Shaft of Sunlight

New Website!

2010-06-11T05:54:00.000-07:00

I am now blogging at at my new website. Archives of this blog can be found there. Thanks! ~Kimberly

Updates on A Writing Retreat, and Starting Goodbye Hugs

2009-07-20T20:08:00.000-07:00

I am sitting drinking a glass of port at Mackaye Harbor Inn, a Georgian style bed and breakfast on Lopez island. I first stayed at this B&B when I was 13. I last stayed here when I was 22, right before my senior year of college. I now sit here about 2 weeks away from moving across the country to Connecticut, hoping I will get to come back and stay a night again one day. B&B's have always been to me the height of traveler's delight: fancy pillows, chocolates and tea, all sorts of travelers to make friends with over breakfast. Growing up, we usually camped, but once every so often, we got to enjoy a B&B. Happy memories.

For this trip to Lopez I am actually staying in my usual spot—a little cabin Holly B. the baker owns. But, I was out for a drive tonight, listening to Patty Griffin and watching the light in the trees, and I happened to end up here at Mackaye Harbor Inn. I got out of my car and went down memory lane, peaking into the windows and such. The owner soon arrived on his bike, and he offered me a glass of port and said I could sit in his carriage house, which overlooks the water. So, here I sit.

I forgot my camera, or I would let you in on this view. The water is shimmering and the lone sailboat is elegant. A few people are finishing up kayaking for the day.

It's my last night on Lopez this summer and the conclusion of yet another writing retreat. My first such retreat was here 3 years ago, a retreat that actually helped me produce a story that ended up being my first published piece. It's good to reflect on the last several years and feel all the gratitude for a journey that proves ever mysterious, though grace-filled.

Today, it's been harder to focus on my writing, because I think I'm starting to really get it that I am saying goodbye to Seattle in less than 2 weeks now. These past few years have been a season of such exquisite community—so many people who taught me about love and kindness and joy and generosity. I am glad it is hard to leave, but the gratitude doesn't make the parting easier.

I am never good at endings, even the simple endings of regular moments in a day. I want to hug Seattle a 100 times before I leave. This particular technique is how we say goodbye in my family. Lots of hugs. You start the hugs about 20 minutes before you leave because there are ever so many rounds of them. So, I guess it's time to start my hugs....

At least at this point in my life, I've come to trust that there is a place prepared for me as I step ahead into the unknown. But, I hope life circles back; I hope there can be an integration of favorite people to come and the dear ones I will be saying goodbye to.

Classes for this Summer

2009-06-08T11:32:00.001-07:00

Writing (and Living!) From Your Body

~A seminar for writers, therapists, and entrepreneurs~

or anyone who wants to explore the value of mind/body connection in the work that they do

We don’t live in our bodies well.

Since at least the time of the Enlightenment, Western science and philosophy has privileged the “rational” mind over the feeling body. “I think therefore I am,” said Descartes, famously locating human existence—and the knowledge we gather of the world around us—solely in abstract mental processes. To Descartes and the ensuing rationalist legacy, trustworthy knowledge was not in a sensing, experiencing body, but rather in the “objective” mind somehow removed from the body.

And yet, in more and more postmodern disciplines (from psychotherapy to linguistics to feminist theory), we are seeing a resurrection of the “body as text”—the idea that the body actually houses a wellspring of knowledge about ourselves and our world. This class is space for you to consider the value of integrating “body knowledge” into traditional assumptions about how we come to know what we know. We will ask questions like:

· In valuing the mind as apart from the body, and in defining reason as abstract and transcendent, how have we lost the concrete, incarnate nature of knowledge?

· How has disconnection from our bodies affected our work? Our relationships? Our connection to our physical environment?

· How could the practice of writing and journaling serve to reconnect us to “body knowledge?”

The class will both explore relevant theory from diverse discipline and offer practical techniques for living, writing, and creating a more embodied life.

Dates: Fridays, June 19 & 26, July 3, 10, & 17

Time: 9:30–11:00 a.m.

Location: 444 Ravenna Blvd., #309, Seattle, WA 98115

Instructor: Kimberly George

Cost: $125 for the 5-week course. $25 deposit will hold your registration. Class limited to the first 5 people who register. To register or receive more information, please email: writeexpressions@gmail.com

Fairy Dust, Walden Pond, and Yale Divinity School

2009-04-21T16:11:00.000-07:00

My friend Elizabeth says I have fairy dust—meaning, that I seem to have a knack for sprinkling some magic in my life and making my dreams come true. Other people have said similar things: "Just how did you get that opportunity?" or, "It seems that one moment I hear about you setting a goal and the next I hear you've done it."

It's funny. I usually get a little defensive when these comments come my way, especially if the person saying them doesn't know my daily life. (Elizabeth, of course, has been there every step of the way these past several years. She totally understands the sweat and the tears that go into a fairy-dusted life, so she can say that!)

But, to those who don't see my daily challenges that come with dreaming my dreams, I often want to explain that I don't experience my life the way it may seem at a distance. My fairy dust comes at a cost. What looks like fairy dust is actually heaps of unrequited desire, hard work, and long periods with little feedback from the world that my life trajectory makes much sense. I mean, I am a young, unknown writer; for many hours a week, I sit alone at my computer, writing away for me, myself, and I. Meanwhile, the world doesn't really care. I don't get a paycheck. At the end of the day, I get a few more steps forward in the direction of my dreams.

And here's my life dream—it's fairly simply, really. I want to have my life set up in a way that I get to wake up every morning, have a cup of coffee, and write for 3-4 hours. Then, I want to teach for 3-4 hours. Then, I want evenings filled with good books, people I love, and lingering dinners. And in the midst of the writing, the teaching, the being, and the loving, I want to hope and labor for a more just world (equality between men and women, economic justice, care for our earth). There you have it. In the midst of all my ideals, I really just want a daily life filled with satisfying work, financial stability, community, and creativity.

Achieving all that is not easy...not at all easy. Just to afford to be a writer requires way more risk-taking and personal growth than I could have ever predicted, because it means on one hand I have to become a business woman, and on the other hand I have to be an artist. It is hard to develop my skills in both of those worlds.

Speaking of risk-taking, Elizabeth was beside me last summer when I determined I needed to figure out a way to go on a 3–4 week writing retreat in the fall. I knew that I needed to really enter the psychological space of my book and get about 10,000 words written and figure out what this whole 2-year project was really about. But, my dream felt silly. Who can take three weeks off work—the kind of work that pays one's bills (and yes, I do that kind of work, too)—to write a book that might never be anything but a manuscript in my drawer? On the one hand, the idea of the retreat felt so luxurious, and on the other hand, I was terrified. Three weeks of just writing? Three weeks of wrestling my inner critic?

But, as it happened, Elizabeth and I went camping on Lopez Island last August, and I decided that Lopez was the place I simply had to be in fall of 2008 for my new imagined writing retreat. I had pictured the details perfectly in my mind: the strawberry scones from Holly B's Bakery for breakfast, afternoon walks by the water for inspiration, long hours in the village library spent drafting my chapters. During the camping trip, I put up advertisements ("Looking for Walden" was the title on my flyer). I chatted it up with the people at the local market. I even emailed churches and individuals all over the San Juans trying to find a reasonable place to rent anywhere in the islands.

No one ever wrote me back, which is a curious thing in retrospect. Elizabeth says she is pretty sure angels were guarding the door.

I ended up going to Boston for that writing retreat (thanks to a surprisingly cheap plane ticket and Holly hooking me up with a lovely place to housesit). And before I left Seattle, I was unreasonably frightened. It did not feel easy at all to do this trip. If Lopez for 3 weeks felt crazy, flying across the country just to nurture my writing felt even crazier.

While in Boston writing this book on gender and spirituality, I ended up spending one glorious day in a Harvard library doing research and looking at manuscripts of the feminists of the history books. I couldn't believe the resources available at an institution like that. Eventually, I had a few conversations that led me to look at the programs at Harvard Divinity School. I proceeded to fall head over heels for the classes they offer in gender studies.

But, as things go, I applied to another school, too: Yale Divinity School. Which was a good thing, because I didn't get into HDS, but YDS has been kind enough to offer me a full scholarship in their gender studies program. So, I am overjoyed for where I get to be this fall, and yet...it's been an adjustment. There were reasons I wanted Harvard—there were classes there quite unique to my field of study that are really not the same at Yale.

And yet...there is a reception and hospitality at Yale that is striking. And, more and more, I am finding new paths to explore at Yale that I am most excited about, like the focus on environmental issues at YDS that actually pairs brilliantly with gender studies. My path will look different at Yale—I know that—but I am getting more and more thrilled about the unknown that awaits me this fall.

All that to say, it is always a curious thing when what you thought you wanted doesn't happen...and yet the gift you are being given is pregnant with so much possibility. Perhaps, our deepest desires are meanwhile being lived out, despite the doors that have stayed locked...in the midst of the surprising ones that are opening.

The other day, I was cleaning out my files on my desk, the antique, leather-topped one my dad bought me when I was 13 so that I could write "a great American novel" on it. While sorting through forgotten papers, I found a crumpled up advertisement: "Looking for Walden," it read. "Young writer looking for a cabin to rent on Lopez Island...."

I gasped.

But, I found Walden. The real one.

While in Boston last fall, I had spent a morning walking Thoreau's Walden Pond, a small lake about 45 minutes outside of Boston. But I had never connected this walk to my original message to the universe....

My move to Connecticut this fall feels something like this—mysterious and inspiring and unpredictable— and deeply connected to the desires that have been gestating in me.

Thank you to those of you who have been part of this journey of getting me there. I am more and more convinced that dreams are born from supportive communities, for an individual cannot live her dreams alone. Achieving life goals takes hard work and lots and lots of love from family and friends...and I will concede, perhaps some fairy dust to mix with the love and the sweat.

Seminar for Artists and Writers

2009-03-20T14:08:00.000-07:00

Censor the body and you censor breath and speech at the same time. Write yourself. Your body must be heard. 
-- Helene Cixous (from "The Laugh of the Medusa")

Readers! I have posted information below on the 5-week writing class I will be teaching starting next Friday. I would love to have you join. Here is a summary of the course and the sign-up details you will need to know:

Title of Class: Writing From the Body

Course Content:
What does it mean to attend to the body when we write? When we read? How does reading one’s body open up the creative process? Most artists are already aware that their bodies are “texts”; however, since Western epistemology so strongly reinforces a mind-body split, one task of the artist is to be intentional about healing the schism. This seminar will delve into questions like:

• In valuing the mind as apart from the body, and in defining reason as abstract and transcendent, how have we lost the concrete, incarnate nature of knowledge?

• How has disconnection from our bodies impacted the manufacturing of inauthentic self-expression?

• How would “writing from the body” gift us with freedom?

• What is the role of caring well for the body in the life of the artist?

The seminar will both explore relevant theory from diverse disciplines (including relational psychology, feminism, literature, and linguistics) and offer practical techniques for creating embodied writing/art. While the seminar can serve as an aid to those specifically practicing creative writing, it is more broadly designed to be a class on the creative process itself and how to unlock artistic expression. People of all skill levels are invited to join.

Dates: Fridays, March 27, April 3, 10, 17, & 24
Time: 9:30-11:00 a.m.
Location: 444 Ravenna Blvd., #309, Seattle, WA 98115
Instructor: Kimberly George
Cost: $125 for the 5-week course ($25 per 1.5 hour session) due the first week of class. $25 deposit will hold your registration.

To register or receive more information, please email:
writeexpressions at gmail dot com (That's obviously the spam-proofed version of my email, so change it to the real thing when you write!)

5 Things.

2009-03-02T10:01:00.000-08:00

1. With the aid of a daily dosage of antihistamines, I am falling in love with two dogs—Cali and Danali, who are roommates of mine in my new home. I have never gotten along with dogs, and not because I am an unkind person, but rather because their dander makes me miserable. But, I seem to have found the right combination: medication that works, and two dogs who are great at keeping me company, but who understand that I can’t cuddle with them. On rare days, I let myself pet them, but that is dangerous territory. Usually, I just talk to them a lot and remind them not too feel rejected even thought I can’t touch them. I really like, though, how Cali just puts her nose on my lap when I write, and Danali just flops beside us looking sagely. Dogs are great company for a writer.

2. Soon, I will know my fate for next fall. If I don’t get into school, then I need to come up with a great plan to travel the world or something. Actually, England keeps popping to mind…perhaps I could live in Bath or London…or work on a farm somewhere in Ireland…or a vineyard in Italy…or…hmmm…just trying to remind myself that the world is vast. (However, just so the Universe doesn’t get confused here…my openness to possibilities doesn’t mean I don’t most desire to be in academia again, amidst great classes and conversation and resources for the topics that most excite me….) I will find out the answer from the Universe, or rather the answer from admissions teams, on March 15.

3. I need Spring to come. In more ways than one. Daily, I check the little patch of crocuses in the front lawn…they are mentoring me. They know when to be still as little seeds. They know when to follow the sunshine. They know when to offer their bold expression to the world. Rest, patience, tenderness, strength, beauty. This is what I am learning under their tutelage.

