sparsely

Always With Love

2011-12-06T14:39:00.001-06:00

For my birthday in August, I bought myself pens and a new notebook, which I wrote in for a week before setting it down, until now, more than three months later. Today I read the first entry and found it worth sharing, if only with myself and any other lost, post-transition writers who find themselves wondering if they ever were a writer, and if they'll ever be again.

Happy 44th birthday to me -- new pens and a notebook -- and so long I have been away. Even standing in front of the pens at Office Depot made my torso tighten, as though I could select the wrong instrument, when the whole point is that any pen, any paper, will do as long as they are moving together in this way beneath my right hand.

In my left arm, a baby girl nurses. Last night I thought she would suck the life out of me, that each additional 10 minutes of sleep I lost to her restlessness was 10 minutes off of my very life. She was awake much of the night. At some point, I became at peace with her wakefulness, put a loving hand on her belly, snuggled her to me, and we slept. Now, it is well near 9:15 at night again, and it is late for a baby to be up, and she has napped little today, and it seems like I'll never get my life back.

But I know from experience -- from the 13-year-old girl in the next room -- that it will fly, the time, and that one day this sweet one will mouth to me silently as I enter the school she is exiting with friends, "What are you doing here?" and not in a happy-surprised sort of way but in an are-you-insane-coming-near-me-in-my-public-realm sort of way, followed by such time in the car, in our private realm, when she will complain of needing new jeans today, and would I take her to Chick-Fil-a before her piano lesson. Oh, time, you are the trickster.

As I write this, I am surrounded by piles of dirty clothes, boxes and boxes, and disgruntled animals -- cat rolling on my bed, dog sighing beside me on the floor -- and more boxes, full of the clutter we've accumulated in the American fashion. It is overwhelming.

But in the back of this new-to-us house, near the hot kitchen, lies an office-y room in which I shall set a table and a chair and some books. I will go there each day and work. I will ask, and pray, and hope, and write, and revise. And I will know that it is what it is, this life, so hilly and uneven with its high highs and low lows, but always with love. Love. Well, most of the time at least.

Art Arises From the Ordinary

2010-12-06T09:33:00.000-06:00

Winter squash bread. Photo by: Stephanie Parsley.

My highly poetic friend, Nancy Bo Flood, wrote an impromptu Hello poem last week to our online critique group. With Nancy's nudging, others replied with their own Hello poems, really just a quick glimpse into their lives at that moment. These were fun to read. Here's a word-photo of my weekend trip home to North Texas ... and then back to the big city. Thanks, Nancy, for the creative inspiration!

Home calls,
but when I get here:
couch, rugs, halls
all dust and dog hair.

Wash and vacuum,
good enough,
skip the bathrooms,
get Christmas up.

Snuggle warm,
bask in glowing
'til Sunday morning's
goodbye, going.

Try one! Pause and take a word picture of what you are doing, thinking, feeling. Then send it to a few friends and encourage them to share their own. Art arises from the ordinary.

Window Watching

2010-11-10T21:01:00.008-06:00

Photo by: mark falardeau

Condominium Windows at Night

Blessings to you in your soft white kitchen,
and to you in the next one over,
synchronized women
pouring water,
spreading butter,
washing hands.

Blessings to you, shirtless man,
placing your white, white towel
on its hook beside two other
white, white towels.
I'm sorry you saw me watching,
but I was walking my dog, looking up,
and your window shone.

Blessings to you of the darkened room and
tall bed shadowed blue with evening
news.

And to you of the incandescent
Christmas tree in early November.

And to you sitting alone at the ornate table.

Blessings to you of brown couch and bare feet,
stretched legs mingled with white poodle.
And to the sleeping poodle, too,
blessings.

Blessings.

© 2010 Stephanie Parsley

Dear Dallas

2010-08-31T13:47:00.002-05:00

Dear Dallas,

Nearly a decade has passed since I fled

your potholed streets and stony store clerks.

I'd buried a daughter and a marriage here,

and I didn't look back.

A new town welcomed me, all warm-red brick

and tall live oaks thick with dove.

There, church bells rang out hymns

four times a day. My daughter played

with neighbor kids until dusk.

Random old people struck up

conversations in the grocery line.

It was impossible to be lonely.

I married and began to laugh again,

grew stronger, stood taller, felt safer.

But now, against my will and

because of it, and to do what is right

(because that's what I do),

I've come back to you, Dallas.

My first week here, I wore my shell

and invisible weapons,

icy stare and shoulder chip

weighing me down.

Yet you are somehow softer than I remember:

Gentlemen hold open doors,

receptionists call me by name,

you are filled with people who are just plain

people.

Sure, I expect the bottom to fall out of my car soon
because of your bumpy, neglected streets,
and that blonde woman in the Mercedes
cut me off in the carpool line this morning,
almost side-swiping a teacher-on-foot in the process.
But the teacher smiled and mouthed, "Thank you,"
when I stopped to let her cross in front of me,
and the AT&T guy was nice enough yesterday.
Of course, he'll bill me for that.

