cats can't write...

...and they don't want you to, either.

i'm pretty sure kittens are a form of resistance.

six months

Six months ago yesterday, Latté crawled out from under our deck and decided our house was as good as any so he could be convinced to stay and oblige us with his presence. That first week brought with it a lot of lap sitting, a lot of soft talking, and a lot of patient waiting for him to warm up to us. I was thrilled to have found (as if we found him) a lap kitty, and was eager to see how things would continue to unfold.

As is usual, things unfolded quite differently as was expected. Once Latté wasn't starving any longer, he was not as keen to be held or to sit on laps. In fact, he didn't like it AT ALL. I was a little taken aback by this sudden change of character, and set off on my quest to get this suddenly stand-offish cat back in my lap.

A fellow cat lover then let me in on a very important scoop. Apparently, it takes six months for a cat to adjust to a new owner and for their true nature to then finally come out. Sure enough, when they got a new kitty, six months on the dot that kitty relaxed and warmed up to them immensely. Well, whew! This meant there was still hope for the lap-plan.

I have been very familiar with this type of hope. I clearly recall, almost twelve years ago now, sitting in my kitchen with my midwife (who back then did house calls to help with lactation issues) and a bright red, squalling infant, saying "I can't wait until we get this feeding thing all straightened out, so we can see what her real temperament is going to be like." Bridget smiled that patient, "oh, you're so naïve" smile and reached over and patted my arm. "Oh, Sweetie," she said. "You're looking at it."

This did not, unfortunately, deter me from trying to figure it all out and turn the "strong, passionate, creative, independent" young woman that I prayed for into someone more docile and, well, quiet. If you know my daughter, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt I fortunately did not succeed. But that does not keep me from still hoping…

The next two months of Latté's residence with us were spent in the utmost patience. He began to quietly unfold. He would lay at the foot of our bed. He would lay on the hassock by our feet when we watched movies. He would allow you to hold him for a full 30 seconds if you were very still and stroked him in just the right way. And best of all, he would chase his tail in great earnest for a good five minutes or more, which was a great delight to the whole family.

Then I got the brilliant idea he needed a playmate. We are gone quite a bit, and I didn't want Latté to get lonely. So we brought home a kitten and slowly introduced them to one another. It seemed like a good idea at the time…

I've questioned, ever since then, if the six month marker gets reset if you do something stupid like bring an insane kitten into the mix when the first cat is still adjusting to you. Or even increased. A year? Six years? How long does it take until I get my lap kitty? The questions and concerns run on a constant feedback loop. Would he be sleeping with us by now if I hadn't gotten the kitten? Would he be more inclined to be held? Would he play with his tail again if he were the only one chasing it? Is he happy here? Did I do the right thing?

I know what you're thinking. If she's this neurotic about her cats, heaven help her poor children. I will receive that prayer with gratitude. Because it's true. Only heaven can help them all now.

The obvious reality is that Latté is being fed and groomed and loved on and sleeps 23 hours of the day. He is deliriously happy. He even purrs sometimes, but you have to put your head right up to his chest to hear it. And better yet, he will actually walk through the living room calling for Zipper, which completely cracks me up. He's not at the foot of our bed as often, but truth be told, Zipper is a bit of an energetic "sleeper" (I've taken to calling him The Tambourine in the middle of the night) and so I wouldn't want to stay there with him, either. And he doesn't chase his tail, but, as previously mentioned, he now has someone to do that for him on a full time basis. He is as happy here as he can be, and adjusting just fine. I am the one with the problem.

I am the one with the preconceived notion (based on having spent the last 18 years living with The Best Cats Ever) about what things should look like. Big surprise that I would have expectations. Big surprise that I would be disappointed.

I am trying, however. I am trying to learn to let Latté be who Latté will be. I am trying to woo rather than force and influence rather than impose. I am trying to accept that he may never be a lap kitty, and I just may have to wait until the next go-round in another 18 years until I have that joy again. I am trying to loosen my claspy, sweaty grip on all ways I think things should be and just let them be how they are. I am trying.