4. My friends are all preparing to graduate this May from their counseling psychology program, which would have been my degree if I had not decided to pull out of school, delve into my book project, and research a new school. It is always interesting…that road not taken. I am glad life has so many choices. I seem to get to know myself better with each new choice I make. And while I have never regretted not completing that Masters program, it is an odd juxtaposition these days as I wait to hear back from schools.

5. I have fallen for all things lavender. If you want to delight me, you can send me lavender salad dressing or shampoo or lip balm or ice-cream. Yes, lavender ice-cream. It’s delicious. Like anything in life that I get excited about, I tend to over-do it. I am trying to pace myself with my lavender love, but it does often seem that the fun is in not practicing moderation, but simply plunging in.

Re-thinking Today's Verbs

2009-01-29T15:05:00.000-08:00

I read an article today about one of the best violinists in the world, Joshua Bell, playing musical masterpieces on a 3.5 million dollar instrument at a metro station in Washington D.C, while hundreds passed by oblivious.

The article explains, “No one knew it, but the fiddler standing against a bare wall outside the Metro in an indoor arcade at the top of the escalators was one of the finest classical musicians in the world, playing some of the most elegant music ever written on one of the most valuable violins ever made. His performance was arranged by The Washington Post as an experiment in context, perception and priorities -- as well as an unblinking assessment of public taste: In a banal setting at an inconvenient time, would beauty transcend?”

The answer, in a nutshell, was no. Joshua Bell got a few nods and some spare change.

Arguably there are many reasons for a thousand people to walk by and hardly notice brilliance. We are busy. We are late for work. We are out of a context to recognize genius. We are inundated with requests for our time and our money. Our eyes our weary, spending their days bouncing back and forth between inboxes, bank accounts, Facebook pages. Our ears have grown deaf to the chatters and hums and beats that mark the monotonous rhythms of the afternoon. Our thoughts are obsessing, calculating, and getting lost in our unspoken griefs or hopes or plans.

We are, as T.S. Eliot reminds us in Burnt Norton, “distracted from distraction by distraction.” Many of our “distractions” our entirely necessary and good: bills certainly need to be paid, emails need to be written, grief needs to be grieved, hopes need to be dreamed up, stored up, pondered.

And yet this article still made something explode inside me, even if I know full well why hundreds of people ignored Joshua Bell. I just know that I don’t want to live my life ignoring beauty. I don’t want to not see the “trees with the lights in it,” as Annie Dillard writes.

Somehow, as I have gotten older, my brain has gotten re-wired more for to-do lists than rest; more for frenzy than presence. I want to remember how to take a walk and notice the sky and the air; observe the murmurs of life; see that whimsical boy delighting in bugs on the sidewalk.

After I read this article today, I looked up at my day’s to-do list, which I hang every morning on my dining room wall. In a blue Sketchers marker, its notes remind me to read, teach, write, call, email, plan, pack….Perhaps the list needs a few more verbs.

Listen. Notice. Receive.

Writing Retreats and My Internal Critic

2009-01-23T12:39:00.000-08:00

In my continuing tale of fantastic gifts from the universe, I got to go to Oregon last weekend for a writing retreat. I finished my last graduate school application on Thursday and then left Friday morning for Portland. I was happy to be done with the applications, and though rather tired, I was eager to delve back into my book project. This place in Portland was fantastic: sunshine galore, a cozy guest bedroom, a space to dance and stretch my limbs, a puppy that munched on my toes. (OK, that last feature was not entirely pleasant! But she was adorable, despite my allergies and inability to touch her!)

Now, I have been on enough writing retreats to know that writing is hard wherever one is, and yet there is something so helpful about putting myself in a new space in order to trigger new thoughts and sensations. And yet, I inevitably spend the first 24-hours of any writing retreat battling the demons of self-doubt and loneliness and spiraling into an intense session with my Internal Critic.

But, at least I know this process now—I know that before I find that free place with words, I have to get through all my fears that arise whenever I enter creative space. My friend Nick says to "bow" to the fear. I think he is right. There is something about not resisting, but acknowledging its presence that actually helps me. Some days I even banter with it. "Well, how are you this morning, Wretched One!?! Not a surprise to see you. Perhaps if I befriend you, you will be kinder to me today...."

So, I have decided to copy an excerpt of a journal entry, written last weekend while battling my Internal Critic on my writing retreat. I think that when I say I go away for writing retreats that most people aren't quite sure what I do! Well, in addition to drinking lots of tea, obsessing over passages in my book, and reading excerpts of inspiring authors, I am simply trying to come to terms with the writing process itself. I am trying to befriend my Internal Critic. Here's what the process is like in my own head:

I am trying to be kind to myself today, because I know that in this life of writing I am struggling to find something precious: a kind of salvation; a release of control; intimacy with my unconscious; a freely moving song. But if that is the case—if so much of what writing essentially is is so different from how I live my controlled, disciplined life—no wonder I feel like I am wrestling with a juggernaut as I sit down to write. This task is hard not because I am not good with language, but because I am not yet free to access my own un-muted self. And perhaps that is why I cannot stay away from it, because within it I sense something very true of me wanting to be born again and again, released like sparks in my fingerstips.

Writing is not simply the task of putting one sentence down after another. It is the task of laying down words faster than my editor can keep up with me, until that imperceptible transition comes and I’ve found a rhythm, no Internal Critic in my consciousness. Then, I write well and only stop writing well when I realize I am doing it—kind of like when I first was learning how to ride a bike. To become conscious of the freedom is to risk slipping into the controlling anxieties that fear the wildness of fingers that speak more intuitively than the pace of the mind.

Writing for me is a maddening collection of opposites that must learn to co-exist in the work. I know that it is my obsession that make me a good writer and my obsession that makes me a poor, worried writer, spinning in circles with fears and words. It is my hard work that gives me the perseverance to keep at this, but also my hard work that stifles the play and the laziness that are so essential to the spontaneity of creation. It is my reflective, analytical mind that gives me the words to frame a way of seeing—it is also my overactive mind that keeps me from being in a moment, present to my body's knowledge and senses, which is essential for good writing.

Ask and You Shall Receive

2008-12-30T17:00:00.000-08:00

The Universe is clearly playing with me. In the past 2 weeks, the following things have freely come to me, which have all delighted my heart immensely:

Gerber daisies, randomly given, by the Trader Joe’s grocery man when I was purchasing bread, cheese, and pears. In an act of clairvoyance—or perhaps simple compassion—he intuited I needed vivid, fuchsia petals for my kitchen counter, so he put a free bouquet in with my groceries.

A year pass to the Seattle Art Museum to feed my creative soul from an extremely thoughtful student/friend.

Extremely inexpensive housing for 6 months! Oh my gosh. This is crazy. Someone wants to be my patron while I finish up my book. It will be hard to give up my adored, Queen Anne home…but how does one become a writer if not for the kindness of those who support her? I am so grateful.

2 free, yummy dinners already this week. (Sushi last night—thanks Tara and Daniel—and now homemade soup from my friend Phil who says he wants to cook for a “starving artist." Well, how nice.)

A random check in the mail from a beloved one who decided to “tithe” part of a gift to me.

And now, as I write this very blog, if you can believe it, the barista here has just offered me a free cup of coffee. (I mean, I had planned to pay for it...but I don't want to disrupt the generosity of the universe.)

Why this flood of gifts? I LOVE it. These little and large encouragements help me to keep writing..trusting that the Universe is conspiring with me as I risk the direction of my dreams. (Do you know that line in the Alchemist? You should go read it if you don't. Really, go find that book.) Trying to write has been harder than I ever could have imagined, but there is this sovereign, crazy, blessed journey to the whole thing.

7 Things I Loved About Christmas

2008-12-29T15:29:00.000-08:00

1. Nostalgic sledding at Manito Park on midnight of Christmas Eve. The snow was perfectly magical and the sky was glowing with the reflected lights of the city. It was like being a little kid again, except Laura's parents spiked our thermos of hot cocoa with peppermint Schnapps.

2. Christmas Eve service before the sledding. Little kids dressed up. Babies sleeping in their parents' arms. Remembering Incarnation.

3. Going downtown to my favorite bookstore—Auntie's—and seeing 4 people I knew. I still like small towns. I like that each face might be a familiar one. And I love that Spokane still supports a locally owned bookstore.

4. Having a very large family that is totally crazy but still loves to be together. Seeing my cousins all grown up. Doing our yearly family bowling "tournament." Laughing. Debating politics. Trying not to talk too much about politics. Realizing I am lucky to have this family.

5. Getting cozy gifts: slippers, hot pink and striped flannel pajamas, gift-cards for massages! Hooray. I feel spoiled. (And I want to wear my new slippers everywhere. My feet are so happy in them.)

6. Amazing food: crab manicotti, baklava, yummy drinks sprinkled with candy cane pieces, my sister's homemade bread and soup. Having my mom make me turkey bacon and eggs every morning. Just like when I used to come home from college. Rolling out of bed to a hot breakfast is such a treat.

7. Flying back into Seattle and still getting excited when I see the lights of the city. Remembering where I was last year... curious what this next year will hold for this wandering, wondering heart.

Mrs. Soderberg and 7-Million Dollar Frustrations

2008-12-08T19:03:00.000-08:00

Mrs. Soderberg was simply not a very nice person. I wish I could say this all more kindly, but the truth must be told.

This ever-memorable and very mean woman was my 7th grade Language Arts teacher, and she would roam the aisles of her class, moving amongst our desks and looking over our shoulders as we labored to diagram sentence after sentence under her cruel gaze.

Rumor has it that Mrs. Soderberg was a beauty queen in her youth. I don't like beauty competitions of any sort, and I certainly don't think her crown was beneficial to her life as a whole. Once its luster faded, she turned to torturing 13-year-old boys and girls and making sure they felt very stupid if they forgot what a predicate nominative was (and oh dear...I believe I just typed a misplaced modifier at the beginning of this sentence). Her technique—hovering over frightened pubescents— was how she retained her power. I have never felt even a scintilla of appreciation for Mrs. Soderberg.

Until now.

I came across this sentence tonight:

“I had great faith that, you know, perhaps when that voter entered that voting booth and closed that curtain that what would kick in for them was, perhaps, a bold step that would have to be taken in casting a vote for us, but having to put a lot of faith in that commitment we tried to articulate that we were the true change agent that would progress this nation.”

Now, it is not so much the sentence that bothers me (though it is certainly a conundrum to diagram), but what really bothers me is that the owner of the wretched sentence is reported to be on the verge of a 7-million dollar book deal.

If you have been following the happenings at publishing houses this week, you would know that there have been terrible cuts and layoffs. Times are tough. Many very good writers have very little shot at getting book deals for a very long time. Books are not recession proof and the production of art suffers in difficult economic times.

However, the owner of that aforementioned sentence will have her book deal.

The other thing I did not tell you about Mrs. Soderberg is that rumor has it she passed away 5-years ago, which honestly makes me sad. However, I am not above praying that her ghost will forever haunt Ms. Sarah Palin and force her to diagram her own damn sentences. That is the only justice I can think of—the only fitting retribution.

(I told you this post wouldn't be terribly kind. And I didn't even get into Joe the Plumber's book deal. Sigh. If you want to read more lament on this matter, go to the New York Times.)

Final Look at Boston!

2008-11-03T15:04:00.000-08:00

I am back in Seattle! Missing Boston, but happy to be back in another city that I find so charming. Seattle is dressed up in yellows this week...the view from my apartment is fantastic.

Here are a few pics from Boston: me kissing Thoreau at Walden pond, a few photos taken from the Old North Bridge (where the Revolutionary War started), and me touching the journal of Alice Paul (if you are a woman voting on Tuesday, you can thank her for the 19th amendment).

Boston Update #4

2008-10-22T14:13:00.000-07:00

Boston continues to be inspirational to me. I have had mini-revolutions in my mind and heart…new ways of seeing and understanding my book. I am, however, somewhat overwhelmed by how to translate my new ways of seeing into the book itself.

I was at an eccentric museum the other day and was so drawn to this small awkward sketch of a dancer on the wall. She was not perfect. But she took my gaze and invited me to see something, though I was not sure what I was being invited to see.

The curator there had already sort of befriended me. He was a kind, bearded old man with a passion for art and a thick accent. He saw me looking at the sketch. I asked him to tell me its story. He asked me if I had noticed the French writing at the top of the sketch…I hadn’t. He explained it translated, “Sorry for the imperfections…I had to draw her with my left hand.”

The artist of the sketch is Degas, the famous French impressionist. The curator explained to me that he drew the picture for a dear friend of his, but because Degas would spend sometimes 20 hours a day painting with his right hand, he was injured and had to sketch this one with his left.

So that explained the awkwardness. But it also explained to me why I was intrigued; why I found it so beautiful.

I am not comparing myself to genius…but I do feel like the act of translating my heart into words on a page is like trying to draw with my left hand. (And I can’t even draw with my right hand.) Words are so difficult, “a raid on the inarticulate” as Eliot says.

