may my heart always be open to little – ee cummings

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

 

Retrieved from: Poem Hunter

Creativity – let’s honor it

In full conscience, I’ve decided to let the kids be late for school today. Why? Because my son told me he wants to write a book called Super-Baby, and Super-Baby will have the power of toilet tornadoes. Um, we so need to get this recorded. I honestly believe, toilet tornadoes are more important than being on time this one Friday, in the many months, of years, of Fridays to come in his lifetime.  And, my 14 year old self is whispering in my ear, now you get it, and we were right all along.

things i love in no particular order

1.  tweezing out an ingrown hair after completely messing up my skin, so satisfying

2.  not measuring out the coffee when it’s the bottom of the bag and just dumping it in the filter

3.  drinking coffee while my kids are still sleeping

4.  catching people who are singing and dancing in their cars and giving them a “that’s cool” peace sign

5.  watching a movie i love for the 500th time (LOTR)

6.  overhearing my kids sincerely being nice to each other

7.  swearing

8.  making cabbage rolls – they just roll up so perfectly into little pockets…just wanna kiss ‘em

9. stuffing pasta shells, for the same reason as #8 – but with cheesy goodness

10.  twinkle toes by skechers – they are ridiculous, but if i had bigger girl balls I’d wear ‘em

11.  when my kids put their heads on my shoulders while i read to them

12.  enthusiastically petting dogs..whooz a good boy?  whooz a good boy?  you are!  yes, you are!

13.  eating buttery corn in the summer

14.  BLTs

15.  reading in bed

18.  knitting

19.  helping my kids when they ask for it

21.  when my husband really laughs at my jokes

22.  my husband

23.  my kids

24.  flowers

25.  summer breezes

26.  that awesome deep blue color of the sky, after the sun has gone down and it’s almost night…twilight (not the movie, let’s make that clear.)

27.  blogging

28.  going to the movies with my husband and sneaking in sub sandwiches

29.  taking a shower

30.  taking a bath

31.  japanese brush paintings

32.  driving with the windows down

33.  using eye drops during itchy eye allergy season…it burns so good

34. really nice compliments

35.  listening to kids sounding out long words and getting it right

36.  black vans sneakers…instant cool

37.  a really great poem

38.  art museums

39.  music

40.  when the wind turns leaves almost upside down

41.  listening to a really good comedian

42.  the last bite of an ice cream cone..not a sugar cone..the other kind…it’s all crunchy and squishy at the same time.

43.  the smell of coffee, bacon, and lilacs, but not all together, just the first 2

44.  red, really ripe, homegrown tomatoes, sliced, with salt and pepper

45.  the head light-flash and brake light language that truck driver’s and experienced drivers know

46.  wearing my husband’s fleece jacket

47.  cuddling with my kids and watching cartoons

A great blog

If you are a creative person, or someone just trying to motivate themselves, this is a great site.  My husband, Erik, introduced me to Steven Pressfield’s works last year.  Mr. Pressfield has a way of cutting through the bullsh*t that really gets your attention.

And I’m also kinda proud to say that my husband was featured on the blog a while back….

Here’s the link….Steven Pressfield.

If you need to get your a** in gear…read.

Simplicity can be the ultimate solution

I once worked at a hospital.  I was an assistant to a specialty chief.  After a couple of months, I realized the job and I were not a good fit.  But I learned so much while working there, it will never be a regret.

I was thinking about this the other day, because I received some excellent advice while I was there.  Working in the unit were 2 specialty nurses, they were awesome.  I love nurses.  They have the unique ability to be utterly pragmatic and lovingly sympathetic in the exact same moment.  They’ve seen it all, they care, and they know if you’re bullsh*tting them – even before you do.  And they give great advice.

I was about 27-28 while I was working there and I tend to recall my decades as chapters.  So, this chapter was nearing an end.  And for me, there are always biological changes included at these ends, as in hair, body, skin, and psyche.  At this particular moment, I was putting on a little weight.  Which was weird, because up until that point, I’d had no trouble.  I could just skip a meal and walk and extra mile and be just fine…

One day while at work, I was hanging out at the nurses’ office.  I was chatting with Nurse S. about my recent weight gain.  I was complaining about how I didn’t understand it.  Again, I was about 27 and I think she was about 40 something.   I should also mention at this point, that the medical specialty here was diabetes.

