On Love and Bliss

This post is primarily about love, in some of its myriad forms.

Earlier this week, I had a relatively rare moment of bliss. It was fleeting, it was unexpected, but it was very real.

I was driving to my new job (yay!) which shows all the signs of being truly meaningful, fun, and playing to many of my strengths. I was also thinking about my kids... about my son who is off to a good start in junior high; about my daughter who is also doing well beginning 4th grade. And about how amazing they both are in their own ways. And how lucky I am to have them, and have the ability to be present for them in the ways they deserve.

And I thought about my husband, who has taken the brunt of financial responsibility for all of us. And about how he has grown in the 20 years I've known him. And about how he has gracefully put up with my multitude of flaws during those same years.

And then I really thought about how loved I am... and how lucky I am.

And I thought about how self-love--being honest with yourself and striving to do what honors you-- is a component of being truly healthy and happy.

And I experienced a moment of immense joy--right in the center of my chest. In my heart chakra. And the beauty of it almost took my breath away.

I will carry the memory of it, because life does not often afford these moments. (At least, not to me!)

Wishing all of you those snippets of bliss, also!

A Potential Improvement in My Writing (or, My Life Is Like a Piece of Carrot Cake)

A week ago, I came up with an idea for a poem that I really liked. It also happened to fit in with the theme of "last" which is a convenient coincidence, timing-wise, for a submission to the Last Man Anthology.

So I started writing it that day. And I liked my first draft quite a bit. Actually, I liked the idea I had come up with, and the world in which this idea plays out. It needs some work. I told myself. Usually things do. How often do writers get something "right" on the first draft? Not very often. I have occasionally--very occasionally--done so with poems. (Case in point--the poem that was accepted by Strong Verse--I'm still waiting to hear on when it will be featured on their site. It's titled "This Is Why I Hurt You" in case you are interested.)

Last weekend, I pulled up the work-in-progress on my computer. No, not right. I fiddled with it. I know that one of the first things I have do with my writing when I look back at the first spewing is correct the redundant words. So I did that. Made a few alterations. Saved it.

I worked on it again several times this week. Everytime I worked on it, it got better. I found an inconsistency with the logic, and fixed it. I made the wording tighter. I tweaked the imagery a bit. Still not there. I saved it and closed the file. I bitched a bit on my Twitter feed.

I re-opened it today, on the much lauded Day Off From Paid Job So That I Can Write.* I dug in. Again, I had the feeling of I really like this, but... I took a break from it and checked Facebook, my email, etc. I was at the writing office--the coffee shop--with my husband who was working out-of-office.

He babbled something about health information interfaces. That may sound weird, but he wasn't sweet-talking me or anything--this is what he does for work. (If he were sweet-talking me, it would involve seeing a scifi flick, dinner out, or chocolate.) "Yea," I said he when he was done complaining about a server or an applet or something, "I have something for you to read if you need a break from that." He looked at me warily.

"How about you look at the desserts with me?" he asked. Okay, but I wasn't going to be distracted for long.

(I should add at this point that husband is not overly fond of everything I write. He likes things pretty concise and I'm not always that concise. I tend to write like I speak. Also, he really does not care that much for poetry, and I write A LOT of poetry.)

We returned to our table with a piece of carrot cake the size of our son's head.

Really, this was a LARGE piece of carrot cake. It attracted attention. It caused a general discussion among us and every other patron in the shop--"Please tell me that's awful once you taste it!" and "Wow, it's a good thing there's two of you!" "I'm sure it will be terrible," I promised the ladies in back of us as we sat down. We both took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. Not to be waylaid, I pulled the poem up on my computer screen and positioned it toward him. He took another few bites of cake (for strength?) and began to read. I tactfully stepped outside to make a phone call.

When I returned from my call, he had finished reading and was back to staring at his laptop screen. "It wasn't...'right', was it?" I asked, not knowing how else to verbalize what I was feeling. He gave me a don't throw carrot cake look. "No, it's not," he said. It's . . .

But then it hit me. This wasn't a poem--the idea is too big. It's a story. "It's a story." I blurted out. "I'm trying to do too much. . .I have this idea, but the idea is really bigger than a poem." I swear, he looked relieved.

