers to grade and more lessons to plan. By Thursday afternoon I feel like I could sleep until Sunday.
But then the weekend descends---magical and wide open. I work on my upcoming article for the Bohemian, pull my confidence out of the gutter and give it a good hose-down. I wash the week's pile of dishes and take a long walk around the Santa Rosa cemetery, breathing peacefulness and repose.
Saturdays are for adventure! Yesterday we headed to San Francisco for twelve hours of non-stop fun. We hiked at Land's End, where the cliffs are eroding into the Pacific and a few brave sailboats leave the enclave of the bay. I love watching the tankers roll in and the birds dive for fish. We walked ourselves famished, then headed to the land of the self-serve salad bar and thrift store wardrobes, the Mission.
And it just so happened to be the night of the Lit Crawl, where all the bars and cafes and bookstores are tuned into the hushed wisdom of the spoken word. We watched M's long-time friend Michele perform eight different characters in a puppet show retelling of classic fairy tales (using her own hand-crafted props). I bought a book called The Art of Swimming (first published in 1874) and Halloween masks. And I braved the overheated cafe to hear five poets proclaim their lyrical offerings, each one different, each one prompting me to think, I could do that, I could do that.
But Sunday should be for doing nothing. Nothing is the only thing I haven't done in weeks.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Love Chose Us
A glance around our lazy Sunday home reveals the wedding revelry of last weekend.
Dried cupcake icing smeared into the living room floor, piles of ribbons and wishes, leftover Brie and apples we can't eat fast enough, mason jars of ever-dwindling (but shockingly still vibrant) flowers, hand-drawn gifts competing for bookshelf space, a quiet cloudy melancholy creeping around the baseboards. Fall is here.
But a week ago our wedding went down in a hot blast of merriment, tears, laughter, cake-fueled dancing, and mending in the bridal chamber. Nearly eleven hours of straight party, starting with my weepy walk down the aisle of our front yard to the flowered porch altar.
The pre-wedding week spun on coffee, adrenaline, out-of-towner verve, and sheer elation. We stocked up on champagne and lists and tried to sleep. Friends sat on our living room floor making center-piece bouquets and door signs, mint-mashing in the kitchen and song-gathering in the cyber sphere. Mom brought over a present for each of the three days she was here before the wedding. My sisters, all four of them, swarmed me with hugs when I walked into the restaurant Friday evening, a giant inter-family gourmet Chinese meal to get everyone acquainted before the big day.
Later, in the dark chill of night, M and I sat on our porch couch and talked about our fears for the future. The next morning we took turns typing up our finalized vows. Sitting in front of the computer screen, I cried and cried and wondered how I would read them again, in front of sixty people, four hours later.
I had seven of my closest females helping me get ready, which consisted mainly of lacing up the back of my mother's 1972 union-made dress (altered a bit to fit me just right) and fastening some white flowers into my air-dried hair. One sister had a spot of powder, another one some lip gloss. I intended on clear nail polish and gold unicorn earrings, but they slipped my anxious mind. At the last minute, I decided to forgo sandals.
The ceremony was perfect. Our kindred friend married us, our vows surprised each other, and when it was all over we trounced hand in hand down the sidewalk to Karen Carpenter singing “I'm on the top of the world...”
The whole day wore a smile.
We chose the perfect date, right smack in the middle of summer's final victory lap. The day after the wedding was light and fluffy: cupcake for breakfast, mimosa for lunch, and serenity for dinner. We frolicked with dear ones in the surf at the warm tangy beach. Drove familiar vacation streets and showed everyone why we love where we live.
And then the post-wedding week spat me out on the petal-crushed lawn. Back to school on Tuesday morning, 8 o'clock. Mom, Dad, friends, sisters, gone. A dirty kitchen and a routine again. Nothing to plan anymore. Scrutinizing photos, finding ways to eat salmon at every meal, slowly paying off a steep sleep debt. So much sugar (we just couldn't let that exquisite butter-cream passion-fruit cake go to waste) that I felt crashed up on the shores of post-nuptial aimless burnout. Wishing I could just go back and play the day over and over again. Since I can't, though, is why it's magical.