But, I love that awkward dancer, because I am reminded again that it is not perfection that is always the most compelling. Something important is worth doing, even if you cannot do it perfectly. The more I think on, dwell in, reflect, love (and yes hate!) my book project, and the more I see so much more about the topic I am writing on…the more my mind and heart expand…but can I communicate what I am seeing? Can I paint an impressionist painting with words…and can what is true and good overcome my awkwardness as a writer?

Boston Update #3

2008-10-17T18:54:00.000-07:00

OK, people, sorry no pictures for you, but here's a quick update.

My day started at 12:30 a.m. with pandemonium outside my window, thanks to a fabulous come from behind win by the Boston Red Sox. I was wanting to be sleeping, but I can totally appreciate such fanfare!

I spent my morning writing, and I discovered that not even getting out of bed, but just rolling over and grabbing my computer and starting right away before I am very awake actually makes for some good "rough drafting." I am learning that I write best very late at night and just after waking in the morning. I guess I write best when I am hovering between consciousness and dreamland. I think that the more awake I am, the more my internal editor gets hyper-vigilant. But when I am relaxed, the words flow.

I am at almost 45,000 words! This is exciting.

I then spent the afternoon walking around Harvard Square again and trying to track down how to get medicine I left in Seattle transferred to a pharmacy in Boston. That took hours to make happen...and I was feeling sick and frustrated. But, it is finally taken care of. It is good for me to know that I feel crappy when I don't take my medication, because then I can't be in denial that I need it! Hooray for living in a place with access to medical care.

After that fiasco, I worked some more, not on my book, but on that 100-women event happening in Seattle that I am helping to plan. See my other blog for more of that project. I am so excited about it, and so thrilled to get to work with some pretty amazing women who are all planning the event together. Yah for organizing! Now we are starting to spread word to other women in other cities, so that on Nov. 1, just days before the election, women will be gathering together, watching Iron Jawed Angels, and remembering to vote on election day! If you want to come to the event in Seattle, we still have a few tickets left. (You can find out how to register by going to my other blog.)

Boston: Update #2

2008-10-15T15:18:00.000-07:00

Today was an excellent "settling in" sort of day. I found my first neighborhood book store (see pic) and found my first delightful coffee shop (see pic). The pictures of cool looking buildings were ones I took while visiting my friend Deb in Providence, Rhode Island on Monday.

I am discovering something slightly terrifying about Boston—crazy 7-way intersections. Now, if you know me very well at all, you know I hate crossing the street. I love that Seattle tickets jay walkers or people crossing against the light, because I have at least an excuse for my timidity. But, here in Boston, I would never get anywhere if I always waited for the light, and nobody else ever does, so I feel so silly standing on the corner...but I can't keep track of which direction all the traffic is coming from, so I stand there looking perplexed. I suppose I'll get used to it. I am just so thankful I am not driving around here (and the Bostonians should be thankful for that, too).

Other than that nuisance, Boston has been very kind to me. So much for the rumors that east coasters are rude. I seem to be meeting all sorts of friendly people. Someone yesterday even payed for my subway ticket when mine appeared to not be working. I am sure there are reasons for the rumors of rudeness...but I have up to this point enjoyed very nice Bostonians.

I am feeling settled in. Writing went well today; yesterday I think I was feeling overwhelmed with the amount of time available to me. I expected my muse to show up immediately, and that is not how she works. But, today was a good start. I skimmed over my already written chapters and started to sense the unfolding story....

"Living the dream, Kim George."

2008-10-14T17:06:00.000-07:00

That’s what my friend Nick Vu says. He has been saying it for some time, and it has seeped into my imagination.

There are lovely moments when I feel like I really am "living the dream," like today when I was kicking leaves and meandering around Harvard Square. I then managed to navigate the 1.5 hour walk back to my home-away-from-home adorable Boston apartment, where I will be living and writing for the next several weeks. I could have taken the subway, but it was a perfect 70 degrees and there were too many things I wanted to notice along the way, like ivy-covered brick buildings and old bridges and, alas, cute men in sweater vests reading along the side of the river.

But tonight, my adrenaline for life has ceased and I just feel those lingering doubts and fears about what it will mean to attempt to get so much written these next few weeks. I have been given an amazing gift—several weeks of space to just plunge into the story of my book. I plan to write in the mornings until early afternoon, and then explore Boston into the late afternoon, looking for the types of beautiful places that make me come alive. But, whenever I go on these writing retreats (and up to this point, they have only been 4 days long), I must transition through all the frustration of self-doubt and loneliness that seem to enter whenever I try to find my voice and really risk on something.

(I will try to do frequent and short updates on my blog, not because anyone needs to care what I am thinking about on a daily basis, but because it feels like I am reaching out to home, and I like that feeling.)

Miss Holly Hibbert

2008-09-19T21:42:00.000-07:00

So, the girl who is in every one of these pictures (not including me) is Miss Holly Hibbert. Seattle recently had to surrender Holly back to the east coast. We are all very sad about this unfortunate fact. I spent most of the last half of my summer feeling positively glum about Holly's departure to her homeland (New York). Holly was the first person I met upon my return to Seattle 4 years ago, when my life felt turned upside down and I needed a kindred spirit. I really credit her with reintroducing me to so many good things in life.

Over the years, Holly and I were in numerous "groups" together. The top pic is West Wing (that's where we meet every 2 weeks to review our big picture life goals). The second pic is the dance group that Holly led for 3 years. Holly opened up to me my world of dance; I cannot imagine my life without my love of dance. We also partnered together to work at the homeless shelter at our church, our task being simply to pray for the women who sleep on the floor in our church basement. Holly has also been one of the crazy people who meet at my house every Wednesday at 7 a.m. to read aloud straight through the Bible (yes, we are reading it through from cover to cover, trying to experience the text as oral tradition). Holly also introduced me to Mars Hill Graduate School, a school I attended for 2 years. This list could really just keep going...I cannot think of a more influential friend—a friend whose life has been so interwoven with mine.

Holly taught me so much: interdependence (like how to ask your friends to take you to the airport at 5 a.m), how to dance with freedom, cook with more precision (still working on that), stop and cry when I need to cry; unabashedly delight in my own gifts; be honest about my own pain; enter the pain of others; pray from a place more true; and love with just a bit more courage.

She is too far away and I have moments of panic when I remember the distance between Seattle and New York. But, I have been absolutely wealthy with her presence in my life, and I am happy to learn to share...I am sure her family and friends in New York are so happy to have her back. Holly, I miss you!

Rafter Boy, and Other Happenings to Report From the Dance Floor

2008-09-02T23:09:00.000-07:00

He would later sheepishly tell me he was just trying out a dance move.

But when I initially looked up and saw Andy was upside down, swinging from the rafters, I momentarily wondered if I should help him to his feet. But I quickly decided that somehow Andy can get away with such ape-like maneuvers.

He and I, and a lovely batch of dear old high school friends, helped our friends Ryan and Sarah celebrate their nuptials this Sunday night. The dancing after the ceremony was on a boat on the Puget Sound, with the Seattle skyline glittering in the distance. I was in heaven. I twirled with abandon and felt the joy of old friendships rekindled. I did not, like Andy, take the liberty to somersault, but I felt just as high on life. And I have to say, that when I looked out onto that dance floor and saw the life stories in front of me, I realized this was not just a group of people who knew how to celebrate, but this also was a group of people who had accomplished some pretty beautiful things in the last decade. So many of these individuals are intent on bringing hope and change to this world, but they have not forgotten how to occupy a dance floor, either.

I woke up the next morning with that sweet sadness that comes when beautiful moments have too soon slipped into memories. The community and celebration of the night awakened something in me—I realized again I have gotten too serious. I need more dance parties. I need to take the time to be in touch with old friends. I need to be committed to the daily practice of living (as Andy pens it!) which means taking seriously the things I love. And I love the moments of my life when I step away from thinking, writing, laboring, planning, trying to change the world with my grandiose notions, and otherwise working hard…and I just let myself play and love and feel and twirl and be.

Guess Who is Turning 100?

2008-08-11T12:10:00.000-07:00

For those who get excited about such things, you might want to know that Anne of Green Gables is turning one-hundred this summer. Lucy Maud Montgomery first published her much-loved story in 1908, and a century later, generations of us still dote on her.

Like many teenage girls, at thirteen I discovered a heroine who had red hair and a fondness for breaking slates over boys’ heads. The adventures of Anne Shirley– all 8 books and 7 hours of VHS footage– became my master narrative of early teenage existence. I dreamed of going to a ball in the world’s puffiest sleeves. I wanted my own Lake of Shining Waters and a gaggle of girls to recite Tennyson with while I sailed away in a broken dory. And of course, I wanted to be rescued by Gilbert Blythe in a fishing hat, while I positioned my nose high in the air. (I am a feminist now, so I do question those “boy rescues damsel in distress” fantasies…but I still LOVE that scene.)

I guess I secretly wanted permission to be that spunky, that romantic, and that incorrigible. Anne Shirley did not edit herself or hold back her adventures, and everyone loved her– except when they thought she was a perfect heathen. It sounded like a fun life. I think for all of us Anne fans, her spirit is really just a portal to feel and love and walk our “ridge-poles” boldly.

This summer in Prince Edward Island a commemorative festival is being held in her honor. (Oh, if I could only go! One day that dream will come true.)

More on Reality, Dreams, and the Space In-Between

2008-07-28T12:03:00.000-07:00

I am going to dream for a moment without edits. I am going to pretend I have a full pallete of paint available. I am going to get rather messy with it and cover my hands and fingers, so I can fling it on the canvass rather un-carefully and watch the colors collide. There is something in me that wants to learn to create without reserve, to see what happens when I let go of controlling the substance. I feel that way about words on a page and I feel that way about life and my dreams. Where is the balance of technique and freedom to all of this? How much of a story, a relationship, a dance, a life’s dream ought to be crafted and planned, and how much of it must come by surprise?

This morning, I find myself in the midst of planning the future of my dreams, or at least trying to connect with the dreams gestating in me. With the fall approaching, there are so many decisions to be made about school applications and what I am going to do with my business and where I could potentially see myself living if school takes me away from Seattle.

As I think about my next steps in life and where I might possibly be a year from now, I am stuck between several thoughts: the practicalities (money, primarily), how much I appreciate my life here in Seattle and the people with whom I am journeying, and the need to allow myself to enter the expanse of my heart’s desires. There is so much to consider as I come to these next steps. I can’t throw out either practical needs or the depth of my connection to Seattle, but I also can’t shut out the quickening of desires.

I think that when we speak the words that are true of our desires, we help actualize those desires. So what do I want? It has been nearly two years since I quite a job that actually gave me health benefits, a regular schedule, and a good-sized salary. I journeyed through a grad program that gave me invaluable gifts, but ultimately was not a program I wanted to finish. I started writing a book, which is leading me deeper into the practice and struggles of the craft of writing. I find myself in the midst of this demanding book project, but I am also realizing I am in the midst of something quite larger than a book: I am trying to figure out what my writing will mean to me. How has it become the rhythm of my days? Sometimes, I have to check in with myself. Am I just obsessed and that is why I work so hard and prioritize so much of my life around writing? Or have a found a path that is truly part of my life’s most significant work, and I need to allow myself the freedom to keep plunging into it?

This morning, I have been researching MFA programs, which is a rather significant shift in thought from pursuing PhD programs in interdisciplinary studies. I am torn between the two, but for a time this morning I let myself skip around in MFA websites. I don’t have conclusions, but I did experience a clarity of desire:

I want a program with diverse faculty and staff. I want to talk with writers from other cultures and parts of the world.

I want a program where I get to travel. I want to be able to write in settings that inspire rest, contemplation, and risk-taking. I miss England and quaint cottages and ivy-laced buildings.

I want a program where I get to study and learn and practice teaching. Apart from writing, my other truest passion is teaching, and I want to be in a place with freedom to explore different approaches to pedagogy.

Whatever my degree ends up being, I don’t want to be locked up in academia. One day, I want to walk into a jail or a room of unruly adolescents or a retirement home and work with people on telling their stories and finding their voice. I want to teach at a college, too, but I need to be able to work outside of typical classrooms.

(If you happen to be of the praying type, I would love your prayers and thoughts for these decisions about school and life that seem to be waiting these days on my doorstep.)

Thoughts on Reality

2008-07-14T12:37:00.000-07:00

I have been doing a lot of thinking the past year about reality versus dreams. Here’s the problem, the best I can deduce it: if a person just submits to the harsh facts of reality, she does not try to re-create that reality. And yet, if she is always looking at her dreams, she is naïve. When I consider the reality of what I want to accomplish with my writing career, it is rather a dismal picture. Writers need platform and influence these days; publishers want important names. At this point in my 27 years, I have neither. I just have a passionate heart and a devotion to the craft. I also have gumption, says my friend Letha.