Photo: nthomas76207

Laurie Halse Anderson's WFMAD

2010-08-03T11:22:00.000-05:00

Write fifteen minutes a day for the whole month of August. It's that simple. Blogging doesn't count. Just write. Don't resist, criticize yourself, or question your work or your progress. It's time to write. I'm doing it. Why don't you come too? Thank you, Laurie Halse Anderson! I can do this!

Hammock Time

2010-07-26T17:17:00.002-05:00

She's been waiting for a storm to come ever since I brought a hammock home last month. Her desire: to swing on the front porch during a big rainstorm.

Today after lunch, thunder tapped its toes somewhere off in the distance. She checked the Weather Channel and confirmed that a big red blob of a storm was coming our way. We rushed to our positions on the porch, she to her hammock, sandwich in hand, and I to a chair nearby. The sky was gray all around. Lightning flashed now and then, and a few big thunderclaps made the cat meow to be let inside. Enough fat raindrops fell to dot the sidewalk, then evaporate. We waited.

After 20 minutes or so, she ran back inside to check the Weather Channel again. Alas, that big storm had just poof! disappeared. These things sometimes happen in North Texas. Still, we relished the reprieve from 100-degree heat and ate some watermelon on the porch, she in her hammock, I in my chair nearby.

Meet Miss Smith

2010-07-18T14:55:00.001-05:00

She appeared in our neighborhood two springs ago, a mysterious tortoise-shell/tabby gray cat who pranced up to greet me from a yard when I was walking my dog one day near the park. For a cat, she was friendly. I stopped to pet her, then went on my way. She followed me a few steps, meowing, but turned back to her place on the grass.

This lawn, her apparent home, spread out in front of a house I'd always wondered about. There were often two cars in the driveway, matching silver sedans, but I'd never seen anyone through the house's windows or outside during my many walks in the 8 years since I'd moved to town.

Not long after my introduction to the cat, I saw a man out in the driveway of this house. His face brightened when I asked him if he had a cat. Why, yes, he did. He said her name was Miss Smith and that she'd recently shown up on his back door step, sitting politely and meowing as if to be let in. He'd never owned a cat, he said. He had no pets. He lived with his mother. But he let her in and fed her a can of tuna. The rest, as they say, is history.

Now, more than a year later, I see this man, previously a recluse, walking around the block, often followed by Miss Smith. I love that this unique cat chose him -- and that she has brought him out of his house and into the neighborhood.

When I see them walking by, this man and his cat, I sometimes cross the street to talk to them. We'll chat about his cat and mine, sharing observations, noting changes in their cat routines. Miss Smith will roll around below us as we admire her.

Biiiiiig Bubbles

2010-07-16T12:12:00.000-05:00

Megan took advantage of the humid weather last week to create some big bubbles in the yard. (She says humid weather helps make bigger bubbles.)

Bubble recipe (can be cut in half): In a bucket, mix 12 cups water, 1 cup dish soap (Joy works best), 1 cup cornstarch and 2 tablespoons baking powder.

Stir it enough to dissolve cornstarch but not to make the mixture foamy. Stir again every now and then while you are playing to keep the cornstarch mixed in.

For a bubble wand, you can use a big piece of yarn tied to make a nice loop. It helps to string a button or washer (something with a little weight) onto the loop to pull down on the bottom and open it up. If you want to get fancy, fasten the yarn circle onto a wooden rod.

Be patient. It takes some practice to get the best bubbles.

(Megan got the recipe from a Klutz book that came with a fancy bubble wand. But when she's had a friend with her and needed an extra -- and when she lost a piece of her fancy wand -- she's improvised with a yarn loop, and it works.)

Front yard, back yard

2009-12-12T11:37:00.005-06:00

Inspiration from the boys next door:

And from my own back door:

Won't Be Long

2009-11-29T20:50:00.009-06:00

The whole world lit with candles,

Every flame different and the same,

Every flame a light, a face, a name.

From Won't Be Long, (c) 2006 S. Parsley

Advent: time of anticipation, longing and hope. My little brother leaves tomorrow for Virginia, where he will train for his post-Christmas deployment to Afghanistan. A new season of waiting begins for my family -- for my sister-in-law and two little nephews, for my mom, and for me. Michael, come home safe.

Poetry Stretch: Hay(na)ku

2009-11-27T23:17:00.012-06:00

After a months-long absence from blog reading and blog writing, I went straight to The Miss Rumphius Effect this morning for a little poetry stretching. The result is not particularly poetic, but the exercise felt great anyway.

For Alfred, Visiting From
My Daughter's Junior High Science Lab

Big
boa in
an undersized terrarium,

seldom
handled in
science class, unlike

Pedro,
the petite
possum who hangs

from
your finger,
displaying his parts --

Alfred
stays coiled
all weekend long.