I'll let you know in another six months how that seems to be working out. For both of us.

kill me now

I was informed tonight, in her very delicate, demure manner, that I am apparently the ONLY parent who pays any attention to my child's grades on the WHOLE ENTIRE PLANET. This was news to me. Which is why I laughed out loud in her face when she said it. That probably wasn't the best tactical move. But it followed so quickly on the heels of being informed that it was ALL MY FAULT my daughter has NO TIME TO DO ANYTHING because I MAKE her do senseless extra work like correcting her math papers in order to regain some of the credit she lost, that I just couldn't contain myself. It just kind of bubbled out. It was also made clear, in a similar tone, that I DON'T CARE about her because I EXPECT HER TO BE PERFECT and INSIST ON CHECKING EVERY LITTLE CRAPPIN' THINK SHE DOES. I agreed with her. That is most definitely a sign of NOT CARING. In fact, I must absolutely HATE HER.

Which is why I've spent eleven years cultivating a relationship with this child that I pray will withstand all the storms that are a-brewin' in our neck of the woods. Which is why I sacrifice my time, my energy, my money, my freedom, my dreams and desires so that SHE can do what she desires. Which is why I lose sleep at night thinking about things like not being able to afford another year of gymnastics and the conflict that's going on in her little universe and how to speak to matters of the heart when all she wants is to do whatever she wants. It's all because I really, truly, don't give a rip. Really.

Sigh.

Somewhere along the line some ugly little hormones have reared their ugly little heads and turned my daughter, for brief periods of time, into an ugly little snot. I don't like it. The tone of voice. The lack of patience. The outbursts of anger with not even a cursory nod toward the pretense of self control. And the lack of remorse or responsibility for any of it. To her, the eye-rolling, book-throwing, pencil-breaking, yelling-screaming-crying-threatening-stomping-off is all completely justified. Which is possibly what concerns me most.

This is not a child I was permissive with. Nor is this a child I controlled and micro-managed. This was your normal, every-day girl-next-door who was obedient and cheerful and occasionally a pain in the fanny but usually felt pretty convicted about it later. I wonder if she is still that child. I want to believe she is. I want to believe this is just hormonal and nothing evil and sinister is lurking beneath the surface. But I can't know that. And it can scare the crap out of me if I let it.

When I got home tonight, her face lit up and she hugged me and followed me around as I got my dinner, babbling like a brook about her day. When I kissed her goodnight, she wouldn't even speak to me, because I am apparently the MEANEST PARENT IN THE WORLD. I know not to take it personally, and so I don't. I know not to freak out and lecture her, and so I don't. I know not to worry about it because it's normal, but I do anyway. Because I feel icy, cold fingers wrapping themselves around the part of my heart engraved with her name, and I'm chilled to the bone to consider the possibilities of what could await me as we move full force into this new stage of life.

May heaven either help me, or kill me now.

all’s fair in love and war

Having received duplicates of a book I asked for this Christmas, I returned one and grabbed another book that has been on my list since my writing retreat last May, The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. An easy (though convicting) read, I am already half-way through it and I began it yesterday. As I've not really had any time to read, I'm not sure how that happened.

It is one of those books that one should read several times, digesting bits and pieces in bite-size morsels, letting them swish around in your mouth a bit as you linger over the sensation. It is that good. As I am a compulsive eater, however, I tend to read in the same compulsive manner. I am gulping this book down in one fail swoop, and will consider it further much later as it digests.

A question arose, however, as I was reading, that I could just not leave alone, especially given my post from New Year's Morning. As Mr. Pressfield discussed the perils of resistance, with which I have been very familiar this past year, he lighted on a topic that jabbed a stick right into the very place I've been trying to reach. Unfortunately, he does not adequately scratch my itch.Mr. Pressfield is discussing the role of rationalization in resistance, and does, I might add, a very convincing job of it. Because resistance can't show itself in its true form (because we would recognize fear as resistance and thereby feel shamed into action), it must be crafty. Rationalization is one of its tools of the trade. "Resistance presents us with a series of plausible, rational justifications for why we shouldn't do our work." I buy this. Completely. I have even been caught by it, hook, line, and sinker. BUT.