When I was 14, I remember my best friend Debbie and I deciding we wanted to live on Lopez Island for part of our summer break. We had fallen in love with this little gem of an island just off the coast of Washington. It is small and quaint and the friendliest island in the San Juans. After having taken a short weekend camping trip there with my mother, we were smitten with its charm: Everyone who passes you on the road waves, even if they just lift two fingers off the steering wheel. I noticed a cat bite actually made the news in the crime section of the Lopez newspaper. The dandelions that line the island roads have the look of dainty wildflowers. The island “dump” has all the hand me down books, furniture, clothes, and old appliances stacked and ordered and available to anyone in need. The bakery is the gathering place in the tiny village and home to the most amazing, fresh baked goods you will find.

After my first trip to Lopez one summer, I was determined to return and stay longer. So as 8th graders, Debbie and I went downtown to the Spokane library and asked the lady at the reference desk for the phone book to the San Juan Islands, which is a book the thickness of my thumb. We proceeded to look up the names of all the businesses on Lopez (I think there were 40) and sent letters in the mail offering our services in exchange for room and board. We eventually heard back from the lady who owns the Lopez Bakery. She did not want us to work; she wanted us to come and play and delight in the island. Which is exactly what we did. The summer before I started high school, my mother drove Debbie and I the 7 hours across the state and then we all took a ferry to the island. After meeting Holly B. (our hostess), my mom confirmed we had indeed found a kindred spirit. My mom left the next day, feeling good about my adventures.

Debbie and I had our own little cabin on Holly’s property. We dug potatoes in the garden, enjoyed her outdoor solar powered shower, ate strawberry scones and cinnamon rolls, rode bikes around the island, made friends with her 3 sons, and learned the pace of island life. It was a dream–the re-creation of reality. We infused reality with our desires and were able to live what we had imagined. And yet, we needed others to help us create it. We needed our mothers to believe in our adventures and we needed Holly’s exuberant hospitality to two strange girls.

I have been thinking that any one person’s dream requires many midwives. I am happy to carry my writing dream, nurture it, and let it gestate. I am grateful for the many people in my life who have offered love and grace to my journey– who have, if even for moments– been midwives to the life inside of me. But I am aware that reality is very stubborn. So, today, I find myself telling reality that I am more patient, more creative, and more persistent than it. I want to discover many “Lopez Islands” in my life– those places where reality gets to participate in my dreams.

A Celebration of Dancing Feet

2008-07-07T13:43:00.000-07:00

I am captivated by this 4-minute video.

An ordinary guy from Seattle started traveling around the world doing this silly dance and videotaping himself in different countries. He puts the clips on the internet. He gets semi-famous. A gum company (Strident) then hears about him and decides to pay for him to keep traveling all over the world and videotaping his silly dance, with others joining in. What he created is hard to put to words. It is a stunning piece of art. Trust me. You need to stop whatever you are doing and watch this.

May I recommend that you watch this video in the largest version you can on your computer screen. You'll need to see the human faces from all over the world.

You can get more information about this guy and his travels here.

On an annoyingly comical note, I read on his blog this story of someone who wrote into him (thousands of people write to him) who had this profound insight to share about his adventures:

"My question is what's the point? Has nothing to do with gum except raising the price because they're sending Matt all over the world for no particular reason. What's it have to do with gum? Are you doing anything on these trips? How about spreading the gospel of Jesus Christ and saving some souls."

My question is do some people try to be this annoying or does it come naturally?

Geesh.

Can you really watch this video and miss the beauty of God and humanity that is utterly on display here? I think there is more wonder and worship and joy in life here than in many church pews....

Pilgrimming

2008-06-24T12:52:00.000-07:00

I look out my window at Seattle and reaffirm my love for her…

even as something in my wise gut tells me she probably doesn’t have me for keeps. So much of me just wants to hunker down in this city and end my twenties here and build my thirties here. I adore her; she was the first city I really ever fell for. Before that, I never considered myself a city girl. I liked wide-open spaces. Too much pavement made my soul feel claustrophobic.

This weekend I traveled to Yakima, Washington for a wedding, and I remembered again how restful I feel with wide-open landscape, crickets in the evening, and the conspicuous absence of sirens. My friends and I built a fort and slept outside on the porch; somehow, it felt like being a kid again, and I loved it. Who knew little old Yakima, Washington could sweep me off my feet? I wish I could rent a cabin and have a writing retreat there. I want to hear crickets, drink evening tea, and write stories.

This next weekend I am traveling again, but this time to a city– Indianapolis. This will be my second trip back to the Mid-west in 3 months to attend a conference. I love exploring a new place and I so admire the women who are putting on the conference, so I am pretty thrilled at the chance to go. The conference is on Christian Feminism (and you thought that was an oxymoron.) It is run by the Evangelical and Ecumenical Women’s Caucus; I found out in early June that a full scholarship (including my airfare and hotel) was being provided for me. Incredible!

I will be meeting some wonderful writers (including Letha Dawson Scanzoni, a new friend of mine), as well as hopefully talking with some professors of Women’s Studies and Literature. I noticed several of the speakers at the conference have backgrounds in the academic disciplines in which I am interested.

It is time for me to get serious about graduate school applications in the fall. I am currently looking at programs in Literature and Cultural Studies, which would let me look at books as cultural artifacts, and then I could bring in studies of psychology, religion and feminism. My heart starts to flutter when I imagine being back in a classroom. It is hard for me to stay out for too long…but the process of being accepted in somewhere won’t be easy. And the process of being open to moving will take some time in my heart, too.

For Your Viewing Pleasure

2008-06-06T22:58:00.000-07:00

So, I think this 3-minute youtube clip is hilarious.

Maybe you have to be an aspiring writer to think it's so funny. I am not sure. But every time I want to distract myself from writing, I am tempted to watch this...again.

Ted.com

2008-06-04T21:02:00.000-07:00

Have you discovered this web site? You need to.

There are fabulous 20 minute talks by some of the world's most interesting people. Who doesn't have 20 minutes to be inspired?

I recommend the talk by Malcom Gladwell on how to be happy. You can click here to listen.

Oh gosh, I still have such a writer-crush on this guy. His great hair, his high-anxiety body language, his New York Times bestselling books...so adorable. I thought I had transferred my crush to Yann Martel, but I am smitten all over again by Malcolm.

Sigh.

Words on Words

2008-06-02T08:46:00.000-07:00

What I have learned about words is that they don’t respond well to control. They prefer surrender and freedom. They ask that I trust them a bit more. As Anne Lamott says, they wouldn’t mind if I would just learn that it is ok to make a mess. It is perfectly alright to splatter them over the page and trust…because the subconscious force of writing, that force which makes all the surprise and the energy, gets locked up when I am afraid of coloring outside the lines.

If words are my paint, and the page is my canvass, than I am invited to stand before the easel quite differently– than, say, if my words were little controlled specimens in a lab experiment. Last summer, when I finger painted for the first time since I was 7, I tasted something of this messy, colorful process that I would like to try with my words on a page.

But, as far as I can tell, there are two reasons I don’t trust making a mess. Very basically, I don’t trust I can clean it up. I am just learning to believe that in the disorder something will emerge that guides the telling of the story, and that I can trust the story. And the second reason I fear messes, is that I feel out of control and I simply hate looking at incompletion. I get anxious when I have to look down on the “shitty first draft” as Anne Lamott dubs it. I like to be in control (I know that will shock most of you.) And so, it is fascinating that I, at the moment, seem to be choosing words for my life vocation.

I spend most of my days wrestling with them; they are quite devilish.

My Writing Retreat

2008-05-19T08:54:00.000-07:00

It was a lovely weekend by the sea.

I took another writing retreat (these are getting more common in my life), but this one was much more restful and rejuvenating. I admit, I was rather proud of myself, because I think I am getting much better at cultivating a creative process that is actually enjoyable, and not just obsessive and exhausting. Last time I went to the cabin to write, I took one sorry little excursion away from my computer. This time, I allowed myself ample time to roam around the cliffs overlooking the sea, read poetry, lay in the sunshine, and make delicious food. I usually gave myself three writing sessions a day that were about 1-2 hours long; I discovered that having limits for my work time and giving myself rewards was a much happier and even more efficient way to go.

I had such a delightful time, AND I wrote some decent stuff. I think writing is getting easier for me…slowly.

The illustrious Mr. Rigsby joined me for a day, as well, and my stomach muscles are still sore from laughing so much. He wins the award for the person most likely to crack me up. He did a good job of letting me work, and he did a good job of encouraging me to go lay by the pool, too. Mr. Rigsby is very skilled at loafing–among his other talents, of course– so he is teaching me how also to loaf. The first hot sunshine of the summer was an excellent invitation to leave the cabin, abandon my words, and just go play outside. As usual, I have beaten Mr. Rigsby at acquiring the first summer tan (don’t worry, I even use sunscreen), and I am still as vain as ever about this 13 year competition between us.

All in all, it was very hard to come back from the weekend. When I got home last night, I bought dinner and sat out on the grass at 10 p.m., just sort of picnicking on a beautiful summer evening and refusing to go inside. These summer days are glorious, but the summer nights might be even more exquisite. Last evening, there was that warm, refreshing breeze that I haven’t felt since last August.

Introducing Nick Vu

2008-05-12T13:29:00.000-07:00

I have been meaning to introduce Nick Vu to you for quite a while, because he is going to be famous, and it will be extraordinarily fun for me that you first heard about him on my blog. Nick Vu is one of those people who is destined to catalyze large-scale social trends, like the tech genius who started Facebook or the unknown mastermind who got legions of men to sport the faux hawk in cities across America. Nick Vu is currently working on a top-secret project, and you can go to http://waxartistic.com/ to find out more.

Nick Vu is also one of the founding members of West Wing, a group of 4 of us who meet twice a month to provide support to each other as we envision and create what we want in our lives. (This group has been absolutely necessary for me as I write my book.) Each of us is taking risks towards our goals, and we check in on our fears, our desires, our dreams, our roadblocks, and our sleeping strategies. (Some of us are a wee bit obsessive compulsive, so we need to be reminded to sleep.)

Nick Vu is trained in cognitive behavioral psychology. He likes data and charts, and so he is good for the rest of us. All the other members of West Wing are trained in interpersonal therapy, so we like to talk at great length about the deep treasure trove of our unconscious and how it's effecting our style of relating, but Nick Vu wants to make Excel spreadsheets of whether we met our goals for the week. He balances us out, and we balance him out, so it’s very good.

You should also know that Nick Vu also raids the public libraries more than anyone I know. He averages about 50 books a year, which he listens to on CDs or his IPod. The man has brilliant ideas churning in his head.

And finally, you should know that Nick Vu comes over to my house every Monday morning for a 2.5-hour study hall and then a lunch break. We set our timers and we work; he works on his top-secret project, and I work on my book. We are very studious and there is very little talking. At 11:45, we break for lunch. He brings random ingredients, we look through my cupboards for more random ingredients, and we create culinary masterpieces. Nick Vu actually enjoys eating as much as I do. One day, I think he and I should write a cookbook together.

(And yes, for some reason it has become fashionable for us to refer always to one other with our surnames included. He calls me KimGeorge, like it's one word.)

New Article

2008-05-03T00:54:00.001-07:00

I have a new article up at theooze.com for those interested. It is on domestic violence, so not exactly happy reading. I think I need my next article to be about the happier sides of life...but for those interested in DV, here it is.

I didn't exactly get rave reviews on the last article I wrote for them (one reader pretty much condemned me to hell), so things can only get better, right? Here goes....

Holy Matrimony

2008-04-29T22:55:00.000-07:00

My sister Shannon’s wedding this weekend was a blast. Highlights included:

1. Riding the famous Spokane carousal right before the wedding. The whole wedding party participated in the frivolity, inspired by Shannon of course, who is always up for having a good time and making a public spectacle.

2. Seeing my sister and her new husband tango dance. They are incredible. My mom and I were doing a pretty good job not crying until we saw them dance together. That’s when the Kleenex was especially needed.

3. Hearing the toasts and giving the toasts. Heather’s was amazing– a good mix of serious and funny from the older sister. I think Marcie (Shanny’s best friend) and I did a good job with ours too; it was pretty much all humor, and we had lots of props. The basic idea was providing Jason with a marriage survival kit (it included items like Chemistry for Dummies so he could communicate with my scientist sister and a few other items…some of them ever so slightly scandalous :).

4. Busting a move with my younger cousins on the dance floor, even if they don’t know who Madonna is! (What!) Also, turns out my long-time neighbor Matt (who I haven’t really hung out with since we played basketball in the driveway when we were 8) is a terrific dancer, because he was happy to be as silly as me. I also made my uncles dance with me. All in all, I got in the necessarily twirling and dipping, even without a proper date.

5. Staying in a fancy hotel. Yep, the night before the wedding I somehow got very lucky and got to stay at a quaint old downtown hotel. “Mom,” I said, “I feel like a princess.” “Kimberly, dear, you always feel that way,” says my mother. Ok, that’s maybe true. But, when I have fluffy down comforters and fancy cucumber shampoo I especially feel like a princess.