His
eyes are
dark little berries.

Snakes
can't see,
my daughter says,

and
she sketches
him in pen.

When
he poops,
we observe it:

what
started out
as a rat

placed
in Alfred's
cage last Tuesday.

Could
Alfred survive
in the wild?

What
would he
find to eat?

If
nothing else,
a science lab

is
safe (unless
you're a rat).

I
wouldn't want
to be Alfred,

curled
so tight
all the time.

My First Week as Mrs. Ledyard

2009-08-30T11:37:00.006-05:00

Mrs. Ledyard is my "newly" (two years ago) married name, but I've never heard it called so many times until this past week, when I began my first year as a classroom teacher. I am responsible for making sure 82 fourth graders learn how to put their thoughts into complete, grammatically correct sentences, then into paragraphs and stories and essays and letters. Oh, and we will write poems, make art, have fun.

Though right now I'm a little too freaked out to think about the "fun" part, I must have some fun with this. It's a lot of work. A lot of planning. A lot of stuff that I'm pretty sure I don't know how to do. My feet hurt. Yet I must spring off this high dive with a sure foot, and with hope. Huge amounts of hope.

Cheesy metaphor aside, I'm pushing my students to do just that: take the leap even if you don't know how. Never written anything longer than three sentences? Don't know what a topic is? Or an essay? Can't think of anything to write? Terrible speller? Feeling a little unnerved? Looking around to see what the others are doing while your page sits blank? Welcome to my classroom.

Welcome.

Poetry Revision

2009-07-15T09:56:00.005-05:00

I've been trying to learn how to revise poetry. Until recently, I have thought there was some magical poetry-revision formula that only real poets knew. Not true! To become a better reviser of poetry, I have to:

Read a lot of (good) poetry
Learn all I can about how to write, read and appreciate poetry
Memorize (good) poetry
Though this seems obvious ... write and revise plenty of poems

My poems are revised in increments. I set the work down, leave it, come back to it and see it with fresh eyes, revise, set it down, come back ...

Here is my first revision of yesterday's poem.

While You are at Your Father's in July

Week four of your absence, night twenty-six,

Counting sheep, snores, days ‘til your return,

I drift to your undisturbed bed, jewel of

Of your glass-lake room

Soft sheets lap the turquoise shore of sleep,

Lines and lines of pale streetlight stretch

Like a canopy across the ceiling,

I close my eyes

Your pillow does its job and a large pink dog

Flies me to the slant house of your friend

Stella (she’s not imaginary after all),

Who asks how long you’re gone

When I awake some time later, I am ten,

Until your cat appears, trills at my presence,

Slinks near, wet-noses my face,

Settles, purrs

I sing his name, stroke his long back the way

I’ve seen you do, shoulders to tail,

Shoulders to tail, and for a while,

We both pretend

I am you

I haven't stretched in a while ...

2009-07-14T12:30:00.009-05:00

This week's Monday poetry stretch, from Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect, is to write a poem of confession. I had fun thinking of possible confessions, and I finally settled on something simple and recent.

While you were at your father’s in July

Week four of your absence, night twenty-six,
Counting creaks, snores, days ‘til your return,
I lead myself to your undisturbed bed, glass lake
Of your glowing room

I fold back your summer quilt, slip in,
These sheets are fine, on your ceiling
Lines and lines of pale streetlight stretch
Like a canopy, I close my eyes

Your pillow does its job and a large pink dog
Flies me to the slanted house of your friend
Stella (I’ve always thought she was imaginary),
Who asks how long you’re gone

When I awake some time later I am ten,
But then your cat appears,
Trills at my presence, slinks near,
Wet-noses my cheek, settles, purrs

I sing his name, stroke his long back the way
I’ve seen you do, shoulders to tail,
Shoulders to tail, and for a moment,
We both pretend
I am you

Stephanie Parsley

Home plate

2009-06-16T15:57:00.005-05:00

Three boys live next door. Some nights, our front yards combine to form a baseball field. The boys take turns pitching, hitting, running. Their dad shouts encouragement and gives pointers. I peek at them through the front window. Recently Aaron and I returned from an evening walk to find this (see photo). With its narrow strip of grass down the center, our driveway makes the perfect home plate. Go, team!

Banana Apology

2009-05-18T10:45:00.007-05:00

To the bananas:
I am sorry.
You endured pesticide
Premature picking
A sticker: SUPERFOOD!
Refrigerated transport
Inspection, selection
Arrangement under
Fluorescence
Fondling then
Separation from your siblings
Not to mention
Placement in a green bag
Next to three sweaty yogurts
And a hot car ride
To get to the blue ceramic bowl
Of my kitchen
Where you sat
At first perfect yellow
With hints of green
Then a black spot appearing
And another and more
And now you’ve turned.
I was going to make banana bread
(They always say that)
But I’ve eaten all the pecans
And I’m out of milk
And you are oozing.
So it is with some
Regret and much
Guilt that I place
You into the compost bin.
Again, I am really
Really
Sorry.