Here is where I get a little conflicty.

What's particularly insidious about the rationalizations that Resistance presents to us is that a lot of them are true. They're legitimate… What resistance leaves out, of course, is that all this means diddly. Tolstoy had thirteen kids and wrote War and Peace. Lance Armstrong had cancer and won the Tour de France three years and counting.

Great. Swell. Despite having children, they accomplished great feats. That's all well and good. BUT WHAT KIND OF FATHERS WERE THEY? (And, for that matter, didn't their children have MOTHERS to look after them? Not to mention probably nursemaids?!?!?)

THAT is the question penned below that last line on page 56 of The War of Art. THAT begs the question I cannot seem to answer for myself. THAT is what causes my spirit to churn and gurgle like an upset stomach when I'm faced with another afternoon of doing everything that must be done for everyone else. I can do what it takes to be a writer of the variety I would like to become. Certainly I know without a doubt I am capable. But at what cost? And to whom?

This is my issue. Competing desires. I want to be a good mother. I want to invest significantly and meaningfully into my children's lives. I want to be fully present and accounted for. AND.

I want to write. I want to go on another retreat and do nothing but write for six days on end. I want to write daily. I want to create and, in turn, be recreated. I want to live in this passion and be true to that which is within me. When I get up in the morning, when I go about my day, when I retire in the evening, THIS is what is on my mind: I want to write-sing-paint-draw-sew-bead-sculpt-meld-CREATE.

And I am having a bit of trouble trying to figure out a way to do BOTH without feeling I am failing woefully at it ALL.

if you're up for more...

...just wanted to let you know I've begun blogging again on my other blog, more. For those of you just dying to read more about my endless struggle with food, weight, and the perils of carbohydrates (all three of you), you're in luck. You can visit it here.

a brief but important memo

To: Zipper

RE: Please note that despite its pronunciation, toilet paper is NOT a toy.

We ask that you would please refrain, therefore, from shredding the roll every time the door to the bathroom gets left open.

And in case there be any doubt, attacking smaller wads of toilet paper in the midst of being prepared for use is strictly verboten.

Thank you.

The Management

our holidays

Click on the image above to see it enlarged. Happy New Year!

snuggling and sacrifice

It is nearly 11:00 AM on this temperate but grayish and wet New Year's Day, and, oddly enough, I am the only one up. The hubby who stayed up reading after we returned home from our holiday revelry is cozied up in bed next to the seven-year-old, who desperately but unsuccessfully tried to keep up with the almost-twelve-year-olds who intended to stay up ALL night but were found, true to my prediction, sacked out on the couch this morning, unknowingly succumbing to sleep somewhere after movie three. It was a valiant effort, nonetheless.

To say it is unusual that I am the only one up would be a gross understatement. When left to my own devices and not bound by the constrictions of four different calendars, it is quite the norm to find me still in bed while all the rest of my household starves for lack of an ability to get their own bowl out of the cabinet and pour their own milk and cereal. Occasionally the almost-twelve-year-old gives me a run for my money as her body shifts to its adolescent time table, but I can still easily beat her in a sleep-in-off hand's down just about any morning I am given the opportunity.

That is, until Buddy comes and crawls in bed.

Both of my children, I should clarify, are avid snugglers. They love to come into our bedroom after they've awakened and basically make sure that I am awake, too, which is very kind of them, if not entirely misguided. They pull back the covers and burrow through them until they've found my warm body, and then adhere themselves to me in whatever fashion they are able as warranted by my position in the bed. This has been our morning ritual since they were old enough to get out of bed--indeed, Bub even has gone as far as to set her alarm to be sure she gets snuggle time before she has to get ready for school. It is as much of our family's genetic code as ice cream and game nights and hiking adventures and leaving the new toilet paper roll on top of the toilet paper roll holder.