Nurse S. looked at me with the patience of a teacher (which she also was, an anatomy teacher) and said, “Well, the body ages and changes take place.  You can be doing the exact same things, but your metabolism shifts gears.”  To which I replied, “But that’s not fair.”  She laughed, “I know, I know, we all go through it.  All of the sudden the clothes aren’t fitting right and you think the dry-cleaner shrunk them.”  I said, “It’s true.  They shrink my clothes all the time.”

We continued chatting and she said, “Well, I do have a solution for you.”  She had my full attention.  “There’s something that I did that made all the difference for me.”  I was so happy to have her input.  Because if anyone knew about metabolism, nutrition, and the body, it would be Nurse S.  I knew that she’d have the right information for me, a solution that would be educated, and cut right through the bullsh*t.  And she did.

I said, “Please tell me what you did, I’ve kinda tried everything.”  She looked down and said, “There is a solution.  It’s very easy, and it made all the difference for me.”  Then she looked up and said, “I bought bigger pants.”

The only real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes – Marcel Proust

Whadam I ‘spose to do now?

I believe this is a picture of me from 1983.  I would’ve been 15.  My dad, post-divorce and living in California, had decided it would be great if we took a road-trip together.  Y’know, spend some time getting to know one another.  So, I flew from Chicago to Oklahoma City.  That’s where his dad, my grandfather, was living with his new wife. (That’s a whole ‘nother story.)  Then, his plan was for us to drive from OK to CA.  At this point I would like to remind the reader that I was 15 years old.

Do you see that look on my face?  I began and ended the trip with that exact same expression. Really, at any point during the journey, that’s exactly what my face looked like.  Only additions being a Walkman playing Pink Floyd or Rick Springfield (don’t judge) and/or a cigarette.  I was so miserable and fed-up on this trip, that when my dad got lost in the desert while looking for some dinosaur park; I got out of the car while he was looking at a map, sat on a rock, and lit up.

My dad laughed and said, “Ha! My daughter smokes.”  Well, he smoked a pipe, so he sat down and had a smoke too.  It was probably the only moment we connected.

Needless to say, for the rest of the trip, my dad was not very pleased with his social/familial experiment gone wrong.

Professional Life

I was remembering this moment, cause that attitude has always permeated my life to some extent.  Eventually, in my early 30′s this ‘tude was significantly reduced through the process of aging.  I was able to work hard and be pretty good at whatever I chose to do, but I still never felt really satisfied.  I always had a puddle of that disgruntled teenager simmering under the surface.  Nothing I did ever felt like, “Yes, this is truly what I want to do and where I want to be.”

..Looking Back

In high school and college, I never really took time to consider what I really wanted to do.  Never thought about what I liked.  I just sort of went rudderless down the educational river.  My dad wanted me to major in business, but that sounded so broad and nebulous – I had no idea what business meant.  My mom and my step-dad just wanted me to do something practical.  Even that – I didn’t know what practical really meant.

I took some art, music, and literature classes.  Those were definitely my favorites, but surely I didn’t have enough talent to pursue any of those.  I could only hope to dip my feet in the pool creativity.  And, even if I did have the talent, I didn’t have the understanding that one could study something like writing, and then become:  a journalist, or a copywriter, or a ghost-writer, or a children’s book author, or a teacher, or an editor.  I never made that connective leap from education to profession.

So, I got a degree in political science, ’cause that’s what I had the most credits in…Oh, and a Russian minor.  I learned Russian in college.  I don’t remember much about that.

Now

I’ve been reading a lot of books lately about finding one’s calling.  A lot of my interest in this topic is the direct result of my husband, Erik, remaking himself and his career in this new economy.   I was discussing all of this one night with my husband’s awesome friend, Pamela Slim.  She recommended a book called, “Finding your own North Star” by Martha Beck.  It completely lit up my imagination about what I could do, and to why I was probably too scared to pursue it in the first place.

Next, Erik recommended “The War of Art” by Steven Pressfield. This book is a tough-love approach to getting your creative ass in gear.  Very good book – anyone trying to get something done…anything…should read it.

And at this moment, I’m reading Roseanne Cash’s book, Composed.  I saw an excerpt on Steven Pressfield’s site, which prompted me to read it.  She tells the story of her struggle to find, define, and eventually refine her creative self, as well as, the roles of mother, daughter, and wife.  It took her years.  It’s a good read, and her story is compelling.