Yesterday we celebrated our one-week anniversary by driving south with a picnic and a dim plan. We struck Bolinas fog and hiked on a new Marin trail. We uncovered handfuls of treasure at a church sale on Highway 1 and landed in full-blown afternoon Petaluma sunshine just in time to get warmed up again. New restaurants remind us that the exploration of the familiar is never-ending, as long as we are willing to do the footwork.
Memories keep distracting me. I've got an intimidating stack of English 101 essays to grade, a play to read, cards inadequate to express my thanks to write, a dress with a dirty train begging to be put back on (still hanging in the living room), and a cozy music-filled house missing all its visitors. But no matter.
I also have a husband.
Dried cupcake icing smeared into the living room floor, piles of ribbons and wishes, leftover Brie and apples we can't eat fast enough, mason jars of ever-dwindling (but shockingly still vibrant) flowers, hand-drawn gifts competing for bookshelf space, a quiet cloudy melancholy creeping around the baseboards. Fall is here.
But a week ago our wedding went down in a hot blast of merriment, tears, laughter, cake-fueled dancing, and mending in the bridal chamber. Nearly eleven hours of straight party, starting with my weepy walk down the aisle of our front yard to the flowered porch altar.
The pre-wedding week spun on coffee, adrenaline, out-of-towner verve, and sheer elation. We stocked up on champagne and lists and tried to sleep. Friends sat on our living room floor making center-piece bouquets and door signs, mint-mashing in the kitchen and song-gathering in the cyber sphere. Mom brought over a present for each of the three days she was here before the wedding. My sisters, all four of them, swarmed me with hugs when I walked into the restaurant Friday evening, a giant inter-family gourmet Chinese meal to get everyone acquainted before the big day.
Later, in the dark chill of night, M and I sat on our porch couch and talked about our fears for the future. The next morning we took turns typing up our finalized vows. Sitting in front of the computer screen, I cried and cried and wondered how I would read them again, in front of sixty people, four hours later.
I had seven of my closest females helping me get ready, which consisted mainly of lacing up the back of my mother's 1972 union-made dress (altered a bit to fit me just right) and fastening some white flowers into my air-dried hair. One sister had a spot of powder, another one some lip gloss. I intended on clear nail polish and gold unicorn earrings, but they slipped my anxious mind. At the last minute, I decided to forgo sandals.
The ceremony was perfect. Our kindred friend married us, our vows surprised each other, and when it was all over we trounced hand in hand down the sidewalk to Karen Carpenter singing “I'm on the top of the world...”
The whole day wore a smile.
We chose the perfect date, right smack in the middle of summer's final victory lap. The day after the wedding was light and fluffy: cupcake for breakfast, mimosa for lunch, and serenity for dinner. We frolicked with dear ones in the surf at the warm tangy beach. Drove familiar vacation streets and showed everyone why we love where we live.
And then the post-wedding week spat me out on the petal-crushed lawn. Back to school on Tuesday morning, 8 o'clock. Mom, Dad, friends, sisters, gone. A dirty kitchen and a routine again. Nothing to plan anymore. Scrutinizing photos, finding ways to eat salmon at every meal, slowly paying off a steep sleep debt. So much sugar (we just couldn't let that exquisite butter-cream passion-fruit cake go to waste) that I felt crashed up on the shores of post-nuptial aimless burnout. Wishing I could just go back and play the day over and over again. Since I can't, though, is why it's magical.
Yesterday we celebrated our one-week anniversary by driving south with a picnic and a dim plan. We struck Bolinas fog and hiked on a new Marin trail. We uncovered handfuls of treasure at a church sale on Highway 1 and landed in full-blown afternoon Petaluma sunshine just in time to get warmed up again. New restaurants remind us that the exploration of the familiar is never-ending, as long as we are willing to do the footwork.
Memories keep distracting me. I've got an intimidating stack of English 101 essays to grade, a play to read, cards inadequate to express my thanks to write, a dress with a dirty train begging to be put back on (still hanging in the living room), and a cozy music-filled house missing all its visitors. But no matter.
I also have a husband.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Dr Baker
Last week I went to the dentist for the first time in nearly a decade.
