too late to take it back…

I was all the way out the front door to head to school when the panic hit. What in the world did I just do?!?! What on EARTH was I thinking?

I wasn't thinking. That was the problem. I was reading. I was listening. I was responding. Now, I'm wishing I'd been thinking.

But if I'd thought about it, truth be told, I wouldn't have done it. I wouldn't have set the goals to finish not only my rough draft but THREE formal book proposals by the end of the year. I wouldn't have made the commitment to treat this like a part time job and give it 15 hours per week, minimum. And I wouldn't have taken Chris Guillebeau's advice to "amass a small army" and broadcast it to over thirty of my friends and family for prayer and support. Because NOW that I'm thinking about it, that is CRAZY. And I'm wondering if I can do it. And why on earth I thought I could.

Something got stirred up over these last few weeks and I stepped out in faith and put things "out there" and now I'm wishing a little that they were still the tidy, quiet little pipe dreams inside of my head that a few people knew I entertained but didn't know to what extent my mind went with them. I want to push the little blue "undo" button and have the words disappear and with them my newly-voiced intentions. But it's too late. And that is both a good thing and a bad thing.

It's too late. I've put it out there. You've read it. You know the secret desires and fears of my heart. And you will know whether or not I achieve them. And that is a fearful, vulnerable thing. But I'm tired of living in fear and life-sucking comfort. I'm uncomfortable now. And that will be a good thing, if I live to tell about it.

Of course this is crazy. And impossible. And improbable. And thousands of people do it every year. Why the heck can't I be one of them?

All things are possible with God. Stepping out. Taking risks. Getting uncomfortable. Fighting back against fear and doubt. Putting words on a page. Turning pages into chapters. Turning chapters into books. It is possible.

But not if I don't try.

What in the world did I just do? I thumbed my nose at fear and pushed comfort out of my chair at the computer. I put words down on a page, which is all I am able to do. And as for the rest of it that is out of my hands, I asked for a little bit of help and a whole lot of prayer. Which seemed like a good idea at the time.

And still is now.

master orange belt

Scenes from Buddy's Taekwondo belt test tonight.

Sparring with a black belt. Nice shot.

And taking one down to the ground!

Breaking his board on the first try!

Way to go, Buddy!

raising a glass...

There are, it has been said, two types of people in the world. There are those who, when presented with a glass that is exactly half-full, say: this glass is half full. And then there are those who say: this glass is half-empty. The world belongs, however, to those who can look at the glass and say: What's up with this glass? Excuse me? Excuse me? This is my glass? I don't think so. My glass was full! And it was a bigger glass!

Terry Pratchett

leaping

Today is a writing day. Which explains why I've been blog surfing. If you write too, you know what I mean.

Surfing, today, took me back to Jeanette Fulda's blog, where I'd not been for a while. (Truth be told, I've not been anywhere in blogsphere for a while.) I don't know Jeanette personally, but I was drawn to her blog two years ago after reading her weight loss memoir, Half-Assed (which has to be, I must say, one of the greatest titles EVER). She is a delightful writer, with a clear, witty voice, and I was both delighted and slightly jealous to see that TODAY was the release date of her second book, Chocolate And Vicodin: My Quest for Relief From the Headache That Wouldn't Go Away. As a chronic headache sufferer of the 40 year variety, I had to smile and shake my head. (Not at her pain, mind you. That would be bad karma. If you believed in karma.) No, I smiled at her inventiveness and success at writing a book about it. And then, I smiled even bigger.

Why? Because usually this kind of thing would have sent me into despair. What I am thinking? How could I possibly think I could do this? Everything I have to say has already been said. No one wants to hear from me. I'm wasting my time. And so on, ad nauseum. But interestingly enough, not today.

Today, I thought, I could really do this. There's NO REASON on earth why I couldn't do this. This woman lost around two hundred pounds. She wrote and published a book about it. She got a headache. She wrote and published a book about it. If she can do this, you can do this. What on earth are you waiting for?