Sometimes, when they've shuffled in with a groggy step and fallen into the bed half-aware, I am blessed with another bit of sleep as their breathing falls mercifully into a deep, deliberate pattern and their bodies are gloriously still. I may not be able to breath or move myself, wedged as I am into the double bed I grew up sleeping in alone and now am forced to share with not one but two to three people and as many cats, but at least they are not moving and if I breathe deeply myself and try to visualize pleasant, spacious places, I can get very close to falling back asleep, myself. Almost.

But I am not always so fortunate. Buddy, who is the true cling-on of the pair, is also a bit, um, shall we say, squirrely, and I know as soon as I hear distinct, rapid footsteps scampering from the bathroom that my evening's repose has expired. No longer drowsy, all hope is gone of his body again becoming static, and I am up for a morning of elbows and knees and whispers and wiggles and sighs and desperate, futile pleas for him to please be still.

They tell me I will miss this.

Truth be told, I tell myself this, as well. It is the only reason I do not lock and bar my bedroom door on a nightly basis. I know I will miss this. Desperately. And so I endure it. And I only groan inwardly as soon as I hear Buster Brown descend from his top bunk across the hall, so that he will not ever know I am not as thrilled as he that he is awake and ready to snuggle. But it is a bittersweet snuggle, as I once again, for the first time of many that day, sacrifice that which I desire for the ever more important desires of my children.

We are nearing 11:30 and there is still no sound from upstairs. Apparently starting a movie at 2:00 AM was enough to keep Buddy quiet for his father this morning, and they are still warm and cozy in MY bed that I could no longer lay still in for lack of space and breathing room. (Literally.) Rather than fight for cramped, sweaty, broken sleep this morning, I have done a new thing in this new year. I have arisen before my entire family and come down to the kitchen and sat my butt in front of the computer and I've done something I WANTED TO DO. For once. Perhaps this bodes well for the new year. Perhaps this is an omen. Or perhaps this is just a fluke. After all, it is much easier to rise before everyone else when I am rising at 10:00 in the morning. Which is just about right for me...

Parenting and writing do not flow easily for me out of the same space. Somewhere between all the work of taking care of people, which is done both professionally and personally, I fear I have lost my creative self. The writer. The musician. The artist. I know intellectually they are truly not lost--just hibernating, perhaps, not enjoying the cold, gray winters of Ohio any more than I do. But I miss them. Desperately. And I feel incomplete without them. And I've still, after almost twelve years, not yet determined how to balance that which I need with the needs of my children. And I've yet to comprehend, in my own life and beyond, where the mystery of death to self and the reality of taking care of one's self intersect.

For a fleeting moment I hear a bird singing outside my window, and just as quickly as it came, it is gone. Thank God for temperate, unseasonable days that bring us out of hibernation and restore to us that which we were created to do. Even if only for one, quiet, up-before-everyone-else morning.

what happened to my day OFF???

I'm supposed to be working on my manuscript today.

You can obviously see how well that is going.

So far, on my one full day per week to write, I have had to: finish hemming my daughter's skirt for her concert tomorrow (after a 10 minute search for where the kitten had batted the spool of thread I was using), narrow down speech meet choices for my son from 50 poems to three, pick up after the morning tornado, finish my homework for group tonight, email my daughter's math teacher about her grade, and make my to-do list for the rest of the day. It includes: working out so I don't gain even MORE weight, ironing my daughter's outfit for the concert, helping Buddy pick one of the three poems, making stops at Kohl's, Walgreen's, and Kroger, talking to my daughter about breaking the garbage can lid in a fit of anger (without having a fit of anger myself), supervising my darling children as they empty and re-load the dishwasher, getting a shower, and reviewing my materials for group tonight.

Ah, motherhood.