Stephanie Parsley

Bejeweled chicken

2009-04-21T08:54:00.013-05:00

It's hat day at Megan's school. She wore her chicken hat (and put a necklace on the chicken).

I posted a poem at The Miss Rumphius Effect. Through the window. Still kind of clunky, the language. But I stretched, so ha.

Now, off to see my grandmother. She's in a nursing home in Archer City. Has been for almost five years. Alzheimer's is yuck. Awful. I've been visiting less and less. The longer I go, the worse I feel. And the worse she must feel, lying there with no visit from me. ;(

Shiny

2009-04-06T15:37:00.011-05:00

Aaron and I went to a great jazz concert yesterday in Archer City. The David Levy Group reunited after almost two decades apart. One Charlie Parker tune, "Now's the Time," got me to thinking about how the instruments really talk to one another. It was like a wordless poem for multiple voices. What better way is there to spend a cold, windy Sunday afternoon?

All that jazz put me in a toe-tappin, shoeshine sort of mood, resulting in the following miniature sonnet (with an interlude). Actually, it's called a bite-sized sonnet -- a sonnet with only one syllable per line. I posted my first attempt on The Miss Rumphius Effect's Monday Poetry Stretch. Here's my next revised version:

Hip,
hup!
Step on
up!
One,
two.
Shine a
shoe.

Shh-ch-shh-ch-shh-ch-shhh---shh-ch-shh-ch-shh-ch-shhh...

Buff's
done.
Scuffs is
gone,
yep.
Hup!

List Poem

2009-03-31T12:17:00.008-05:00

Inspired by the Monday Poetry Stretch at The Miss Rumphius Effect, a list poem (draft #1), by me.

I suppose this is a "how to" list poem. Yesterday I brain-stormed a bunch of how-to's: how to sing, how to wake up, how to fix your "check engine" light (that would be a one-line poem for me: cover it with a Post It note). Today when I saw my list, this topic gave me a spark. After the poem sits for a few months, I'll go back to it and revise.

How to grieve a child

Make friends with your closet:
turn out the light,
lie on your side on the floor,
way back where the carpet is firm, untrodden.
Let the pant hems brush your cheek
like a mother’s fingers, soft.
Feel for the fallen scarf,
an old shirt set aside,
anything absorbent:
hold it to your face.
Spend the tears
like you are loaded.
Go back to the days
of caves and howling,
to a time before conversation,
because it’s true: there are no words.

For as long as you must, stay.

One day, you will go out into the world again,
and the sun will warm you, even as it stings,
and you may hear some song
that starts you weeping
on the corner,
but you’ll keep
standing.

Until then, your closet is your friend.

Miniature Sonnet

2009-03-23T11:20:00.016-05:00

ON WRITING

(by me)

White

page:

tight

cage.

Breathe,

stare.

Leave

chair.

Blue

pen,

you

win.

Sit.

Write.

Contradictions

2009-03-19T09:40:00.013-05:00

My daughter was hugely unimpressed. She didn't like the restaurant. Her enchilada was mediocre. We were so boring that she read her book through dinner. But she wasn't going to be left out of our anniversary plans. She certainly wasn't going to stay at home (though my husband and I gave her the option).

This experience reaffirms why I love writing for and about her age group. Being almost-11 is being caught in the middle of two places: acting so above it all, yet still having to be snuggled and tucked in at night (thankfully). Liking boys, yet thinking boys are freaky and annoying. Tearing limbs off an old Barbie doll (and chasing the neighbor boys with said limbs), yet having a close friend who occasionally plays with Barbies and "lets" you help arrange her Barbie house. Wanting to read Twilight, then hiding under your bed to cry when your mom says maybe you should wait a year or two. Dressing up for Cotillion dances, yet having toenails that make people wonder if you've been raised by wolves. Knowing the birds and bees, yet still writing a hopeful letter (which you hide from your mom) to the Tooth Fairy.

She left last Friday for Spring Break with her dad. It's taken me until yesterday to start missing her. That's terrible. But parenting is a lot of work. You have to be smart to handle an almost-11-year-old in just the right way. Doing all that blasted thinking makes me tired. I plan to bask shamelessly in the ease of these last few days -- missing my daughter, wishing she were here, yet knowing I need to seriously soak up this free time while I have it.

Sunday, I'm picking her up at the airport. When I see that big-little-in-between-it-all girl, I'm going to hug her so tight her eyes bulge. Of course, she'll wriggle away, too cool for public parental affection. But inside, she'll be happy to be see me, too, I know -- happy to be back home.