What on earth am I waiting for? Nothing. At least not today.

I chalk part of the change in my attitude up to having been reading The Art of Non-Conformity by Chris Guillebeau for the last several nights. (The rest I chalk up to a greater work of God within me that I'm not ready to talk about just yet, but which probably includes said book.) I'm half way through the book, and I've already used up half a pad of sticky notes. This is a hearty endorsement. Believe me.One of the very first things Chris urges you to get clear about is determining what are your core life values. I think I could say pretty clearly, without hesitation, that I value adventure, freedom (not of the "you-can't-tell-me-what-to-do-I'm-the-boss-of-me" variety, but of the "I'm-no-longer-bound-and-able-to-choose-what-I-do-from-here" variety), true intimacy, and hope. These are values, among others, that stir within me, creating discontent and sometimes even motivation. But.

But there's a problem. When I look realistically at my life, and the way I LIVE my life, you will see that I clearly value other things more. Comfort. Security. Ease. Protection. Self. Keeping up with the Jonses. I can see it. Can you? You can be honest. It's okay. Because I know you do. And it's time I do something about it. Because it's no wonder there is discontent. That doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure it out. I'm living in a way that is contrary to what I say I truly value and desire. I'm going to need to make some changes.

And I'm going to need to take some risks. Hence this post. I am taking a leap. I am through looking at and treating my writing as a hobby. It is now a part-time job. (With any luck and a lot of prayer, perhaps it will even follow the path of my other "part-time" job which is growing so steadily I cannot contain it.) My goal is to start at a commitment of 15 hours a week spent writing, researching, planning, and/or reading, all directed toward the projects I am currently working on, with the hope of moving it to 20. I don't know HOW I am going to do this. That's two hours per day to start with, increasing to three. And did I mention I have school-aged children, who will be out for the summer. But no worries. Because that is where YOU come in!

I plan to create a weekly email list of prayer support people who are willing to lift up the needs I am experiencing that week. I also plan to post once a week my progress. I'm creating accountability AND an army, all at the same time! If you don't receive the email and would like to be on the list, please leave a comment and let me know, and I will include you happily.

Exhale. Wow. I just said it. I've put it out there.

I've put it out there. I will keep it out there. And I will wait, expectantly, to see what comes back.

Feel free to be expectant with me!

hearing is believing

I'd been told they were there. Indeed, I'd even been told exactly where to look. Take the boardwalk trail to the right, into the woods, and follow it around to the back. That was the best place to find them. And this, in its beautifully stark bareness, was the best time of year to try to get a peek. At least two had been spotted together on more than one occasion, I'd heard. I was hopeful that perhaps with a brief prayer of favor from above, I would catch at least a glimpse

And so it was that I drug my whiney, ill-tempered family out on a cold, damp, gray February afternoon to the very back of Innis Woods Metropark in my excited search for pileated woodpeckers. Ignoring their protests and complaints, I plunged forward into the forest with all three of them in tow, my eyes scanning the tops of deadwood trees, my ears pealed for the familiar cry or the rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat that would give them away. I was certain we would see something. Or at least I was hopeful.

Pileated woodpeckers (think Woody the Woodpecker from an age of kindler, gentler television), for those who are not familiar, are the largest of the North American head-banging, wood-pecking family. Over a foot and a half tall on average, with a wingspan of over two feet, this is not the average downy that comes to rest on your backyard feeder. Not by a long shot.

They differ from the downy, and many other smaller varieties as well, in the fact that they are a bit more reclusive in nature. While the average hiker might see several downys or red-heads or red-bellies on a marginally attentive walk through the woods, it's not often you see one of these really huge, really funny-looking, really cool birds. In fact, I've only seen them once in my 40 years (an event which greatly amused Tom's Aunt Rhoda on one of our trips to the beach, who could not figure out what on EARTH I was so excited about!), hence my anticipation once I learned of their easily observed presence nearby.