Who the heck signed me up for this?

lucky 13

In my whopping 13th post of the year, I thought I would update everyone on the state of affairs 'round here.

First, turns out Latte is a HE, not a SHE. We ate a lot of crow for that one. He is still holding a bit of a grudge. Here he is, all filled out and healthy:

Next, in a moment of sinus-infection-induced insanity, I allowed my daughter to bring a kitten home from our mother-daughter weekend. Falls under the "It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time" category. Here is Zipper, or the Kamikaze Kitten, as I've taken to calling him. (He also responds to "HEY!!! GET OFF THE TABLE!!!!!" Though not very well.)

We went to New England this summer--did Niagara Falls, the Adirondacks, the White Mountains, and Acadia National Park all in about 12 days. Here is our family at Acadia:

Finally, I turned 40 this year, on the beach at Sanibel Island. Not a bad way to go.

I've been writing, though not for the public eye just yet. My manuscript is at 45,000 words. The goal is between 70 and 80,000. My desire is to get back to blogging, because I miss it. Twice a week in 2011 is my goal. Was my goal for 2010, too, but who's counting?

So, that's the last six months in a nutshell. Bub is still flip-flopping at the gym, sings in a Christian rock band (I know, she's 11--craziness, right?), and is in middle school. Buddy is in Taekwando, loves him some Legos, and is in 2nd grade. The hubby has a new job, I still have a job, we still have a house, and all is right with the world.

Here's to getting back to writing for no other reason than just because.

he gives and takes away (though not necessarily in that order)

In loving memory: 1993-2010

We got them almost on an impulse. Though I'd been desperate for a cat for at least a year, their actual acquisition was, well, not exactly planned. That seems to be the way things go around here.

They fulfilled their purpose with incredible success—bringing me comfort at a time when I needed it most. Deeply depressed and struggling through my first year of marriage, I knew, I just knew, I would feel better if I only had something I could hold. Turns out, I was right. That seems to be the way things go around here.

Both incredibly affectionate and gregarious, Max and Ruthie were the kind of cats that even the most die-hard dog people couldn't help but love. They brought an immeasurable amount of joy to everyone around them—well, except maybe Beth. But she was a good friend and tolerated them both, and her daughter found a great amount of joy from being around them, so that sort of made up for that. To everyone else, they were "the nicest cats I've ever met." And we would concur.

Ruthie was the first to go about five years ago—breaking my heart in the process. The only thing that got me through it was that Max was there, waiting, when I got back home. With Ruthie gone, our affectionate boy got downright needy, and in his desperation finally made friends with my daughter, who requited his love enthusiastically. Which made his passing this past week all the more difficult.

Seventeen years old this spring, Max had begun losing the spring in his step, as well as a significant amount of weight, a few months ago. I knew the end would come, and come relatively soon. I just was not prepared for it to come quite as quickly as it did. About a week after returning from our vacation, Max took a sudden turn for the worse. Not eating, barely drinking, and unable to walk, he laid around the kitchen looking like a sack of bones for a week before I finally made the decision no one who owns a pet ever wants to make. I made the appointment to have him put down.

Though I'd cried every night for a week, that night was by far the most difficult. I lay on the floor long after everyone else had gone to bed, stroking his ears and thanking him for loving me, and for letting me love him. The next day my daughter, because somewhere along the line he'd become as much her cat as mine, held him in the car on the way to the vet, choking back the kind of tears that take your breath away. "It's okay, Max," she'd croon as he cried, never one for the motion of the car. "It's okay." I flashed back in my mind to a ride some nine and a half years earlier—she is one and a half and we are moving to a new city. Max is in a carrier on one side of her car seat, Ruthie on the other, and neither are happy to be there. My daughter croons to them the entire three hour drive… "S'okay, Max. S'okay, Ruthie. S'okay…" It is not okay, today. Tears fall fresh and I blink them away, breathing deeply and focusing on the road. We get there all too soon.