Anniversaries

2009-03-10T14:27:00.004-05:00

Today is mine and Aaron's two-year wedding anniversary. Our dinner plans, including the selection of the restaurant (or at least veto power), will include my daughter, Megan. Some may think it strange to bring a 10-year-old child along on an anniversary date. But Megan's life changed two years ago, too.

Once Aaron came into our lives, my little girl no longer had me all to herself. The good side of that is, she no longer has just me. Our family of two became a family of three. Megan became a stepdaughter, and Aaron became a step dad. I must say, he's a good one: he supports me in my role as a mom, listens without criticizing, and encourages Megan. He even walks the dogs, who've had no trouble bonding with him, needless to say. (No, they're not coming along to dinner tonight.)

It's something for a family to celebrate. Of course, Aaron and I will have plenty of couple time starting this Friday, when Megan leaves for spring vacation with her dad. Wink-wink.

Possibility

2009-03-01T15:37:00.009-06:00

From Finding Water: the Art of Perseverance, by Julia Cameron:

Entertaining the possible is the province of art. It is the possible that sets the creative engine humming. // "It is possible, the artist thinks, that I can write a play." // "It is possible I can make a sculpture." // "It is possible I can make a film." // Out of the notion, "I can" comes the next thought: "I think I will." The impulse is playful. It doesn't consider the odds. It is an impulse born of pure faith. The artist has a vision and that vision includes the successful completion of the art he has in mind. (47)

Today I am entertaining possibility. Possibility lies curled beneath the soil and yellow grass. It whispers from the ruddy leaves of rose bushes. It hops and pecks for worms in my front yard.

It is possible. I can. I think I will.

Scene-ery

2009-02-23T12:28:00.007-06:00

This road leads somewhere. Each chapter of my novel needs to lead the reader forward. Stay too long in one place for no reason, and the book is closed, never to be given another chance by an editor or a young reader.

In revising my current work-in-progress, I've been looking closely at my scenes. Each scene needs to matter. Each scene needs to push the reader forward into the next, and then the next and the next. In The Scene Book: a Primer for the Fiction Writer, author Sandra Scofield says each scene must have:

Event and emotion: Characters "do things and feel things," Scofield says, or they "act and react."

A function: Scofield says there must be a reason for playing the scene out in detail rather than summarizing it. Does the scene introduce new plot elements? Reveal something important about the character? Set up a situation that matters later in the novel? Is it needed?

A structure: a beginning, middle and an end.

A pulse: I like this one. The pulse, Scofield says, is the "vibrancy" that makes the scene "live on the page" and "matter to the reader."

These are basic concepts that I need to practice. I have written them on Post-It notes and placed them on the bulletin board in front of me, right below my list of 2009 goals -- one of which is to have Rosalind's Room ready to send out by the end of March. I'd better get busy!

Moving on

2009-01-15T05:45:00.014-06:00

Last week I started revising Rosalind's Room with the help of Darcy Pattison's wonderful little book, Novel Metamorphosis: Uncommon Ways to Revise. Whole-novel revision has vexed me so much that I have not done it. When I finish a novel draft, get feedback, then begin revisions, I quickly become overwhelmed and set the project aside: All those pages, all those problems! What's the plot anyway, and who cares? Do I care? Why am I even writing? And the most damaging: Who do I think I am?

No more.

Pattison breaks down novel revision into manageable chunks. This book has already changed my life. On page four, she mentions four stages of learning:

Unconscious Incompetence
Conscious Incompetence
Conscious Competence
Unconscious Competence

Seeing this on the page last week, I immediately connected. I realized that before I went through the MFA program at Vermont College, bless my heart, I was in the stage of Unconscious Incompetence -- I had written a few things that were good, or that had a good voice, but generally I had no clue what I was doing (though I had a nagging suspicions about how little I knew).

The Vermont experience made me painfully aware of how far I had to go. I was surrounded by some people like myself, others who were much further along, and some others (faculty and students alike) who had reached a stage I'll call Unconscious Brilliance.

Ever since receiving my MFA two years ago, I've been wallowing in Conscious INcompetence, even though I'm quite capable of competence and have achieved it at times. Unfortunately I've let this sensitivity bleed into other areas of my life, not just my writing. I'm grateful that I've discovered -- and named -- why I've been hiding for the past two years. I'm moving on. Now, back to those revisions.

What's the object?

2009-01-06T12:51:00.008-06:00

On New Year's Day, M was playing Animal Crossing: Wild World on the Wii my mom had given us for Christmas, and I asked her, "What's the object of this game?"

She replied, without looking away from the television screen, "To make more money and upgrade your stuff."

I don't remember what else we said after that because I was so shocked. She's been playing this game for the past year, in miniature version, on her Nintendo-DS, but I've never asked the point of it until it was on a big television screen right in front of me.

Upgrade your stuff? This was not a proud parenting moment. At least she didn't say, "Get higher credit limits and upgrade your stuff."