6. Being with my family. We had 200 plus people at the wedding. It is so wonderful to be part of a family where people come from all over the country to celebrate. I felt very rich.

7. Having approximately 47 people at the wedding ask me when I was getting married (ok, so my feelings on this last item are entirely sarcastic–such is the plight of being the last unmarried daughter).

All in all, it was a fantastic weekend. Between Michigan and the wedding, I am having trouble transitioning to everyday life. I have one more trip planned home again this weekend for Bloomsday festivities (that’s the race my family runs every year). Then, I will settle back into Seattle.

Michigan Joys

2008-04-20T20:41:00.000-07:00

Thank you to those of you sending me thoughts and prayers while I was in Michigan! I had a rich time at the writers’ conference this past week. I felt surrounded by brilliance and creativity– the conference organizers had brought in amazing speakers and writers. Here are some highlights:

1. Listening to Yann Martel, author of Life of Pi: He was one of the most eloquent, humble, and imaginative speakers I can remember hearing in a long time. I still get chills! He also has a witty and pointed sense of humor. He has a blog at whatisstephenharperreading.ca, which keeps a record of a series of books that he sends every 2 weeks to his prime minister. The prime minister of Canada, says Martel, has a very low view of the arts, so Martel thought he would help him out by sending him good literature, enclosed with a letter to describe to Stephen Harper the gifts found in that particular book. The most recent April package for the prime minister had a copy of Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. Martel might just be my new famous–and–forty–something author crush. You should read his blog. His mind and imagination are just fabulous.

2. Hearing Katherine Patterson read from her children’s literature: She brought me to tears. She is a regal woman, and hearing her read from the books I read as a child brought me right back to being 11 years old and turning the pages of Bridge to Terabithia. She brings children rich, full, and imaginative stories. When she spoke, she had such a high sense of the nature of play involved in the creative process. Her final words, which were also the ending words of the conference as she was the last speaker, invoked us all as writers to “go play.” It was divine for me. (For those of you know how obsessed I am with working–and how much I need to learn to play again as a writer–you will see the glorious message for me.)

3. Meeting with an editor from HarperCollins: This was truly a little thrill for me along the way in my writing process. I had sent in a book proposal to the conference a few months back, and mine had been seen by an editor at HarperOne, the spiritual division of HarperCollins, and she had contacted me for a meeting to discuss the project.

4. Being on a college campus in the Midwest: I really liked the green, wide–open spaces of Calvin’s campus. I loved just being on a college campus and walking around discovering the paths, bridges, and little ponds. Calvin is so charming and Michigan is beautiful. The sun was out and spring was in full bloom.

5. Listening to Davis Bunn teach writing: I was so inspired by this man as he taught the elements of good storytelling, because I realized I needed to just not work harder but “work smarter.” He has so much to say, and I wanted to run home and start revising my 100 pages of drafts. He lives in England, but I hope to find other conferences he teaches at in the States. Good writing teachers are like gold!

If It Ain't Got That Swing...

2008-04-10T00:51:00.000-07:00

I am trying to go to bed, but I just went out swing dancing and my being is too excited to sleep. It has been so long since I have been on the dance floor and I almost forget the thrill of it all. Swing is so playful, creative, mutual, and spontaneous. I spent a whole evening not thinking¬¬– just being in the moment, and it was so good for my heart.

I love how you can never tell by first judgment what kind of dance you will create with a stranger. Sometimes I am so surprised! You can find this connection on the dance floor you would never think if you were off the dance floor. I love the guys who lead with so much openness to responding to the woman; who provide structure, but give up control of the dance and let it be a co–created, organic process. So amazing. My favorite dance partner tonight was probably 50 years old. I had absolutely no anxiety, even though he was an incredible dancer (I usually get nervous with the really good ones). But in these dances, all my creativity came out, and we both just delighted in this graceful and energetic mix of improv and traditional steps. One observer told me she thought the dance looked so intuitive that we must have been dancing together for a long time. Off the dance floor, I would never have supposed connection with this stranger.

I was in heaven all night. I must do this more; but then, not every night on the dance floor is always this magical. I think those dances were sent just for my weary heart.

Almost Springtime Thoughts

2008-03-28T18:30:00.000-07:00

Today there were fat snowflakes falling on the cherry blossoms. I sat at my table at Pete’s Coffee with my usual Friday writing group, enjoying my view of Green Lake. Quite contentedly, I watched Seattle’s version of a blizzard. The other day I just had had a moment of panic when I realized that winter is very nearly gone and I needed to start savoring the limited time left to wear scarves. But, I don’t think it is quite time yet to panic over such things.

This afternoon at 5:00 when the sun came out, I walked to the post office and put my first book proposal in the mail. It is the culmination of 7 months of focused work, and still it feels like only a little seed. I have written about 100 pages of this book (rough draft, mind you!) and it all feels like seeds. Ok, maybe it’s more like the little Spring flowers just barely peeking above ground. It is amazing that something that could take so much work, heart, angst, and emotional resources, is still so young in its lifespan. I long for summer with this project– when I have the completed rough draft of the manuscript and I can more fully see the story it wants to be.

I gotta go! I am off to a bridal shower for my sister.

Taxes and Tulips and Sadness

2008-03-03T16:45:00.000-08:00

Today I went to a tax accountant for the first time. As I was driving home in the dismal rain and reflecting on the thousands of dollars I owe the government (yikes), I remembered a Bible verse I think I learned when I was 13– “the peace of God will guard your heart.” I repeated it to myself and felt a mini soul exhale. Sometimes I surprise myself in my moments of rare equanimity, but my hunch is that when I get the most super–duper stressed out is just when all my mechanisms of denial operate at their best. So driving home and reflecting calmly on the 2493 dollars I don’t have that Mr. Sam is waiting for, I was either practicing a measure of surprising faith or just deciding I didn’t really feel like dealing too much with reality today.

Then, since it was such a rainy day, I went to the supermarket for soup. As I always do, I hung out in the flower section for a while perusing all the bouquets. I am usually just a window shopper when it comes to flowers, since they don’t make the budget of necessities. But, today the yellow and orange tipped tulips tempted me too much. And I bought them. I felt terribly guilty for spending 7 dollars on a bouquet of flowers and every step of the way home I vacillated on the foolishness of my splurge. But, I wanted to protest, it is such a dreary day and…I want to remember Spring is on its way…and who else was going to give me flowers…and isn’t this soul care to attend to beauty and invest in tulips for your kitchen counter? My pep talk didn’t work very well, though, because by the time I got home, I think I felt more stressed out and had more knots and fears in my stomach over a bouquet of tulips than thousands of dollars in taxes. Such is the brilliance of my system of worrying, in that I can project all fear onto 7 dollars just to forget 2, 493 dollars.

When I got home, I got a phone call. A friend of a friend– a thirty something woman– had gotten a headache this afternoon. She suffered a brain aneurysm and is now at Harborview with a prognosis without much hope.

So, now I am sitting here, aching and looking at tulips and praying. I am feeling how much of our lives get sold to moments of worries and fears and worries and fears that are such a foolish waste, because every day– every morning and afternoon and evening and friendship and birthday party and dance and song and loved one and flower bouquet and raindrop is always, always a gift. Life is so ridiculously precious. Why does it take tragedy to jolt that into me? I don't get this. Why do I pretend life is about so many things when it might just be about noticing we are alive and are receiving something so fragile and mysterious and exquisite that most of the time we just glimpse the gift we are living and breathing in?

My Writing Life

2008-02-23T00:48:00.000-08:00

This week I have the first article of a two part series being published at theooze.com entitled Rethinking the Sin of Sodom: What We Missed and Why It Matters.

I am curious to see the feedback I get, as I am essentially arguing this particular story of the Bible has pretty much nothing to do with modern notions of same–sex relationships (how it is almost always interpreted by evangelical churches). I did the research for this article last summer when I took a class on the Old Testament: I changed its original tone and format to try to make it more palatable for a larger audience.

On another writing note, for those who remember me mentioning last fall the article I was writing with Andy on homosexuality and Christianity, we heard back last week that it is being considered for Relief Journal.

(Its not a guarantee of acceptance, just some encouragement that the article made it to a good stage in their rounds of review. We shall see, but it brought a very large smile to our faces to hear from them.)

And as a final note, I just purchased a plane ticket to go to Michigan this April for the Festival of Faith and Writing. I am so thrilled for the opportunity to go, and encouraged that not being in school this semester is allowing me to focus so much on writing dreams...though I could not have imagined before how difficult it is to spend so many hours of the day (and night) creating words. It is a tremendous privilege to get to live into this part of my heart (I do love it), but the joy of it is rarely on the surface these days.

A New Article

2008-02-09T18:31:00.000-08:00

I have a new article up at theooze.com for those wanting to take a look.

An Excerpt from Chapter 1

2008-01-25T16:38:00.000-08:00

"When I was a little girl, I used to lie down in the prickly grass of my front yard, sprawled snow-angel style. Looking up at the sky, I would watch puffs of lazy clouds while hoping, with all my heart, to feel the earth spinning through the universe. My 1st grade teacher had said that the planet was being hurled around a star, while spinning like a top, and I couldn’t believe the news. Laying in the grass, feeling the weight of my small body on the ground, I was determined to discover the tilt of the earth and the whirl of the ride. I could only imagine it would be something like the grown up rollers coasters I had pined for at Disneyland but hadn’t been allowed to go on, because the top of my head hadn’t quite met the marker on the Mickey Mouse sign. But, I was sure that if I just paid enough attention, I didn’t need Magic Mountain anyways, because I was already on the most sensational ride in the galaxy.

I have never felt the ride quite like I had hoped, but I think I might have gotten close. There were moments of soft sunshine on my face and cloud puffs in my eyes and hope in my heart where I would experience a subtle rush and wondered if it could have been…the wind of the twirling planet...."

Ending and Beginnings

2008-01-02T16:43:00.001-08:00

With the New Year here, much seems like it has shifted in my little world. I finally made the rather illogical decision to withdraw from a grad program I am half–way through, in an effort to focus more of my mind, heart, and resources on getting into a PhD program where I can study the intersection of literature and psychology. I have loved my time at Mars Hill, but more and more I am realizing I don’t have the academic support to do the writing/projects/research I had hoped to do when I started. So, I won’t be in school this spring, but knowing my obsessive tendencies, I will be studying/researching many hours away in libraries around Seattle, hoping to prepare for getting into another program.

Not being in school will afford me the time to focus even more on my current book project, too. I just spent 4 days in the woods, Thoreau-like, trying to put together a book proposal. I think I left the cabin twice. I spent my time by a fire, drinking tea, and staring at my computer screen while I painfully typed away. Writing can be so blissful and it can be agony. This time, it was agony. I have a picture of the ocean as my background on my computer and the one time I did escape the cabin and walk to the beach, I was sort of aghast. So, this is what the real ocean looks like? Why hadn’t it crossed my mind to see the real thing, a five–minute walk from the heartache of my writers’ block?

I am just going to have to find balance. Working harder and harder is not going to get this book written, because I just go mad after about 4 days of staring at a screen. I need more fresh air and ocean breezes. Withdrawing from school only feeds my fears, which then feeds my obsessive impulses, which then effectively cramps the love which needs to be the fuel of this project. Aaack. Holly says this is just a season. I hope so, because I would like emerge from these anxieties and remember why I used to love playing with words.

Coffee and Soul Food

2007-11-26T14:37:00.000-08:00

I am at this moment sitting in Tully’s Coffee, which is at a quaint intersection on the top of Queen Anne Hill. In addition to Tully’s, the small intersection is circled by Starbucks, Pete’s Coffee, Café Ladro, and a tea-shop. This is madness. Five coffee/tea shops at one little intersection. Pete’s is actually in its grand opening. Who knew 30 square feet of earth with 4 coffee shops was needing a 5th? Either way, I am very happy, because each of these places makes me uniquely happy.

Tully’s has the fire, Starbucks has good food, Pete’s has the best coffee, Ladro has the most beautiful light fixtures and warm ambience.

I happen to currently own very nicely loaded gift cards to both Tully’s and Starbucks (teachers get gift cards around Christmas time). So, while I just finished an eggnog latte at Tully’s, I had to venture across the intersection to get my lunch at Starbucks (to return to my prime fireside seat at Tully’s).

While I was there, my heart got tugged out, and before I get back to my studies, I have to write about the tug.

One of the Starbuck’s employees (a young woman) was cleaning the glass cases. Another woman was helping her by staying close beside her, holding her up when she began to lose her tentative balance, as the muscles in her legs were weak. The young woman doing the cleaning appeared to be deaf, and it was also fairly clear by her movements that her vision was limited too. She was cleaning the case that housed my lunch, and the other was helping her do her job.

Something about the moment was so beautiful, but it was the kind of beauty that is married to sorrow and breaks my heart.

I feel so convicted in those kinds of moments. I am so terribly caught up in myself and my pursuits; I am so easily discontented when my dreams have not been realized today. And here are others who are just trying to stand; whose courage to work and live into their potential just humbles my ego. If I can say this without sounding like a complete narcissist, sometimes I feel like my abilities and talents become my own curse. I can’t seem to be happy with myself unless I am doing, striving, taking on a broken world and trying to fix it.