I cannot begin to describe how difficult it is to watch your child grieve the loss of a beloved friend, especially as you grieve your own. Mercifully, we have a wonderful vet, and she was gentle and tender with all three of us. We brought him home and took turns rocking him in the glider, holding him one last time, baptizing him with tears that flowed from that place where love and sadness reside together in strained compromise, two sides of the same coin forced to live back to back. We buried Max that night, on the opposite side of the raspberry patch from Ruthie, and prepared ourselves to grieve for a good, long time. What we were not prepared for was what God did next.

She crawled out from under our deck this weekend—dirty, skittish, and underweight, but quick to warm up to our attention. We fed her out of compassion, and that was all it took for us to somehow get adopted. We named her Latté—her creamy tan coat the color of milk and coffee—and wondered if she would stay. She did. We wondered if she would take to the house. She did. We wondered if she would take to us as much as we had taken to her.

She did.

We've gone back and forth in our minds about this decision—questioning if we've minimized or somehow disrespected the loss of Max by allowing another cat into our homes and hearts so soon after his departure. What I've determined, after much soul-searching, is this: we did not go looking for this cat. This cat came looking for us. Somehow, God in his infinite wisdom seemed to know that there is a certain grief that can only be comforted by holding something warm and soft and purring, and he sent us that comfort. We are choosing to be open to receiving it—because, after all, what a better tribute to Max and Ruthie than to have loved them so fully that we would be open to loving that way again, in spite of the pain such a love will inevitably bring.

We will wait a week to see if any lost kitty signs pop up, and to see how Latté acclimates, and if all goes well, we will take her to the vet after that time and we will make it official. We will, in turn, adopt the cat who has adopted us. Almost on an impulse, we will open our hearts again to loving and being loved.

Because, well, that seems to be the way things go around here.

Latté, on Bub's lap this evening...

working the soil

(wrote this the last morning of my retreat as i watched robert, my new parish farmer friend, prepare the ground for planting. it is both metaphorical and literal. you may interpret it whichever way you please...)

Clay is not the
best soil within
which
to plant seeds.
Dense and unyielding to the
touch of mere hands,
it resists all
advances, rebuffs all
attempts to turn and
till.
And yet, the gardener toils on--
the back-breaking work of
redemption, worked
clod by heavy
clod.
Overturning that which is
on the surface (revealing
how shallow are
its roots),
the earth is laid bare--barren
and
broken before all--
vulnerable and
exposed.
Reverently and tenderly, the
gardener persists, nurturing this
valuable plot of
potential--
mattock in hand, patient and
undaunted.
There is much to be done--
much that is missing, much to
be reintroduced in this
restorative work.
He applies the refuse of our
lives to the
surface, working it into the
soil, trusting it will provide what
is needed. Trusting that--
in time-- the ground will soften
to his touch and
receive the tiny vessels of
life he is eager to
deposit.
Trusting that--
in time-- all will be
redeemed and the
soil in his
care will
bear
fruit.

grinding gears

The transition from writer back to mother and wife is not going smoothly--I've ground a few gears along the way and was afraid I might have dropped the transmission at one point yesterday. Transitions aren't easy for me anyway, but this one was a bit harder than I expected. I keep seeing images of The Convent superimposed over my life--faces at the table, the view out my window, my happy little desk with my happy little laptop--I can't seem to be fully here yet. I don't want to be fully here yet.

I want to go back to that space--that space where I was free to write for hours on end without interruptions, where nothing at all was required of me, where all that was in my head finally oozed out my fingers onto paper and I was free of it and it of me. I liked that space. I liked the person I got to be there. There is no space here. What am I going to do about that?

There is much work to be done. Next on the agenda is creating a macro or master document, then printing the manuscript in its entirety. Then the first round of revisions begins, and then a second printing, this time to give to a few trusted friends to tear apart, hopefully with grace and a great deal of tenderness. (Any volunteers?) While they rip my baby to shreds, I will create a formal book proposal, and then I will do another revision and then send the proposal and a few sample chapters out to the wolves to be devoured and eaten. Sounds like a good time. Remind me again WHY I wanted to do this?