Still. What a great wake-up call. I'm making it a goal this year to play more games with M (whether on the Wii, at our coffee table, or at the tennis or basketball court), and to get outdoors more together to ride our bikes, hike, whatever. I hope in these small ways I can help undo some of the damage done by the materialistic little animals hiding in her Nintendo-DS.

Making meaning

2008-12-15T09:31:00.008-06:00

Last night I went to a Compassionate Friends Worldwide Candle Lighting event, sponsored by the Hospice of Wichita Falls support group Wings of Hope for Grieving Parents and Families. The second Sunday of every December, candles are lit at 7 p.m. around the globe. (As they burn down in one time zone, they are lit in another.) This was the group's sixth year to participate in this sacred remembrance as a way to honor our children who have died.

Two days before Christmas 1996, my first child, Hannah, was diagnosed with Spinal Muscular Atrophy-Type I, a genetic disease. She died five months later, when she was seven months and nine days old. Needless to say, that has shadowed all the Christmases that have followed. Anything that affirms her life this time of year brings me joy and makes Christmas more meaningful.

One more thing

2008-12-09T09:01:00.011-06:00

I got accepted to an alternative teacher-certification program. I'm still a little unsure about how it will work, but I know it involves online classes, independent study, and a one-year teaching internship. In other words, I'll be really busy for the next year. But busy is good. I get more writing done when I have less time to write.

And here's a photo of little Ivy. (See yesterday's post.) She needs a good home.

Two good things ... make that four, no, five ... five good things ... wait, seven

2008-12-08T14:24:00.021-06:00

Right now I'm listening to Dean Magraw's amazing guitar music from his latest CD, Foxfire. This music knocks on the door of my Scrooge-head self to remind me that I'm a human being, that life is about so much more than what I accomplish. As I write, brown leaves blow past my dining room windows. Fall will turn to winter in two short weeks. Christmas will come. And I remember what I know: the world is so much bigger than my little worries and insecurities.
I rediscovered an important SARK quote taped to my cluttered fridge today: Your soul needs your kindness. Indeed.
A kitten, temporarily named Ivy, is sleeping beside me in her kitty condo. She's the daughter of a semi-feral (and very fertile) neighborhood cat. Ivy will need a good home in a week or so. She's sweet and has already let us snuggle her -- she even purred (but then she leapt away and hid in my closet).
Ivy's mom, Callie, has had a spa week at the vet's. She is now spayed, vaccinated, and en route to her stomping grounds in Archer City, where she'll be able to bask in the sun without having to fend off the boys.
Three poems of mine will be published in the next issue of the Wichita Falls Literature and Art Review, a newish journal for writers and artists from North Texas and Southern Oklahoma. It's a nice, high-quality publication, and I'm busting-out proud that they've accepted my work.
I had lunch today with my hubby, Aaron, at the funny-name-serious-sandwich place.
My brother, sister-in-law and nephews came to town this past weekend. We went to the Santa House and Chuck E. Cheese. I got to hold the baby all I wanted and play with race cars and plastic frogs for much of Saturday! Nephew #1 wore his red beanie cap to the Santa House, outshining Santa in his cuteness.

Not the poem

2008-10-29T09:11:00.006-05:00

From Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones: "The problem is we think we exist. We think our words are permanent and solid and stamp us forever. That's not true. We write in the moment. Sometimes when I read poems at a reading to strangers, I realize they think those poems are me. They are not me, even if I speak in the 'I' person. They were my thoughts and my hand and the space and the emotions at that time of writing. Watch yourself. Every minute we change. It is a great opportunity. At any point, we can step out of our frozen selves and our ideas and begin fresh. That is how writing is. Instead of freezing us, it frees us."

I like that: Every minute we change. It is a great opportunity.

I appreciate the idea that we do not exist through our words, that we are not permanently branded by them. And I am reminded not to take myself so seriously.

I've been spending too much time fretting over revisions -- and as a result, not revising. Nearly two-thirds of the way through my first revision of Rosalind's Room, I'm asking, "What if it's not as good or important as I thought it was? What if this last third isn't as good as the first third?" I've opened Chapter 10 each day for a week now, then closed it and turned to revising old poems, not an unworthy pursuit, but still an avoidance born from fear.

So I'm writing this message to myself: STOP BEING A CHICKEN. Take this opportunity. Get to work. Right now.

A tiny backyard garden

2008-10-07T10:16:00.005-05:00

These are some Anaheim peppers my husband grew in a tiny backyard garden he created. Only recently did I discover that they turn deep red after they hang around for a while. This makes me like them more.

Before this realization, I was not too excited about the peppers. They smell kind of funny, a little like tobacco, when they are picked green. I am ashamed to say that I told A in August, "Maybe next summer you will grow something we can eat." This goes down in the record books as a big minus ten points for me. Not nice.

