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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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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."

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

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

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?

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

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.)