I was terrified.
But Dr. Baker is no ordinary dentist. He spent an hour and a half talking to me about my teeth, my gums, the irreversible damage of my zealous over-brushing, and why using a toothpick is number one on his list of good hygiene. He complimented my professionally-straightened smile and sniffed the white fuzz, aka plaque, coming off my teeth. 'Wow! Not even a scent! You've got the best-smelling bacteria I've ever encountered!' His laugh is reminiscent of an animal's happy snort at meal-time. When I groaned about flossing, he merrily chimed, 'You don't have to floss. We can pull every other tooth, and then, no flossing necessary!'
After this initial appointment, in which he painstakingly explained my X-rays, the anatomy of the tooth, and why ballroom dancing is an act of spiritual worship, I returned two days later for a cleaning. Again, he was impressed. As he began round one (of three) with the tooth scalpel, he marveled at how little tartar had built up over all these years (the perk of my vigorous brushing which, if continued unabated, would eventually wear the enamel down to the nerve). When he came to those sensitive places, he instructed me to let him know if I felt ANY pain whatsoever; he is so concerned about hurting his patients that he takes a half-hour walk after each appointment, to de-stress.
Dr. Baker sees only three people a day. He has no secretary, and answers all phone calls himself. He refuses to hurry. 'You're the most important thing in my life right now,' he says as he gently brushes my teeth, and he means it. He does not accept insurance, charges the lowest prices in the county, and genuinely loves his practice. His office is cluttered with paperwork, photos of him and his 'sweetie,' and a stereo that plays soothing classical music. Even though he is razor-science-sharp, often referring to the periodic table that hangs on the wall, it is his roomy heart that is most impressive.
After I paid him the discounted $40 (for having easy-to-scrape teeth), he congratulated me on my upcoming wedding to M (whose teeth he knows well).
'I've seen the Grand Canyon,' he said, 'and Yosemite Falls when they are roaring. But nothing compares to the beauty of a bride on her wedding day.'
I was terrified.
But Dr. Baker is no ordinary dentist. He spent an hour and a half talking to me about my teeth, my gums, the irreversible damage of my zealous over-brushing, and why using a toothpick is number one on his list of good hygiene. He complimented my professionally-straightened smile and sniffed the white fuzz, aka plaque, coming off my teeth. 'Wow! Not even a scent! You've got the best-smelling bacteria I've ever encountered!' His laugh is reminiscent of an animal's happy snort at meal-time. When I groaned about flossing, he merrily chimed, 'You don't have to floss. We can pull every other tooth, and then, no flossing necessary!'
After this initial appointment, in which he painstakingly explained my X-rays, the anatomy of the tooth, and why ballroom dancing is an act of spiritual worship, I returned two days later for a cleaning. Again, he was impressed. As he began round one (of three) with the tooth scalpel, he marveled at how little tartar had built up over all these years (the perk of my vigorous brushing which, if continued unabated, would eventually wear the enamel down to the nerve). When he came to those sensitive places, he instructed me to let him know if I felt ANY pain whatsoever; he is so concerned about hurting his patients that he takes a half-hour walk after each appointment, to de-stress.
Dr. Baker sees only three people a day. He has no secretary, and answers all phone calls himself. He refuses to hurry. 'You're the most important thing in my life right now,' he says as he gently brushes my teeth, and he means it. He does not accept insurance, charges the lowest prices in the county, and genuinely loves his practice. His office is cluttered with paperwork, photos of him and his 'sweetie,' and a stereo that plays soothing classical music. Even though he is razor-science-sharp, often referring to the periodic table that hangs on the wall, it is his roomy heart that is most impressive.
After I paid him the discounted $40 (for having easy-to-scrape teeth), he congratulated me on my upcoming wedding to M (whose teeth he knows well).
'I've seen the Grand Canyon,' he said, 'and Yosemite Falls when they are roaring. But nothing compares to the beauty of a bride on her wedding day.'
Monday, September 6, 2010
Full Circle
Seven years ago, a 24 year-old girl drove her dusty blue Volvo up through the straw-gold hills of Sonoma County for the first time. Already she loved the reliable sunshine and the fortune-scented air. She knew she could stay awhile.