Right now

At some point, after the kids are all settled in school, I think I’ll be ready for a change.  My husband thinks that I’m a frustrated creative.  I think he’s right.  Whenever I sit down to blog, or even color with my kids…I’m in an instant trance.  While painting some rooms recently, I found myself really enjoying the process.  Brush, paint, fine detail…I was a million miles away, in that good way of being a million miles away.

So, maybe at 42 I’m ready to explore my creative side.  Erik thinks I should go to RISD, and says I would probably never come back.  I’d maybe consider taking some writing courses.  I really like blogging and writing, but I know for sure that I’ll never figure out how to use a semi-colon correctly.

Looking Back Part II

When I was in 2nd grade there was a poster contest at my elementary school.  The topic was,  “What I Want to Be When I Grow Up.”  I had drawn a picture of a child sitting at a small table with her back to the viewer.   It had a forced perspective of a small room with only the writer and the table in the middle.  In large letters at the top I wrote…”I Want to Be a Storybook Writer.”  It won 2nd place.  I lost to a very gifted kid who was older than me.  He wanted to be an artist, and his poster truly proved it.  I remember what he drew to this day.  At the ceremony, I grimly accepted my certificate.  I shook the principal’s hand and sat back down.  Then to my mother’s horror, I firmly folded the golden certificate into a tiny square, and I pushed the folded paper deep into my little dress pocket.

My mortified mother didn’t understand how I felt.  I believe it was the first surfacing of my apathetic tendencies.  You see, I didn’t win…I wasn’t that good.  So, what was the point?

Well, I’m older now…hopefully a little wiser.  Maybe it’s time to pull that certificate back out.  I bet I could iron out those wrinkles just fine.

It may have a little sparkle left yet.

wrist-wrestling father – Orval Lund

On the maple wood we placed our elbows

and gripped hands, the object to bend

the other’s arm to the kitchen table.

We flexed our arms and waited for the sign.

I once shot a wild goose.

I once stood not twenty feet from a buck deer unnoticed.

I’ve seen a woods full of pink lady slippers.

I once caught a 19-inch trout on a tiny fly.

I’ve seen the Pacific, I’ve seen the Atlantic,

I’ve watched whales in each.

I once heard Lenny Bruce tell jokes.

I’ve seen Sandy Koufax pitch a baseball.

I’ve heard Paul Desmond play the saxophone.

I’ve been to London to see the Queen.

I’ve had dinner with a Nobel Prize poet.

I wrote a poem once with every word but one just right.

I’ve fathered two fine sons

and loved the same woman for twenty-five years.

But I’ve never been more amazed

than when I snapped my father’s arm down to the table.

etc…

So, I don’t want my blog to just be a food diary.  That would be a bore.  But it does take up a large part of my time now.  But, the other thing I have been doing is helping out at my son’s school.  I help with the reading and writing programs for a couple of classes.  I’m loving it.  Feels pretty good to help teach kids to read and write – ’cause I’m not teaching a kid really, I’m helping teach a person.

What could be better?

The Leaf and the Cloud – Mary Oliver (Work 1.)

I am a woman sixty years old and of no special courage.
Everyday-a little conversation with God, or his envoy
the tall pine, or the grass-swimming cricket.
Everyday-I study the difference between water and stone.
Everyday-I stare at the world;  I push the grass aside
and stare at the world.

The spring pickerel in the burn and shine of the tight-
packed water;
the sweetness of the child on the shore; also, its
radiant temper;
the snail climbing the morning glories, carrying
his heavy wheel;
the green throats of the lilies turning from the wind.
This is the world.

Comes the hunter under the red leaves;
come the hounds, on their stubbies;
like wind they pour through the grass,
like wind they pour up the hill;
like wind the twist and swirl in the long grass.

Everyday-I have work to do:
I feel my body rising through the water
not much more than a leaf;
and I feel like the child, crazed by beauty
or filled to bursting with woe;
and I am the snail in the universe of the leaves
trudging upward;
and I am the pale lily who believes in God,
though she has no word for it,

and I am the hunter, and I am the hounds,
and I am the fox, and I am the weeds of the field,
and I am the tunnel and the coolness under the earth,
and I am the pawprint in the dust,
I am the dusty toad who looks up unblinking
and sees (do you also see them?) the white clouds
in their blind, round-shouldered haste;

I am a woman sixty years old, and glory is my work.