We searched for about an hour, making our way slowly and deliberately around the half-mile loop, but in the end it was to no avail. While we saw several other varieties and sizes flitting about and banging their heads, Woody eluded us, all but for his distinct call and his thunderous tapping. Hunger and spitting rain overruled my desire for a second time around the trail, and we headed home having heard but not seen what I'd gone out in search of.

As we stood in the back of the woods, hands cold and binoculars fogging over, scanning the treetops in the direction of the insistent tapping, it occurred to me the metaphorical nature of this quest. Much of this past year has been spent pursuing, looking for, that which I had heard of and could hear in the distance but could not see for myself. Now here I stood, literally looking for that which I could hear and had heard of, but remained unable to see it, despite my patience and best efforts. The irony was not lost on me. I began to question just what it was, exactly, I was supposed to see here.

Normally, this event would have left me disappointed, as many events do—particularly those that do not turn out according to my expectations. (Which would be, of course, most events, given my tendency to expect too much…) But in that quiet space, punctuated by their percussive interludes, I attempted within my heart to try on a different response for size.

The reality was the pileated woodpeckers were there. Of that, there was no doubt. I could hear them clearly, and I could distinguish their calls from all the others. The evidence of their presence was apparent. I could hear it. Just as I at times hear evidence of God, even when I don't catch a glimpse of it. I could choose to be disappointed that I did not see them (or Him), or I could choose to be content with knowing their presence was there and we heard it, and with knowing that if I am persistent, perhaps one day I will be rewarded with a glimpse.

It is hard sometimes to reconcile a belief system that maintains we "live by faith but not by sight" with a Savior who placed so much emphasis on seeing, both physically and spiritually. I have struggled in guilt for 40 years over my desire to see, to experience, that which I hear and hear of, fearing this was evidence my faith was lacking. In the end, I've concluded I don't think it's wrong to want to see, but more importantly I've concluded I can't devalue the hearing simply because it is not sight, nor can I say that His presence isn't there simply because I can only hear but not see. It is a perspective I can make fit, at least for today.

In the end, I did not see what I came in search of, but I did find it. Perhaps this shift is significant. Perhaps I can learn to value that hearing is experiencing. And perhaps, if I am persistent, I will come, in time, to experience fully the measure of all the fullness of God, and my faith and my sight will be one and the same.

moderation, my fanny

I almost didn't do it. I had been avoiding it lately--afraid of what I'd find and what I'd do once I found it. And so I went for three weeks maintaining total abstinence, in complete ignorant bliss, not knowing what the scale had to say about what my body was or wasn't doing. I'd tell you it was a peaceful, serene three weeks without this constant, subjective feedback, but that would be a lie. Feedback, alas, comes in many forms...

Read more at More...

catching my breath

Finally a moment to sit down at my keyboard, and I am without my manuscript and cannot think of a darn thing to write about. Panera is hoppin’ and my meal is finished and my lunchtime-rush limited 30 minutes of free wifi are quickly ticking away, but nothing comes to mind as my body slowly digests the renegade carbohydrates I just scarfed down in order to have time to write. All that blood in my stomach, I suppose. Isn’t that what they say?

A timer goes ignored in the kitchen and a baby screams somewhere across the way and the 20-somethings at the table next to me complain about their boss in hushed but animated tones. Patrons around me come and go, and I put my feet up and settle down into my seat and plan to be here for a while. A chill from the door begins to settle in, and I wish I were closer to the fire. Of course, were I closer to the fire, I would be wishing I were elsewhere. That seems to be the way it goes.

Perhaps it is not so much that I cannot think of anything to write about as it is that I cannot narrow it down. My plate, as usual, is full here as of late. We are back in the physical therapy routine—figuring out school schedules and transportation and what to do for an hour 2-3 times/week while they work at healing the newest debilitating injury. Doctors visits and x-rays and MRIs and massage therapy—there is no shortage of things to write about. Then there was the throwing up second-grader the night before the Valentine party, the weekend spent snorting Lysol and praying none of the rest of us would fall victim to the same vile plague, the upper respiratory crud that has grabbed several of us by the chest and won’t let us breathe. But it’s winter. Everyone is sick. And we, in particular, are always sick. What on earth is interesting about that?