I need to go to bed. Tomorrow we hit the ground running--43 hours of clients to make up for being out for a week. The past week already feels like a distant memory--remember that time, like, three years ago, when I went on that writing retreat? I should really do that again sometime.

Soon.

now what?!?!

I am finished with the entire rough draft, with two and a half hours left until dinner. As I am too over-caffeinated to take a nap, I don't know what to do with myself!!!

matins

Almighty and Eternal God,
So draw my heart to you,
So guide my mind,
So fill my imagination,
So control my will
That I may be completely devoted to you.
Then use me as you will:
Use me always for your glory
And the welfare of your people.
This I ask through Christ. Amen.


May this be realized in me today, Lord, as I work to bring the first portion of this process to completion. Amen, and amen!!!

the midday office

Direct me, O Lord, in all my doings with your most gracious favor, and further me with your continual help; that in all my work begun, continued, and ended in you, I may glorify your holy name...

I have written six chapters, three and a half of them in the last two days, and yet I still sit down to my computer every time with the fear that I will not be able to write.

Come, Lord, come! Chapter seven awaits!

evening compline

What a day. I have already informed my husband I am not ever coming home. Ever. I wrote for seven hours today, and I'm still sitting at my computer. I wrote two and a half chapters during this time, which means I have five out of eight completed. I am so excited I can't stand it.

We talked around the dinner table about the fear we must overcome to put words to paper. I felt that this morning, to be sure. The fear that I would sit down to write and nothing would come, and I would have set aside this time and paid this money and forgone a week of income for nothing. And though that fear was unfounded today, the fear remains for tomorrow. A fresh chapter, a fresh blank page. Will I be able to fill it? I can only attempt in my weakness to trust that God will use and direct that time as he sees fit.

I hope he sees fit to write another chapter.

morning prayer

Breakfast behind me, I return to my room, nervous and uncertain. I place my hands upon the keys—feel the wind though the window, hear the birds, the dogs, the motorcycles, sense the expectation in the air, in my body, in my spirit—and I wait.

Lord God, meet me here. In my quiet, in my typing, in my thinking, in my not-being-able-to-think. I invite—I implore—you to come.

unwritten

Hit the road this afternoon for a five day writing retreat to work on the manuscript I promised myself I'd write before I turned 40. The skies were clouded with rain and my thoughts were clouded with insecurity. What could I possibly have to say that hasn't been said before? This is what played on radio as I left home behind...

Unwritten

I am unwritten, can't read my mind, I'm undefined
I'm just beginning, the pen's in my hand, ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find

Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions
Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

I break tradition, sometimes my tries, are outside the lines
We've been conditioned to not make mistakes, but I can't live that way

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find

Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions
Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins

The rest is still unwritten
The rest is still unwritten
The rest is still unwritten

(lyrics by Natasha Benefield)

I've not written for almost six months--lost in a black cloud, unwilling to think, much less express. I am willing now. It is time to live my life with arms wide open.

Today is where my book begins.

you've come a long way, baby...

Out of pocket cost for broken arm: $3000

(Including four months of physical therapy)
Physical therapy for weak ankles: $660
Monthly gym tuition: $260
USAG fees: $150 annually
Mandatory summer camp: $320
Sparkly team uniform: $180
Sparkly team warm up: $50 used
Leotards for practice: $40 per leo
Goop for hair: $10
Sparkly spray for the same: $8

Learning how to overcome adversity, handle disappointment with grace, get back up again when you fall, conquer fear, be tenacious, develop concentration, work hard, be humble, manage time, gain balance, have grace under pressure, be a good sport, overcome the thought life, exercise determination, develop both physical and mental strength, take direction, value sacrifice, be satisfied with one's best, and end the year as ALL-AROUND STATE CHAMPION:

PRICELESS.