And here I am, ordering my lunch, and the courage of this one woman has just asked me to pause and consider again who I am and what I am about and why. I have these lofty ideas to write words that will matter in very large ways, and here this woman's being has spoken more than my words ever could.

This Just In...

2007-11-22T23:09:00.000-08:00

I am about to start a new blog (which does not mean the end of this one!) but I am just needing a place to centralize my thoughts as I work on my book project. My new blog is at faithandgender.blogspot.com.

This new blog will be a place for me to sort through my ideas and invite dialogue on matters of faith, gender, and social justice. I hope to have posts up by this coming weekend.

Time to Place the Order

2007-11-19T21:08:00.000-08:00

Tonight, I would like a husband, or maybe just a very committed boyfriend.

The reason I would like such a man is because, once again, it is time to clean out my shower drain.

Cleaning the shower drain is my single most un-favorite domestic duty. I have to get out my special tweezers, send them down the little holes in my drain, so I can pluck out the soapy rat that is clogging things up. It is very, very disgusting, and every time I have to clean out my drain, I think, “Maybe one day there will be a special someone who would do this for me as an act of total love.”

(I, of course, would do very nice things for him, too. Perhaps bake cinnamon rolls in the morning or possibly even do his ironing. I dislike ironing quite intensely, but that seems like a fair trade for cleaning out my soapy-rat-that-used-to-be-my-beautiful-hair, which is now making me take a shower with 6 inches of water at my feet.)

Now, just in case I get misquoted, I don’t want a man just for the purpose of cleaning out my shower drain. There are several others reasons for wanting a man. They include, but are not limited to:

1. Staying up late and reading aloud C.S. Lewis. (Perhaps followed by pillow-talk.)
2. Traveling across Canada by train until we get to P.E.I. (Home of Anne Shirley, of course.)
3. Waltzing in the rain, or the sun or the snow for that matter. Any climate works. Just a man who generally enjoys twirling in the outdoors.
4. This one is not a necessity, but I would also like to request a significant other who knows how to emotionally invest in football games. I want to stay up late on Sunday nights watching the Mike Holmgren Show (or Sports Center if we are rich enough to afford ESPN) while we obsess about the highlight reel.
5. Someone to fly with. I really hate flying, particularly because right now I always fly alone. Since I usually fly Southwest, I can manage my anxiety by picking a seat next to the most peaceful looking people I can find. Because I have an overactive, paranoid imagination, I reason to myself, “If the plane went down, who seems like they would have a calming presence in catastrophe?” Once I find the right person to fly with on a regular basis, I won’t have to go through this mental rigmarole.

Well, I think those are five very good reasons for me to get married. So, for those of you out there (you know who you are) who are supposed to be praying for the Gilbert Blythe of my life, I think my 27th year is a good year to start ordering. ☺

Thursday musings....

2007-11-08T14:36:00.000-08:00

I am sitting on a velvet body pillow, sprawled on my floor, as I enjoy the warmth of my new electric fireplace (recently purchased from Home Depot). Thursday afternoons are quite possibly my favorite afternoons, but my opinion changes on this depending upon which day you ask me. I feel like all my days have their own endearing personalities. Thursday afternoons are lovely stretches of un-commitment. After teaching in the a.m., my day is a wide-open space to study, write, and get lost in my book of choice….

But then Wednesdays are especially nice, too, because they start at 7am when eight people stream into my house and end at 12 midnight when eight people stream out of my house. Not the same people of course. In the morning, an odd gathering of us have “Bible Fest,” which consists of freshly brewed coffee and 1 hour oral reading of the Old Testament. We have journeyed through Genesis, Exodus, and Leviticus and now we are in the bog of Numbers. Revelation is now only 1400 pages away. You probably won’t believe me, but it is so fun. We do our best to hold most of our comments and gasping until our 1 hour of reading is up, then we have the most fascinating conversations. Last week in Numbers, the Israelites offered God lots of goats; we decided we wanted to give God goats too, so we are planning on buying goats out of the World Vision Holiday catalogue. (This is a side note, but you can buy all kinds of income-producing animals to give to families in need. Check out: http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_pwwi/is_200312/ai_mark2935503076).

Let’s see, back to the days of the week (which reminds me of the underwear I had when I was a little girl. Did anyone else sport that underwear series?) To finish up Wednesdays, which post-Bible Fest are primarily spent in class and teaching, I host a weekly tea-time at my house at 9 p.m. My apartment mates bring their own mugs and gather to tell their weekly stories. Last night, I laughed very hard for 2-hours and I think my stomach is still sore.

Fridays are also a highlight, because I join up with my writing group for half the day. We meet at Pete’s Coffee, as we have been doing for about a year now on a weekly basis. Two of us are working on book projects, one of us is a teacher/writer, and the other of us is a teacher/editor/writer/therapist. In fact, last weekend we all escaped to a little condo near the beach on the Olympic Peninsula to feed our creative souls. It was our first Writers’ Retreat together, and I hope for many more.

Ok, this is all you get for now. I want to get back to my book, but perhaps I will report back later to describe the joys of Saturday-Tuesday.

Gifts, Hopes, and Fine Men

2007-10-19T01:12:00.000-07:00

Tonight I am sitting by my new fireplace and taking in the view of Seattle out my living room window. Really, I am thinking to myself? I get to enjoy this every day? How did I get such a gift?

The leaves are falling off the trees, and my winter view of the Space Needle is here. I love my summer view (where the Needle peeks out from behind the foliage), but I think I am going to enjoy the direct gaze for the next several months. I always sensed its presence, but it is good to be face to face with it, too.

Which brings me to the ruminations of my heart tonight….

I have learned this week, that I have an amazing presence of men in my life. They listen to my voice, value my mind and heart, and are curious about the way I see the world. They challenge me, and let me call them out, too. They share their questions and their hopes; they have the character to share their convictions and their wounds. There is a respect and a mutuality in our way of being together that I have come to take for granted.

But, this week, I came face to face with it, once more, which has caused me to pause and consider the richness of their gifts in my life. I sense tears wanting to accompany my words, because something about the grace of each of you touches me at a deep, visceral level. I would not be able to write what I do or hope for what I do without the community of men that surrounds me. For each of you, I am grateful.

Urgent West Wing Party

2007-10-09T22:31:00.000-07:00

Sunday night my commune called an urgent meeting. We needed late night Chinese food, Mr. Sketch markers, paper scotch taped to the walls, and flow charts to plan our lives. Apparently, Jeremy says that in West Wing they call such urgent meetings (with boxes of Chow Mein late into the night) where people band together to solve global crisis and change the world.

We were all experiencing- sort of a collective conscious moment- that we needed to talk about our passions and life dreams and our daily steps to take them seriously. The meeting ran 4 hours and it was one of the most efficient meetings I have been at. We all came away with assignments, based on our creative brainstorming with one another. I am currently focusing on:

1. My book project and making it happen.
2. Caring for my body better, which means attending to healthy meals and 7-8 hours of sleep at night.

We broke it down into specific steps. For instance, if I am up past midnight, I have to give account for why. If I have a rush of creative energy at 2 am, I can justify being up late writing. If I am tempted to scrub my toilet at 2 am, then I need to be asleep.

We have a meeting on Sunday to check in with our assignments. I will report back.

P.S Just a quick note on my use of "androgyny" in the last posting. I was using it in the Virginia Woolf sense, not the literal sense. I don't think I look too much like a man. If you want to know more about the Virginia Woolf sense, feel free to ask. It makes a good conversation.

Football and High-Tea

2007-10-04T23:03:00.000-07:00

I am feeling very inspired to do things that I love to do. I think you should do the same. What if you put 3 activities on your calendar next week that fit in the "I would love to do but I never do them category?"

To kick things off, I am going to a a high school football game tomorrow night, just for the heck of it. Ben, Cabe, and have decided to support Ballard High, a team picked at random. We all have a great deal of excitement going into this game.

Then, I am going to start planning my princess high-tea party, because I just found a great princess dress at the thrift store down the street. Jane runs the store and she picked out all kinds of lovely items for me. This dress is a green, strapless, Jessica McClintock, and it goes well with my elbow-high, ivory lace gloves that I keep stored in my sock drawer for such a time as this.

Between football and high-tea, I think my activities are quite androgenous.

Seasonal Plans

2007-09-30T23:19:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I do most things with too much planning, but with that disclaimer, here are my goals for Fall/Winter :

1. Read. Read poetry and the New Yorker and children’s books and old classics and new ones, too. I miss reading. I used to read things besides the DSM IV; it is time to resurrect reading for the pleasures of language and story. I want rainy days and pages of good books, while I cuddle under my afghan and sip tea.

2. Dance. I want to buy one very good pair of dance shoes and make as many excuses as possible to dance as often as possible. I want to swing and salsa and maybe take a modern or hip-hop class.

3. Football. During my Sunday Sabbath, I will be religiously committing to blocking off three hours to watch the Seahawks, complete with unabashed cursing. I also hope to actually start winning in fantasy football, or at least achieve a respectable mediocrity. Finally, I hope to attend one high school football game with my friend Ben. We don’t care who we watch, we just want it to be cold and slightly miserable while we drink that syrupy hot chocolate and hang out on the outskirts of the student section.

4. Walks. I want to hear the little crunch of leaves underfoot and breathe in the crisp, Autumn air. I hope to visit the arboretum and other tree-worthy places to see the leaves in their fiery prime.

5. Scarves and boots and textured tights. I don’t think further comments are needed for this one.

6. Bubble baths on very cold days.

7. This one might be a titch early to speak, but I want to celebrate the holiday season with intention and preparation. This will include getting my first ever Christmas tree, decorating my own apartment, and baking Baklava, in honor of my grandmother.

Incompleted Thoughts

2007-09-25T00:16:00.000-07:00

Why do I love and hate the desires of my own heart? Because they surge me towards what I want, at the cost of actually feeling that I am wanting. To live into my heart is to know the piercing of the unknown space between desire and the desired. It is to live into the unconsummated. It is to trust that my dreams will come true somewhere between now and never and maybe. Tonight, dreaming feels excruciating. I try to grip them tightly because I don’t want them to get away, but then I know they wilt for lack of freedom.

I want to embrace life’s unknowns but I have too much of a craving to control. I want results, satisfaction, arrival, or at least incremental steps that tell me I will arrive eventually. And yet, the journey is changing the point of arrival, so that I must surrender the destination even as I step towards it….

It is all rather risky business.

As Anne Shirley once said, and as a dear friend reminded me tonight, life has so much potential thudding, which makes soaring on the wings of anticipation rather hard, I’m afraid.

(Life context for this emotional purge: one teeny little morsel of an email from an editor, probably just a pseudo courtesy prelude email to the real official rejection slip that is coming…which somehow opened up the vast quantities of want I contain within me….)

Gratitude

2007-09-04T00:24:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I am watching lightning over the city and raindrops making patterns on my window. It is lovely– very soothing for my night-before-the-first-day-of-school butterflies. I have had these since I was six and they just don’t go away.

Something about this weekend has felt so exquisite. Part of it was the 13-hour hang out spree with my old friend Andy, including chocolate and banana pancakes for Sunday brunch, writing time, laughing time, chatting time, and time to share our writing project together with a roomful of dear souls. We had a 4pm “happy hour” at my place and read the creative non-fiction narratives we have been working on that explore homosexuality and spirituality. It was just such a vulnerable and beautiful time for many of us– 2.5 hours of reading and amazing feedback and conversation. I was so honored to have a group of people so engaged with our writing, and so pleased to see it generated a shared space to wonder and explore together.

I think I am just feeling a little overwhelmed by the beautiful people in my life and the community I have as I start the school year. Tonight I was listening to Patty Griffin amidst new and old faces and just taking in the moment, which somehow felt very full of possibility and love. I am also a little overwhelmed that I get to live each day with so many things that give joy to me- teaching, writing, studying, commuting almost everywhere on foot, the daily, sweet moments of friendship, a family that is consistent and loving, new people who show up in the most surprising ways.

Life's Known Pleasures #114

2007-08-16T00:31:00.000-07:00

When I go from lightly goosebumped to sun-baked, all in about 90 glorious seconds,
lounging, dock sprawled
after dunking in the lake
On a sun-soaked August afternoon.

Lemonade, Mr. Grocery Man, and Grace

2007-08-01T01:53:00.000-07:00

A highlight of the day was that my favorite lemonade, Santa Cruz organic, was on sale for 25 cents at QFC. Normally, it is almost $3, which means it is a rare indulgence. But, the sign said 4 for 5 bucks, plus there were coupons for minus a dollar on each one. Because I am bad at math, I thought for a moment that they would actually be paying me to buy the lemonade. Nope, turns out 5/4-1 is not less than 0. Anyways, I still got them for a steal, even if I did not make a profit.