Then again, perhaps it is not so much that I cannot think of anything to write about as it is that there are things on my mind I cannot write about, things I can’t put into words, things that aren’t fit for public consumption. I consider what I could possibly consider as I sit here nursing my luke-warm tea, and I come up with nothing I would possibly feel comfortable exploring in the comfort of my cozy but very public mini-booth at Panera. The tables around the fire are all open now, and I consider moving. An attempt to distract myself, I suppose, from thinking about that which I don’t want to think about, much less write about. I stay put, pulling my sweater around my legs and shrinking and inch or two further away from the radius of the door. Wrapped up and secluded, both inside and out.

The 20-somethings have gone back to work and the baby has fallen asleep and the timer has long since been silenced. But my thoughts are still just as scattered as they were when I first put my fingers to the keys. I consider reaching in my bag for a book, but feel compelled to write since it is the first chance I’ve had in over a week to do so. The urge won’t leave me alone—not now, not ever. It is always there, nagging at me, trying to pull me from whatever it is I am doing at the time. I need to listen to it. I need to give in to it. I need to shut it up, even if just for a few short minutes here at Panera.

My tea is almost drained and my eyelids are getting heavy. Another hour until I pick the injured one up early from school and take her to a new doctor, hoping to find out why the back won’t stop hurting, and what to do in order to fix that. I watch people come and go, and I consider getting up and joining them. I am undecided as of yet, but of this I am certain—I’ve written just about all I can write for today.

ode to lysol

Gold colored can of foul floral scent,

blast through the air and make your descent—

on pillows, on blankets, on bears and on beds,

cover them all until all germs are dead.

Hover and linger, alive in the air,

gobbling it all until nothing is there.

Ridding my home with your magical power

of this plague that makes everyone puke on the hour.

Scour and scourge until all trace is gone,

restoring our health by the breaking of dawn—

Cleanse us of sickness, we humbly pray,

for I MUST be to work on the very next day.

breaking up is hard to do

My Bub, winning her third straight title as Beam State Champion. Words cannot express how proud I am of the things my daughter has accomplished in the last three years, the overwhelming majority of which don't come with a title or a medal.

We made the tough decision tonight to pull Bub from the team early. We'd planned already for this to be her last season. Competing interests have become a strain. The cost has become a strain. The schedule and transportation have become a strain. But we hadn't planned for this.

A back injury one week after winter States has not healed. And, in fact, it has gotten worse. The doctor has ordered 4-6 weeks out of the gym. Spring States are in nine. That doesn't seem feasible. And so we've done the difficult thing.

After coming back from a broken upper arm and several months of PT her first season to win the All-Around State Champion Title last spring, we were pretty psyched to see what she could do entering the season on a more even playing field. In her first five meets, she made one of the top two spots on the podium for all-around four times. To say that we are disappointed is an understatement. But.

But. We believe that this doorway closing paves the way for other doors to open. And she is fortunate that there are several other doors awaiting her. While this is not how we wanted this to end for her, we are thankful she is in agreement with our decision and, as she has learned how to do throughout these past three years, is taking it in stride. That, to me, is the attitude of a champion.

Not all victories come with trophies. Nor do they always feel victorious at the time. But they are victories, nonetheless.

ready to break free

This is the most terrifying prospect a human being can face...the Fear That We Will Succeed.

We fear discovering that we are more than we think we are. More than our parents/children/teachers think we are. We fear that we actually possess the talent that our still, small voice tells us. That we actually have the guts, the perseverance, the capacity. We fear that we truly can steer our ship, plant our flag, reach our Promised Land. We fear this because, if it's true, then we become estranged from all we know.

The War of Art
Steven Pressfield

I want to make your life a glorious adventure, but you must seek to know me in greater depth and breadth instead of striving for a safe lifestyle. I know how ambivalent your heart is in all of this: You long for the adventure that a life abandoned to me can be, and at the same time, you cling to old ways because change frightens you. Though you feel safest when your life is predictable and things seem to be under control, I want you to break free and discover the adventures I have planned for you.