She'd driven over the Golden Gate Bridge in such a state of awe that she'd immediately exited, turned around, and headed back over it, driving right through the alarming toll stop that demanded five dollars to enter San Francisco. With a Vermont license plate and a giddy invincibility, she soared down to the Marina beach to sift her fingers through the cold sand.
She had directions to take the Rohnert Park/Sebastopol exit, drive a ways down highway 116, turn right not too long after the Hard Core coffee shop. She guessed her new house-mates, a 60-something fading beauty queen and a 20-something Japanese journalist, would be nice. She hoped they'd give her space to unpack and settle immediately into her new room. The only way she knew how to land was with both feet, firmly planted.
Approximately seven minutes after pulling into the driveway of the pink bungalow house, she was on the cordless phone to her mother, her voice tear-shaken. She couldn't pinpoint what she didn't like exactly, but as soon as she walked into her new room, with only one window and a noxious Glade-scented air freshener plugged into the wall, she wanted to walk back out. It would take two months for her to find a studio of her own, high white walls and silver-sleek carpeting and the sunshine forever nosing in.
Those were blissful discovery times. The winding country wine roads smelling of tart cherries and sweet grass. The blazing heat giving way to a dry sun-down coolness she'd never felt before. The creeping night-time fog and nutty thrift store where she found a child's desk painted cream and red. The quiet Sebastopol nights, eating dried squid with Rio, making fun of bossy Gloria. Foxy, her vanilla-scented Volvo, taking her to the coast---saltwater taffy and gloomy chill and yet the Pacific more stunning than the Atlantic any day.
On campus at SSU, the late summer smelled of spice, a steady simmer. She gulped the evening air and got to her classes early. She lingered afterward to chat with her new cohort. Grad school felt like college all grown up, adults who wrote papers in the interim between work and cooking dinner for their kids. She'd stop for tacos on the way home, unlock her door and immediately turn on her new lap-top. Quick bites between mad typing, deleting, daring. The professor read her essay aloud to the class.
She thought maybe she could become a teacher AND a writer.
She'd driven over the Golden Gate Bridge in such a state of awe that she'd immediately exited, turned around, and headed back over it, driving right through the alarming toll stop that demanded five dollars to enter San Francisco. With a Vermont license plate and a giddy invincibility, she soared down to the Marina beach to sift her fingers through the cold sand.
She had directions to take the Rohnert Park/Sebastopol exit, drive a ways down highway 116, turn right not too long after the Hard Core coffee shop. She guessed her new house-mates, a 60-something fading beauty queen and a 20-something Japanese journalist, would be nice. She hoped they'd give her space to unpack and settle immediately into her new room. The only way she knew how to land was with both feet, firmly planted.
Approximately seven minutes after pulling into the driveway of the pink bungalow house, she was on the cordless phone to her mother, her voice tear-shaken. She couldn't pinpoint what she didn't like exactly, but as soon as she walked into her new room, with only one window and a noxious Glade-scented air freshener plugged into the wall, she wanted to walk back out. It would take two months for her to find a studio of her own, high white walls and silver-sleek carpeting and the sunshine forever nosing in.
Those were blissful discovery times. The winding country wine roads smelling of tart cherries and sweet grass. The blazing heat giving way to a dry sun-down coolness she'd never felt before. The creeping night-time fog and nutty thrift store where she found a child's desk painted cream and red. The quiet Sebastopol nights, eating dried squid with Rio, making fun of bossy Gloria. Foxy, her vanilla-scented Volvo, taking her to the coast---saltwater taffy and gloomy chill and yet the Pacific more stunning than the Atlantic any day.
On campus at SSU, the late summer smelled of spice, a steady simmer. She gulped the evening air and got to her classes early. She lingered afterward to chat with her new cohort. Grad school felt like college all grown up, adults who wrote papers in the interim between work and cooking dinner for their kids. She'd stop for tacos on the way home, unlock her door and immediately turn on her new lap-top. Quick bites between mad typing, deleting, daring. The professor read her essay aloud to the class.
She thought maybe she could become a teacher AND a writer.
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