"I agree," he said. "You've created this whole world with all this detail, and it just can't all fit in here."

"You're right." I responded, somewhat sadly. I sat down. I eyed the carrot cake, which had seemed like just the thing at the time, but I no longer wanted any--once I'd dug into it, it also had chunks of fruit. I couldn't abide that--it was a sensory nightmare, despite the awesome cream cheese frosting. "I write poetry, because that's what I have time for. It so hard to keep up the momentum to write anything longer. But we're right--it's a short story, or maybe a piece of flash fiction."

And that's my life. A big, juicy piece of carrot cake, falling off the edges of the dessert plate, filled with walnuts and currants and golden raisins. It's too full. I so desperately want more time to write--and to improve my writing. I love to write--I love the way that words are tools, and you can mix and match and combine them to create moods, new mental pictures. . . or transform existing ones in creative or unique ways. BUT our reality is that we need me to have an income. And if I don't have an income, we need to move.

I want my carrot cake, but it doesn't need currants in it. It doesn't need raisins. It needs cream cheese frosting, some cinnamon, and carrots. And I'd share it with my husband and family, no matter what the size.

So I'll take that poem, turn it into the story it needs to be. And hopefully, get it done soon so that I can submit it. And hopefully, not make myself crazy as strive to do "everything."





* The much lauded DOFPJSTICW usually entails running errands for the kids, laundry, picking up house, and doing work for paid job. At least I'm usually at the coffee shop doing it, though.

Russian Dolls

I cannot get the image of Russian dolls out of my head. I'm sure you've at least seen a picture of them--A painted "doll" on a vaguely human-shaped box. You open it up, and inside is nested another doll. You open that one--guess what another doll! And so on...

Do we come into our lives as Russian dolls? If so, is life about exposing each new layer at random or pre-determined times, so that at the end we get to the "core" of who we are?

Maybe, the metaphor works in reverse--we come into life small and unformed, and as we progress through space and time we acquire new layers of who we are. Does that mean that at the end of our lives we have become removed from the essence of what we once were? Does it mean we spend our lives "becoming?"

If I am to play with this metaphor, I think I most often feel like I have built up layers around myself. But that is not to say that the layers are not useful; they have added a complexity and a sharpness that was not formerly present.

But sometimes it hurts to feel the burden of the layers--the weight of them pressing upon me. One layer is "society." It it made up of expectations and roles and all the ways in which others judge who or how I should be. It is made up of the ways in which I have learned to navigate my way through, the ways in which I have altered or changed the way I would otherwise be. There is a layer "family. A layer "job." A layer dedicated to all the joy I have ever experienced--and another that shades that joy like a dark woolen cloak--made up of the pain and disappointment life has thrown my way.

What does it mean, then, to love? To be truly intimate with another person? Does it mean you can cast off your layers and show that person your inner doll?

I'm going to ponder all this some more. I welcome your thoughts.

Losing the Fear

It has been a huge a few weeks for me, in terms of my inner growth. So many little shifts and adjustments in my thinking; to how I interact with world; how I make sense of others' actions and how I integrate all of these within myself. It would be impossible to relay to anyone else how monumental some of these shifts have been. But there is one change that I can describe and quantify fairly well.

I am no longer afraid.

It's not like I'm not afraid of anything. I still have a fight-or-flight response, and am fearful of things that are truly horrifying--the prospect of losing my eyesight, eating lobster, or being held against my will by Ann Coulter spring to mind. The kind of fear I have lost is my fear of trying to manifest the kind of future I want. Before now, I never truly tried as hard as I could to write more and get my writing "out there" because I could fail. Because I could find out that I was not that good at it. And where would I go from there?

Now I am willing to risk it. I am ready for the prospect that I am not as talented as I would like to be. It's okay now. Maybe it's a mid-life thing. What do I have to lose by trying? I am already blessed in so many ways. If my writing career doesn't pan out, I still have an amazing family, truly wonderful children, and many strong and loving relationships with people I care about. I have lived through some really painful life experiences, and I have come out okay. And I am happy.

One of my best friends has this quote under her Facebook profile photo: "Life is too short to be subtle."

That is my new motto.