Jesus Lives
Sarah Young

Read these both today for the first time. Coincidence? I don't think so.

for my firework...

...as she tries to sleep after we've just talked about the possibility that we might be ending gymnastics sooner than we planned...

Firework
(Katy Perry)

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
Drifting through the wind
Wanting to start again

Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin
Like a house of cards
One blow from caving in

Do you ever feel already buried deep
Six feet under scream
But no one seems to hear a thing

Do you know that there's still a chance for you
Cause there's a spark in you

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gunna leave 'em fallin' down-own-own

You don't have to feel like a waste of space
You're original, cannot be replaced
If you only knew what the future holds
After a hurricane comes a rainbow

Maybe your reason why all the doors are closed
So you can open one that leads you to the perfect road
Like a lightning bolt, your heart will blow
And when it's time, you'll know

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gunna leave 'em fallin' down-own-own

Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
It's always been inside of you, you, you
And now it's time to let it through

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gunna leave 'em goin "Oh, oh, oh!"

Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon

I love you, Bub. You're still gonna shine.

You're still gonna shine.

community

Cris texts me. "Rds r clr...just cold as i dont know what."

I text her back. "Keep us posted. Haven't left yet. There by dinner."

I text April. "What time r u leaving? We're l8r than we hoped."

"We are trying to get out of the house too. Our goal was 2."

"Ours, too. Will prob b 2:15-2:30. Cu u there--wanna get dinner 2gether?"

"That sounds good! As long as not too fancy. Im in comfy clothes."

"U got it!" We agree to connect once we settle in the hotel. I continue getting ready.

"7.65 on bars," Cris updates. "Second highest in grps so far." I tell my daughter. She whoops.

"Tell her that's awesome!"

"Keira says AWESOME!"

April texts. "On the rd."

"On our way 2 get bagels then will be 2."

Another update. "9.1 beam." I tell Bub. Another whoop.

"Keira says NICE!"

We hit the road for The Big Meet. Will will be spectating this go round, but it is what it is.

"8.3 on floor. fell on front tuck."

"She okay?"

I don't hear back. We wait for the report.

I like these people, I think to myself. This is fun. I'm going to miss this when we're done.

"Champps or Buca's?" I text April.

"Buca's," she replies. So much for my low carb diet. That' okay. The company is more important.

I love this little community we've found ourselves in by virtue of our daughters' mutual interests. I love feeling a part of something outside of myself, even if it's just gymnastics.

"We're at mile marker 101."

"No way! We just passed 106!" We're a caravan and we didn't even know it.

An update from Cris. "Vault 9.325."

Jasmyne is finished. We'll await her all-around score and placement as we continue our way into Indy. Tomorrow the updates will come from April, as Iris competes with the group Bub would have been in. As Bub will be there watching, there will be no whoops, no one for me to report it to as they come in.

But that's okay. Because I want to know.

We're in this together.

And I really, really like that.

"the magic of making a start"

When we conceive an enterprise and commit to it in the face of our fears, something wonderful happens... Angel midwives congregate around us; they assist as we give birth to ourselves, to that person we were born to be, to the one whose destiny was encoded in our soul...

The War of Art

another go-round with the big “d”

"My back hurts, Momma," my daughter moans for the umpteenth time. "It really hurts." I remind her to take some ibuprofen, to lay on her heating pad, to hang in there until we see the doctor tomorrow. She sighs a heavy sigh—not the "you are such an unbelievable idiot of a parent and I can't believe you are making me/won't let me do that" sigh I have grown accustomed to as of late, but a deeper, weightier "I'm tired and I'm in pain and it won't stop and I'm so very, very disappointed sigh" that can just about break a parent's heart.

It is certainly breaking mine.