I walked to QFC three times to bring home my large, summer supply of lemonade; with the help of Stacy and Naomi, I brought home 21 jars. The second time I went I dropped one of the bottles and spilled it all over the aisle, which was particularly embarrassing in light of how I was raiding the whole supply. I know that it sounds terribly selfish, but the sale ended at midnight, so at 10 pm I felt totally comfortable clearing out the shelf. I just could not believe I was the only one who seemed to care about this sale.

The other good part of the whole situation was that Mr. Grocery Man finally cracked a smile. I see him almost every other day (the grocery store is just around the corner, so I frequent it) and he hardly looks at me. I try to be my sunshiny self, and I sense I am bothering him, so I have just quieted up. No asking him how his day is, no sharing how excited I am when chicken fryers are 99 cents a pound. But, tonight, Mr. Grocery Man finally smiled the 3rd time he had to ring up my vast quantities.

I now have 21 lovely jars of lemonade under my bed. Please, come over and we shall share a cold glass. My only hope is now that I have in abundance what I consider a delicacy, that I will maintain my deep joy in every sip, and not take it for granted. I should probably make rules about consumption—sort of ration it out so it lasts until Christmas. But, who wants lemonade in December? No, perhaps I ought to just indulge as much as I want. It is difficult to for me to know what to do with abundance.

Which leads me to a conversation I had today with a professor about grace. I realized I like to portion grace out in very small quantities, living my life as perfectly as possible so I do not need the luxurious abundance of it. I ration grace out to myself, not taking too much, though there is a supply much larger than the lemonade under my bed.

I think I ought to indulge my lemonade supply as a little exercise for myself….

Tea time, etc.

2007-07-27T19:29:00.000-07:00

I have been so negligent at my blogging responsibilities lately, which I am sure is very disappointing to the 4 regular readers (you know who you are…☺.)

So, here is a quick life update. My new apartment is my heart’s delight, just as I expected. I still get a little thrill when I walk in my front door. The space is conducive to writing, brunches, dancing, and tea parties. I just had the loveliest tea party last night: fine china, fresh raspberries, unbelievable chocolate from Belgium, and a lovely Earl Grey.

I usually do not go to bed without knocking on the window of my dear friends Stacy and Jeremy, who live below me. They have their tea around 11:00 pm, and I like to be part of pj time and debriefing the day. It is like living in the dorms again, and I am having a very hard time focusing on my studies. This is quite unlike myself…I don’t know where my type A, studious girl has gone. But she needs to show up sometime soon, as she has 30 pages to write for school before August 10…I am beckoning her back, but she just wants to play.

Let’s see, in other news…my Thursday creative writing sessions at Pete’s (10:30-5:00 or so) are just heavenly. It is like going to work to the best job ever, only I don’t actually make money. I made the decision in June to devote my Thursdays to personal writing projects, and it has been such a wonderful gift to myself. No phone calls, students, or studies on Thursday until after 5.

I don’t usually discuss such things in my blog, but I will say that I am at a complete and utter dating lull. It is only sad because summer is such a nice time to have romantic picnics and longs walks on the beach… but then fall is a much better time to cuddle, so perhaps I will try again when the weather turns. But, the problem is, I realized I don’t actual like dating. (I feel like it is equivalent to filling out job applications. I would like Gilbert Blythe or Mr. Darcy to just show up without that unpleasant and necessary process of mutual evaluations, rejections, etc. )

Ok, I am supposed to be studying, so I better post this message.

A New Home

2007-06-24T15:09:00.000-07:00

This week I feel like I am opening a beautiful gift. I am moving to Queen Anne on Thursday, saying goodbye to my lovely Wallingford, and waiting for a new season of life. Space is always a significant thing to me: my heart is very sensitive to the spot of earth that I inhabit. There is so much about my new home that thrills me: two dear friends from school (Stacy and Jeremy) will be living directly below me; I get to walk to school and I love walking; I get to explore the alleys and views and coffee shops of a new place; I get to enjoy long dreamed of hardwood floors; my apartment is on the 3rd floor so I can sleep a little more soundly and with the nighttime air drafting in from open windows; it is the least expensive apartment I have ever had.

(Now, if you are members of my family and read that last part, you are probably already worried about the quality of place I am renting. This is not unfounded, since 3 years ago I was renting my urban castle that almost made my father cry when he visited me. What I had seen as charming dilapidation, my father saw as a health risk. In fact, when my sisters visited me last weekend and began to ask for me to “talk about my new place” I was sure my father had planted the evaluative questions, so as to make sure that I would not be calling later and complaining about the rodents in my walls and leaking roofs and kitchen cabinets that succumbed randomly to gravity and fell to the floor. Shannon and Heather, please assure Dad that I will be safe and sound in my new home.)

I can’t wait to decorate my new place. I think I am growing a bit in my tastes: there will be fewer tassels and a bit more sophistication. Mind you, I will always enjoy a well–placed tassel. I hope to have lovely plants that soak in the sunlight of my marvelous windows, cozy rugs to lounge on, and nice splashes of merlot, espressos, and rich greens in the color scheme. I also hope to have many people whom I delight in stopping by and eating my food and reading books and sipping coffee and laughing together.

Naked No Longer

2007-06-20T20:37:00.001-07:00

I have always felt twinges of jealousy for the girl with the dangly earrings. I look from afar at silver hoops and funky beaded things and wish I somehow could pull it off for an evening out on the town. Better yet, are the girls who can pull off the jeans and a t-shirt in casual day ware- accented by the perfect earrings with just the right flair.

But alas, my lobes are always naked. I have gotten my ears pierced twice (at a young age) and my holes have closed twice, as I always seem to fail to follow the proper instructions the piercing parlor hands you on the way out the door. After failing twice, I would not allow myself a 3rd go, so I have been pining for decoration on my ears for quite some time. Since 7th grade, in fact- this was the last time I wore earrings before my second set of holes closed.
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However in the past year, I have taken up clip-ons, which incidentally you cannot find in the stores these days. Instead, I have been going to antiques stores shopping for your grandma’s earrings, because back in WWII they indeed sported clip-ons. I thought I could revive the clip-on look, sort of pretend it was vintage and cool, but it hasn’t really worked out for me. Your grandmother’s earrings tend to be gold and bulbous, and simply do not achieve the sexy, gypsy look I had in mind. So, I was back to pining and looking from afar, realizing I would not be the girl with the whimsical jewelry hanging from her ears.

The reason I am sharing all this is because my friend Erica brought me back the most beautiful earrings from Bolivia, and I was rather distraught. I intended to put them in my drawer to keep company with the diamond earrings my father gave me for Christmas 2 years ago- which of course have also never been worn. But, then, a funny thing happened. On a whim, I decided to just see…how far would they go in those closed holes? What if I was aggressive? I was picturing swollen, bloody earlobes, but could not resist trying.

And the funny part is, both earrings slid right in my ears without any resistance. I mean I have thought for 13 years that my ears were closed. Why had I been believing all these years that I could not wear earrings? I can’t remember the time I started believing that I could not; it’s just what I have assumed for 13 years.

It’s just very odd, and it made me wonder how many other things in life I have been depriving myself of and pining for because somehow, somewhere, I thought I did not have it.

On Books and the Thrill of the Re-Org

2007-05-21T00:38:00.000-07:00

I recently pulled all my books from their bookshelves and piled them high on the living room floor. It was the end of the semester and time to organize. For those who know me well, it is not news that organizing is one of my secret delights. I can get lost in it for hours, sorting and pondering and moving objects about in a very small circle of space until they are arranged just so. (A counselor might want to point out the OCD impulses of such a habit; I, on the other hand, consider it a harmless practice for a heart needing to pretend she can arrange the world.)

For this particular re-org, I decided my books would no longer be shelved topically as usual, but would be coordinated by the color of their spine (I must give credit to my friend Nathania for this inspiration). Besides the aesthetic delight of such a new arrangement, I was also starting to feel that my novels needed to mingle with the psychology textbooks; my British literature needed the company of the Russian storytellers; my philosophers needed to parley with the poets; and my Bibles certainly needed everyone.

I sat on my leopard print footstool late into the night and stared at spines, trying to determine the shades of the palette. Disheveled groupings of books began to emerge: tangerines, merlots, sea-foam greens, rugged goldens. It was not always easy, mind you. Some particularly subtle shades stumped me for a while, as I decided what spectrum they would join. Where to put the zesty tomato reds? With the merlots or the tangerines? These were the dilemmas I was facing.

Gradually, spine-by-spine, the new sections of the library were created like a painted canvass. I am thankful for the tangerines because they give needed spunk; the merlots are sort of a mature, regal presence; the blues are few but captivating; and the strong showing of blacks and charcoals seems to ground the piece. But beyond the appeal of lovely colors, it gives me great pleasure that my books have journeyed beyond the narrow confines of a Dewey Decimal style assortment. Sometimes when Locke only talks to Rousseau, he begins to forget that Dostoevsky might have something to contribute to his discussion of freedom. Or when the Gospels are not in dialogue with Siddhartha, something gets lost.

When my books are segregated by mere subject, I suspect they have a bent to be pretentious: holding long-winded conversations with similarly minded books using the same worn out lexicon and assumptions. William James was supposed to have said that some people think they are thinking when really they are just re-arranging their prejudices. It seems one has to be quite intentional to avoid this trap of the narrow-minded pursuit. Hopefully, my books as they mingle will inspire my mind to do likewise.

In a nutshell

2007-05-09T23:17:00.000-07:00

At the risk of being narcissistic (can a blog by its very nature ever avoid such a fate?), I thought I would just give a little update into what my life is about these days. Here’s a short list of my life projects as the summer unfolds:

Writing: I am still doing nearly as much creative writing as school writing, but I have waned in my gumption to submit work to editors. So, this summer I need to return to risk-taking and start tracking down magazines. I am currently working on 2 pieces that deal with faith and feminism (one should go up soon on BurnsideWritersCollective.com; the other is part of an anthology and seeking a publisher). I am also obsessively revising an article on Christianity and homosexuality, which my dear friend Andy and I are co-authoring.

In my attempts to pretend I am a real writer, I am also taking my “Second Annual Writers’ Weekend” trip up to the San Juan Islands. This year I plan to not go solo, but take my friends Penny and Lisa; the three of us have been meeting every Thursday morning for many months and working on our writing projects side by side.

School: This summer I am taking only 3 classes, which is a nice, moderate load. I am taking an Old Testament class (actually by the same prof I had in college), but I look forward to grappling again with issues of religion, violence, and gender that seem to always emerge in those ancient Mesopotamian texts. In addition, I am taking a class on sexuality, intimacy, and power. Finally, I am attempting independent research for the first time, which will involve researching how literature can be a tool to teach psychology. I hope to conduct a focus group with practicing therapists where I actually teach excerpts from poems and novels and discuss their relevance in the therapeutic realm.

Work: (Or, how I intend to pay my rent): This is still a bit of an interesting question☺. I have a handful of ESL students (from 7-year olds to adults), but I am hoping to market myself more at UW and get connected with graduate students writing interesting dissertations. I have noticed that ever since I quit my “real job” last August and opened my own tutoring business, I have slowly began to regress again in my vocational dreams. It is time to re-evaluate and dream of how I want to shape my business.

Play: Of course, writing and school is also play for me, but beyond that, I hope the summer is filled with: glorious games of beach volleyball; happy hours with friends; visiting my family in Spokane; lounging on the dock at the lake cabin; twirling on and off the dance floor; preparing for my sister’s wedding; Greenlake runs; and personal retreat/prayer days once a month up at Rosary Heights (a beautiful Catholic retreat center right on the water in Edmonds).

There you have it, my life in a nutshell.

3 A.M.

2007-04-22T14:32:00.000-07:00

Last night was our semester ending spring banquet, and in typical Mars Hill style, it drew out all sorts of emotion and introspection. Everything at my school is intense, including festive affairs. However, one thing we do very well is dance, and once I kicked off my shoes and started to flail in my usual free-spirited fashion, the world felt a great deal more fun.

At the end of the night, my dear friends Stacy and Jeremy and I retired to my living room to debrief the affair. We were verging on a sleepover, when our yawns made us retire around 3 am. However, as they left my apartment we were all greeted by a tow truck, its talons wrapped around their innocent Civic who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Denial is one of my favorite defense mechanisms. So when Mr. Tow Truck Driver announced the “245 release fee” it became $24.50 in my head. Fortunately he clarified. As the shock and outrage overcame me, I dashed back into the apartment, emerging with my debit card brandished high. (After all, I am the one who should have realized we had parked in my neighbor’s spot). As Stacy says, I was ready “to save the day,” before the brilliant insight occurred to me. Oh s*@!t, I don’t actually have $250 dollars in my account (my financial prosperity isn’t exactly peaking these days). So at that point, I began a pathetic entreaty to the surprisingly jolly Mr. Tow Trucker Driver, who neither retaliated towards my contempt nor gave in to my plaintive decrees. I tried many different tactics: testing out ranting and raving, humor, and outright desperation. Could you just sort of slip out of here, let the car go, and not charge us the $250? Plll-eea-sse, I begged.