But now, with the peppers hanging on our back fence, starting to turn warm and red, I admire them. I am going to cook something fragrant and pretty with them soon. And I hope that, despite my mean comment, A will grow his peppers again next summer.

On the way to my tiny office

2008-09-30T13:10:00.004-05:00

This is the window of my tiny office, from the outside. I love it in here.

My night owl

2008-09-20T09:42:00.012-05:00

M and I have been reading Rick Riordan's The Lightning Thief together at night. Thursday, when it was time to stop reading and turn out the light, M said, "At night I wish it was morning, and in the morning I wish it was night." She wants to stay up so we can read more. As it stands, Percy Jackson's quest is already keeping us up too late, resulting in a reading hangover on school mornings.

I love seeing M get excited about Greek mythology. Her language arts teacher has gone out of her way to introduce her fifth-grade classes to the Greek gods and goddesses, and to Riordan's work. (Riordan is visiting their school in November.) And none of this has much to do with the TAKS (Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills) -- thank the gods, as Percy would say.

Last post, I griped (in a poem) about public schools' focus on standardized testing. M has gone to public school since kindergarten. What's kept us here are the great teachers she's had every year, teachers who believe students are much more than their TAKS scores, teachers who go beyond the Scantron.

Most of the middle schools in our district "let" students out an hour early every day (or send them to study hall if they don't have a way home) if they have good grades, good attendance, etc. so teachers can focus on students with low TAKS performance. To me, this signifies that our school district cares more about TAKS rankings than students' futures. As in: "Congratulations! You've reached the state-mandated standard. Now get of our way." Some administrators must not want the cream to rise too high.

Thankfully, all of M's teachers so far have exemplified a much higher mentality, and a deep commitment to students -- truly amazing and challenging in today's teaching environment. I'm thankful for teachers.

Facing east

2008-09-15T12:51:00.033-05:00

Yesterday, in the process of trying to feng shui my bedroom, I discovered that, in accordance with my Kua number of 9, my auspicious direction is east. My worst direction? Um, precisely the direction my desk has been facing for the past nine years (in both my current and previous homes): west. So I'm doing an experiment and switching sides of my tiny office. We'll see what happens.

Facing east today, I revised a double abecedarian poem I'd written last month, the result of a Vermont College online poetry challenge initiated by faculty member and poet extraordinaire Julie Larios. This was a blast (and a doozy) to write. (If you don't know what a double abecedarian is, note the first and last letter of each line below.)

Salute to Standardized Testing: a Double Abecedarian

A new school year begins and education has gone ersatz.

By order of the law, we've changed school into a wormery.

Cerebral what? We don't aim to stretch no mental spandex.

Dutiful students fill in bubbles, row after row after row.

Everyone can do it. No child left behind. And no improv--

forget thinking. With practice, young minds turn into tofu.

Get ready to cheer. Hear, hear! We're best at The Test!

Homework and class work revolve around top strategies.

I pledge allegiance to The Test, and to the test's Creator.

Just pick A, B, C or D. Don't think. Roll over. Bark on Q.

Killing curiosity kills neurons. Passion rots in this swamp.

Let's go, teachers. Rewards wait if your students rate. So

motivate 'til they regurgitate. You can! (When you began,

new and fresh as a college freshman, did you ever dream

of this? It's the kids, you say. Love is a strategy. But still ...)

Pete has three shoes and two feet. Whose balls can he kick?

Questioning will leave you jobless. Or jaded with a capital J.

Real answers don't come multiple-choice. The result: ennui.

Soon we'll have fewer scientists, thinkers, dreamers. Woosh.

That's the sound of a brain going down the john. Fried egg

under the thinking cap makes a mess. We've gone dummkopf.

Vacation will end. By then, current lawmakers will be gone.

Who will remain? Those whose educations were cheapened,

X's where their eyes used to be. Some will call me dramatic--

you get angry, or languid. Zzt. Another brain becomes rhubarb.

Zombies make exemplary test takers. This is our mantra.

Some days are like this

2008-09-09T10:06:00.011-05:00

This clay bobble-head turtle sits on my writing desk. When I touch it, its little feet swing and its head turns from side to side, as if it's really working at getting somewhere.

Some days I feel like this. So small. Swimming upstream with my hatchling on my back. But I take inspiration from the successes of my Vermont College classmates, an amazing group of writers and friends.

I share my office with a spider

2008-09-06T10:30:00.008-05:00

Workspace has been a big issue for me lately. When A and I married more than a year ago, we began sharing what had previously been "my" office space. But he needs a home office too, sometimes during the same hours I need it. After some experimentation, I've confirmed that to do my best work, I need a place to shut the door and be alone.

Enter ... the Back House, a once-decrepit room attached to the detached garage of our 80-year-old home. We fixed it up. My daughter now has a small clubhouse, and I have a windowed four-by-six-foot cocoon of a closet inside the clubhouse.