A few too many standing front tucks appear to be the evil culprit, executed a week or two before Christmas. With state championships out of the way, her coaches were working up new skills, much to my daughter's delight. The tucks themselves felt fine, but shortly thereafter she began to notice her back was sore. Within a day or two, the muscles surrounding her spine in her lower back had contracted so tightly she looked like she had small loaves of bread under her skin.

Certain it was muscular, we took a heat/stretch/massage approach to healing, which seemed, at first, to be working. A night of playing tag with friends on New Year's Eve, however, caused them to seize right back up and we were faced with the question of what to do next. Massage therapy ensued with a local therapist who specializes in working with gymnasts. We were encouraged and hopeful.

We knew Bub would likely miss her first meet of the new year, and that proved to be true. But our hopes were that a little rest and a lot of prescribed stretching, combined with a couple visits to Jan, would have her back up and running by The Big Meet this coming weekend. Our hopes are proving to be mis-placed.

The new season had started off so well—after coming from behind last year to win the all-around title at the spring state championships, we were very excited to see what this year would hold. In her first four meets, she took one of the top two spots every time. We were thrilled—what a good experience for her, I thought. It will be great for her to see how well she can excel when given the opportunity. We went in to fall states with great expectations.

A rough vault (we could not for the life of us understand her score, though I will admit scoring for the vault appears to involve a lot of complex calculations and the correct alignment of the heavenly bodies) knocked her down to 4^th place overall, but a spectacular beam routine gave her a third beam state championship in a row. She was disappointed, but she took it in stride. I was disappointed, but I did not.

We shook the dust off of states our feet and set our sights on the future. The Big Meet, an invitation-only select team event which Bub had made for the first time, was coming in January, and then the Buckeye Classic, and then States again. Plenty more opportunities to show 'em what she's got.

Or not, as it turns out.

Turns out, my daughter will display another set of skills at The Big Meet this weekend—a set of skills she has, unfortunately, had her fair share of opportunities to develop and hone.

To say it is a difficult thing to watch your child face disappointment is beyond understatement. As parents, we want so much for them to have the big win, the personal best, the positive experience. We want for them to know that "thrill of victory" and to spare them "the agony of defeat." If only we could. For our own sake, if nothing else.

I have wrestled for a month with my emotions over the outcome of states, over the back injury, over the probability that this may be her last season. I want so desperately for her to end on a high note, if ending is what proves to be necessary. I want for her to feel good about what she's accomplished, to have pride in her efforts, to know this time has been worth it. Sometimes, more often than I would like to admit, it is hard to remember that winning is not a necessary ingredient in the making of such an outcome.

This weekend, my daughter will show people what she's made of internally. She will attend The Big Meet and she will cheer her heart out for her friends. She will continue to rest and heat and stretch and will tell herself that every athlete has to overcome physical adversity, that every top gymnast has had to sit out for a season. She will handle her disappointment (because rest assured, she will be disappointed) with a grace and maturity that has been hard-won. And she will cultivate a deeper sense of who she is and what she's capable of in the process.

My daughter is learning what it means to persevere, to endure, to overcome.

And that, I remind myself, is worth infinitely more than winning.

a measure of trust

A lifetime of experience with scales and diets and fat wardrobes and thin wardrobes and IBS and chronic pain and healing prayer and hoping-wishing-praying for freedom has left me feeling a little anxious that there is a staircase out there somewhere, and the only way is down. I can tell myself I can trust the diet, but that has not been my experience. I can tell myself I can trust the process, but that has not been my experience. I can tell myself that I can trust my body, but that has not been my experience. I can tell myself that I can trust The God of the Universe, but that has not always been my experience, either...

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rockin' the new look

This summer Bub joined Mid-Day Son, a band created by a group of her friends at school. Here they are leading worship last night for a middle school lock-in.

Sorry for the onslaught of pictures. Have to keep the family happy.

I hope to post WORDS very soon!

child swap

Traded my daughter in this weekend for a straight-haired model. What do you think?

(I think she looks like Shawn Johnson, personally!)

this one's for mom

My Bub's new haircut.