I admit I am a rather proud woman with an aversion to begging, but when I decide to beg I do it wholeheartedly. Pieces of my self-respect splattered all over the sidewalk in the course of appeal.

Finally, we just made friends with Mr. Tow Truck Driver. We took pictures, we laughed, we enjoyed the view of Seattle’s skyline from the parking spot. Stacy and Jeremy came to the rescue so generously with their plastic; we decided to be thankful it wasn’t the $400 it would have been for the tow, and that we were not hunting down an impounded car in the middle of the night.

The moral of this story is that I really like my friends. To share life with people who will laugh with you at 3 a.m. when the ass of their car is in the air because you forgot to mention the details of parking legalities…well, those are precious people.

(And just a little warning to absent minded people like myself…Mr. Tow Truck Driver told us that soon the $400 current fee for towing will almost double in the city of Seattle…getting closer to $700! Outrageous.)

Celebrated Failures

2007-03-29T23:28:00.000-07:00

I am realizing that my prayers don’t seem as charmed as they once did.

For instance, tonight I went to hear Anne Lamott speak and prayed audaciously for my Midas touch encounter. I was needing to convince this ridiculously busy and accomplished women why she should write a review for an upcoming anthology I am part of (more on that project another time). I just knew of the hundreds of people there that I would get the up close encounter.

Turns out I did in fact get the premier up close encounter. I walked in on her in the bathroom- I mean I walked right into her stall. It was a very brief meeting and not terribly opportune for pitching the anthology.

I think my prayers use to be a bit more successful.

Anyways, at the very end of the night I went up to her, apologized for the mishap, talked about the anthology, invited her interest, and got rejected- all in about 7 seconds. My second encounter left me even more sheepish than the first.

But on a redeeming note, tonight I have decided it might be good for me to chronicle all such rejections. Then, over time, I will realize I can indeed survive those moments of feeling really dumb. I am actually going to start a scrapbook to document the time and place and keep the mementos. Any perceived failure/rejection gets to be celebrated. That means rejection slips from editors, dissapointing papers, flopped encounters- all now worthy of documentation in my celebrated chronicles.

Cherry Trees and D.W. Winnicott

2007-03-24T00:21:00.000-07:00

It is spring, which inspires me to do crazy things like start running again. I don’t know that I actually like running, but this season of the year I decide it’s time to remember trees and fresh air and flowers- that real, budding life exists outside textbooks.

There is this one glorious cherry tree I get to run under on Wallingford Avenue. She is dressed up like a bride. I had a lovely cherry tree in my backyard growing up; the sweet scents today make me remember being a little girl and jumping on our big trampoline near the blooming tree, so that blossoms would float down on my head as I somersaulted. Running down Wallingford Ave, life moments 20 years apart seem to intersect.

I keep being visited by that little girl- fresh moments of the past arriving rather unannounced. Such visitations, of course, are the symptom of a mind rather saturated with psychology classes, where I am consistently asked to consider my own "story" and wonder about who I am- and who I was. Where are the links between my present self and how I first experienced the world? This is the question that seems to beckon the visitations. I have seen her alot lately, sort of hovering in the moment. When she is not jumping on trampolines, she is writing children's stories or reading novels or worrying about her grades or waiting to be loved or wondering who she will become. She says hello in unexpected places. I sat in a coffee shop this afternoon, and the dry, technical pages of my textbook succeeded in evoking her. She arrived with salted drops. I am not really a public crier, but there was something so bittersweet. I know her too well. This deep integration of my studies and my introspection leaves me never quite knowing when my brain decides to surrender to my heart and I am emotional in a coffee shop over D.W. Winnicott’s waxing on about "object relations" and “transitional phenomena."

Goodness, perhaps, I should have elected a career in engineering? (But then I would most certainly be crying over my calculus problems.)

Anne of Green Gables

2007-03-11T13:17:00.000-07:00

The past two weekends I have allowed an old childhood splurge: a marathon of watching a passionate, idealistic red-headed girl. I sipped framboise beer (the closest thing we could find to Anne’s raspberry cordial!) and remembered childhood ideals shaped by L.M. Montgomery’s heroine. Here were my realizations:

1. You cannot go through life breaking slates over boys’ heads. However, it seems a small tragedy to go through life without the spunk to ever do so.
2. Decorum in most of our lives gets too much privilege- and honesty not enough.
3. When you are in the depths of despair, feel it with passion, but remember that plum puffs will help.
4. Gilbert Blythe, tragically, is a fictional character.
5. However, this ought not to dash all dreams of rain-drenched gazebos.
6. Read and think and love with vital imagination.
7. When you want to pray, sometimes it is best to leave your words, look up to heaven, and feel the overflow of your own soul.
8. There are Katherine Brooks in your life to love, and Josie Pyes to not take too seriously.
9. You cannot seek your ideals outside of yourself, but you may have to leave Avonlea to discover this.
10. There is a “book of revelation” in everyone’s life- when the love that has abided is seen.

In the midst of studying all my stacks of psychology books, I am pretty sure “Anne” was my heart’s necessary therapy. I walked down 3rd Avenue yesterday a bit more alive to cherry blossoms and raindrops and strangers’ faces and my own brewing soul.

Napping Epiphanies

2007-02-28T22:53:00.000-08:00

My friend Andy likes to remind me that I cannot live life in an epiphany. This is good advice for me, but still rather disappointing every time I hear it. So much of life feels infused with wonder and beauty and divine splashes, that I am not quite sure what to do with the ordinary. Don’t get me wrong... my life cannot boast of much measure of verifiable excitement (she is the girl most likely studying on a Friday night). It’s just the little wonders are usually quite thrilling. I actually get adrenaline rushes reading my textbooks, like my heart dances when my dendrites fire. I eat strawberries like they're ambrosia. My 963rd sighting of Mt. Rainer still feels like a new crush, that captured sort of gaze you feel in your stomach.

I have been told that I have an unusually high pleasure barometer for the simple things. I think I just have a disposition to make love to life.

However, this passion has concerned me as of late. For what happens when I cannot extract the divine out of a moment? When the wonder is much more rare? When the moments of life just roll along, with little to report of ecstatic inspiration?

This is how my heart feels tonight. Like I have much to thrill me, but my heart is curled up taking a nap this month. I wonder if this is just the pathos of mid-winter in a city of grey skies, or whether I am getting to learn…once again…that it is ok not to strive all of life for the epiphanic. Sometimes I need the rest.

A Little Bit of Nonsense

2007-02-16T22:58:00.000-08:00

I’ve been serious since I was about 6, so learning to appreciate nonsense is my necessary path of regression. Does anyone else remember not knowing what to do with the sandbox? Kindergarten’s play stations befuddled me. But somewhere in college, I began to remember that life is not just to be studied, but actually can be played. Now as a graduate student, a little bit of nonsense feels like survival.

I have learned in my lessons on playing that it is its own way of being. Playing is to be present in a moment, letting your ego go on vacation. It is to surrender the addiction of productivity. Release the impulse of purpose. Honor the spontaneous. Meander, open to the gifts not found in your pocket planner.

So, to get you started I will present exercises in nonsense. Two disclaimers here: one, I am talking about the non-chemically induced nonsense. Two, I am very much a girl, and these exercises might not be gender neutral. But here’s my top ten list to inspire your own:

1. Twirling. Yes, just like you think. Arms outstretched, get on your tiptoes and spin. This works best in wide-open spaces, like a park. I taught a friend to twirl recently…he was rather resistant I am afraid. At first, just little nervous twirls. He was hesitant to have passerbyers musing on his dradle-like like behavior. (This business of nonsense is impinged with all sorts of social worries). Finally, I coaxed him into a few free revolutions. I think he liked it.

2. Don a fancy hat. Need a say more? I went to an antique store recently, looking for the perfect wide brimmed, Hepburnesque black hat. I found it, complete with a shimmery veil that makes me feel mysterious. I probably tried on 2 dozen hats before I found her, which was a lovely time warp back to the dress up box.

3. Eavesdrop. People spill their souls at coffee shops- catch them in your notebook, verbatim if you can. (The other day I heard some lively grandmothers at Pete’s Coffee talking about some movie star’s abs. They turned to me a little sheepishly, worried about misguiding the younger generation. Then, they told me to go rent the movie.)

4. Skinny-dipping. It’s a bit like returning to the womb. The first time I jumped into a lake naked was in 8th grade, with full moon light and a silly group of girls. I would encourage this activity in the summer months, though for risk-takers, it can be year round. I admit I am a conservative skinny dipper, which means I am not a co-ed skinny deeper. But to each their own.

5. Open up your lungs. Sing very loudly and dramatically. Celene Dion anyone? The Lion King soundtrack is also very good. I know you must make fun of Britney Spears in public, but secretly you want to dance and sing like a grown up musketeer. Improvise from the kitchen drawer for your microphone.

6. Finger painting. Yes, even if you are not an artist. Get out the craft box and create something. Enjoy bold primary colors. Make a mess. Pretend you are Jackson Pollock. Stay with it even if you think it’s terrible. If you need to get serious, than pretend it’s a rorshok.

7. Puddle jumping. Playing in the rain in general is very good for your soul. So don your rain boots (you have them, right?) and jump. Get very wet. Maybe even cartwheel. Remember what is like to enjoy mud. Then come in for hot chocolate.

8. Bake cinnamon rolls. Get out yeast and milk and sugar, and remember how to knead. Spend an afternoon watching bread rise. (I credit this suggestion to Henry David Thoreau, who has a passing line in Walden about watching dough rise. I remember being astounded at the time that anyone had the life allowance for such unproductivity.)

9. Hang out in the children’s section of a local bookstore. Re-read Go Dog Go. Observe little faces. Reclaim the joy of story. Have a party with Amelia Bedelia, Bernstein Bears, Madeline. Clifford and Arthur. Remember Choosing your Own Adventure? Or exploring Where the Wild Things Are. Enjoy nostalgia.

10. Make a top ten list. I love making lists. Make a list about all the things to explore in your city that you haven’t quite gotten to. Or your secret dreams. Or your favorite people and why you love them. Or why life is beautiful. Stay with the process of list-making, even if you start to struggle at #3. Wait for what comes.

A Whim of Desire

2007-01-31T17:55:00.000-08:00

There I was, en route on the 26, people watching out of the corner of my eye. I am also meandering the pages of my book, as if to announce my psychological space from fellow commuters. My furtive glances let people know my ambivalent message: Yes, I am noticing you. No, I am not available for significant interaction. Please agree to this necessary truce as we step into the microcosm of public transit.

I am reading Pedagogy of the Oppressed, another book to stir all my passions of social justice. I am reading about revolutions, when I notice two green shoes amble down the aisle.

At this point, my book becomes very intriguing, my gaze even more intent on the page, my peripheral vision suddenly quite acute.

Mr. Green Shoes sits down and takes out his Seattle Times. My furtive glances travel from shoes to retro orange sweater to newsies cap a top his head. I catch a quick profile, before returning to the revolution.

He notices me noticing him. I pretend not to notice. I notice him noticing me. He pretends not to notice. This is a classic bus crush. We go through Wallingford and Fremont and Belltown that way, coyly saying hello. Mr. Green Shoes is immersed in the paper and I am enraptured in my learning, all the while catching quick, intermittent profiles. At one point, Mr. Green Shoes banters with the Grandmother next to him on the bus, endearing her with his boyish charm just loud enough for me to hear. I am a psychology student; I know who he is really flirting with.

We discover we have the same stop. I get up first and make a motion for Mr. Green Shoes that he can go before me. We linger a slight moment, not sure what to do with our departure. To speak or not to speak? Mr. Green Shoes breaks the silence. "After you Madame,” he says with a flair of chivalry. "Thank you," I answer, ready to run out the door now that we have risked verbal expression. This is getting far too serious for me. Dashing off the bus, feet on pavement, I quickly turn in the opposite direction and hear Mr. Green Shoes blurt out, "Have a good day," as one final attempt. I turn around for a brisk moment to express the same notion, before clearly being on my way in the opposite direction. Good by, Mr. Green Shoes, I say to myself. Our short affair is over. But, after a quick ten strides, my curiosity gets the best of me and I pivot to catch another glimpse. He has also dashed off, only to find his curiosity peaking at the precise moment. So we stand there, 40 feet apart, staring at one another. Pretending not to, though our game of pretend is rather hopeless at this point. My senses kick in and I turn around for good. But at the next light, I can’t help it. I turn around to catch one more glimpse at the orange speck in the distance, but lo and behold, Mr. Green Shoes is experiencing the same anxiety of separation. We had both walked our respective blocks still unresolved. So here we are, staring at each other, a hundred feet apart. What do to? Walk towards each other? Be on our merry way? The moment lingers, rather sweetly and awkwardly, as two strangers stare at each other down 3rd Avenue.

So, what did I do Reader? I soaked in the morning sunshine, smiled at life, and slipped around the corner. The charming Mr. Green Shoes was a lovely encounter, but sometimes I like the encounters best that have no denouement.