When I sat down to work this morning, a little spider was climbing its web up to the open window. I thought about knocking it down or moving it outside. But it was working so hard, making such quick progress up its invisible rope. So I asked it to stay. We'll make fine office mates.

No (and yes)

2008-08-18T14:32:00.011-05:00

A new school year marks a new beginning for me ... to say NO (and YES) more often. As in, No, I cannot volunteer for that. No, I cannot bake cookies for that. No, I cannot coordinate that. Even if it "won't take very much time."

Here, let me practice. No. No, thanks. I can't. I couldn't. I won't be there. Not this year. (Or next.) No.

And YES to myself. Yes, you can finish this. Yes, you can take time for your writing. Yes, you can ignore the telephone. Yes, you can shut the office door. Yes, you can say NO to the people who want your time.

Yes and yes and yes and yes.

The fast dog needs to run

2008-08-12T17:09:00.008-05:00

This has been a slow-dog kind of summer. I've had a lot of time to stare out the window, sit on my front step, and take little drives around town with my husband. That's actually a pastime here in North Texas -- taking evening drives. Do people do that in other parts of the world? In Archer City, the town where I was born, people take slow drives out in the country for fun. One particular dirt-road route, they call going 'round the world.

All this slowness has cleared some space in my mind -- for ideas, for thinking about works in progress, for creating. I've needed this down time to renew, to breathe again. But summer vacation is coming to a close. School starts in 13 days. Work starts for me in six. Which gets me thinking about my fast dog, Duchess. No matter how much I gain from walking the slow dog, I still have to run the fast one.

It is the same with writing. I take time for moodling, observing squirrels, and staring at tree trunks. Then I must go to my desk, sit in my chair, and write. No way around it. Inspired or not. Confident or not. Clear-headed or not. I have to run the fast dog, to do the work. To write.

Walking the slow dog

2008-08-10T16:51:00.031-05:00

My 13-year-old dog, Molly, walks with an arthritic limp and doesn't see well. My other dog, Duchess, at eight, is agile and fast. Before I can take Duchess on a good run, I first have to take Molly on a slow walk. If I skip the slow walk and head out with only Duchess, Molly digs out the bathroom trash.

Walking a slow dog takes patience. We take the same two- to three-block route every morning, a 30-minute round-trip. Molly feels her way over uneven pavement, avoids puddles and pauses at curbs that must seem tall. She sniffs monkey grass and tree trunks intently, for as long as she pleases, and leaves her scent as often as she can position her shaky hind legs into a half-squat. I wait.

Up until this summer, I had mostly stopped walking my slow dog. It seemed inefficient. But I was missing out. Now, ambling with Molly, I notice designs in the gnarled trunks of old live oaks, pinch wispy seeds from dropped sycamore pods, and stop to inquire about a certain plant in a neighbor's garden. I hum along with the church bells that play out hymns twice a day, even if I don't know the tunes, and whistle back to the birds. Recently, I've discovered shapes made of tar dropped years ago onto the sidewalks -- the same sidewalks I've covered hundred of times without seeing anything. My slow dog and I, we mosey along.

Monster weeds

2008-07-10T16:07:00.018-05:00

This morning I went out to the side of my house and attacked the weeds. I'd been trying to ignore them. Weeds cannot be ignored for long, lest they will grow tall and steal all the nutrients from the good plants -- not to mention, annoy the neighbors who keep their flower beds better. These weeds had grown nearly as tall as I, and until I went out there and started pulling them, I feared them. That sounds foolish, now that they're lying in a pile, ready for the compost can.

This is the same way I avoid writing when I'm working on something new-ish. Fretting, procrastinating, looking the other way. Then, when I sit down and begin, all the hand-wringing that came before seems so senseless, like so much wasted time.

At lunch, I drove to Archer City, the small town where I was born, and fed lunch to my grandmother, Nanny. She lives in the nursing home. She has aphasia, the result of a stroke, and Alzheimer's. So, mostly she babbles quietly, things I cannot understand, with a look of utter seriousness on her face. She has something to say and she knows it. But it does not come out in words.

Feeding someone is a good thing to do when there is nothing else you can do. It provides a common focus, doesn't require words, and can be done in a way that expresses love. While I was feeding Nanny, I told her that I had attacked my weeds. Amidst all her garbled words she said this clearly: Good for you.

What sparble means to me

2008-07-09T16:26:00.012-05:00

Sparble means to scatter or disperse. As in, the cows sparbled when I honked the horn. Too bad the word is obsolete -- it has a nice sound. Part sparkle, part garble. Sparble. Perfect.

I've claimed M's room as my workspace while she's at her dad's for her long summer visit (my husband is using the office). This room is one of the best in the house, in terms of color, cheer and -- at least while M is gone -- orderliness.

Oh, and I've set up this blog so that only I can read it. For now. That defeats the whole purpose of a blog, yes.