Lest there be any doubt about who's child she is...

recipe for a snow day

1. Take two of your mother's good spoons, and hide them under your pillow. (Be sure to forget they are there, so your mother goes insane trying to figure out what happened to all of her spoons.) Take care to use REAL spoons, as plastic spoons "are only good for delays."

2. Put your pajamas on. Inside out. And backwards. Wear them to bed this way, with the collar all scruntched up under your chin so that you get drool all over it.

3. Take one ice cube per person and flush them down the toilet. (Be sure to pick small ones, as rumor has it ice cubes can clog toilets which makes fathers very agitated.)

4. Pray. "Dear God. Let's hope we have a snow day tomorrow. Amen."

5. Go to sleep (as if) and let the effects marinate for a full eight hours.

6. Wake up at 1:17, 2:30, 3:46, 4:15, 5:37, and 6:54 to see if it's snowing.

7. Awaken your mother (if she's managed to sleep through all the snow-checking) to see if there is a message from the school.

8. Enjoy the fruits of your labor.

one word

I'm not really a copy cat. Really. And, truly, I can't in good conscience be called a copy cat because it's too late to really do the thing right, anyway. So I'm not copying my friend Cindy, who did this really cool Reverb10 thing in December, because it's not December any longer, and I'm not really doing it. Really.

But here's the thing.

I've been looking for this very thing. I just didn't find it in time. I've been in my "it's the end of the year and I need to reflect and regroup" place (though, admittedly, I get in that place several times a year—"It's my birthday, so I need to reflect and regroup... It's the end of the school year, so I need to reflect and regroup…It's Wednesday, so I need…") so when I was looking at Cindy's kick-butt photography (click on her name above to be amazed) and came across her entries for Reverb10, I just about hyperventilated. This was just the springboard I needed. Short, concise prompts, no big book to read, lots to think about. I can do this. Though I won't do one a day, I won't probably even complete them all, and I won't, obviously, get them done in time for them to serve the purpose the creators intended. But I'm good with that. Because they will serve my meager little purpose just fine. And that way, I can't be called a copy cat. (Especially because worrying that y'all would THINK I'm a copy cat would be a form of resistance, and I'm making a new practice of resisting resistance. For today, at any rate…)

SO. Prompt number one: One Word. Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you're choosing that word. Now imagine it's one year from today. What would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?

One Word

Bittersweet.

My word for 2010 is bittersweet. Bitter. Sharp and disagreeable, causing or showing sorrow or discomfort, characterized by strong feelings of resentment or cynicism—there are things from this past year that have left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. Like Naomi changing her name to Mara, I have cried out to God about losses it feels I cannot bear, burdens placed on me I don't wish to carry any further, dreams and plans that didn't turned out the way I dreamt and planned them. I don't wish to live in this land any longer.

Sweet. Agreeable and pleasant, friendly and pleasing, characterized by kindliness and gentleness—there have also been moments that have been gratifying, sentimental, even delightful at times, though that last one might be pushing it a bit. Celebratory moments. Adventurous moments. Hilarious moments. Intimate moments. Bright spots like stars against the backdrop of night. I want to live in this place more often.

Bittersweet captures, for me, the juxtaposition within which I often find myself, despite my best efforts toward contentment and peace. Pleasure mixed with overtones of sadness. You take the bitter with the sweet. Certain things come at the cost of others. This has been the theme of this last year.

I'm pretty over it.

Audacity.

My word for 2011 is audacity. Intrepidly daring and adventurous, recklessly bold, marked by originality and verve—contemptuous of law, religiosity, or decorum. In 2011, I want to have the audacity to finish my manuscript, to love well, to say no when I need to. I want to have the audacity to live authentically, to create courageously, to follow obediently. I want to have the audacity to pursue dreams and passions and not just talk about it, to experience life and not just read about it, to connect intimately and not just dream about it. I don't just want to be courageous. I want to be audacious.

This is what I want to project into 2011.

Audacity. Intrepid boldness. Bold or arrogant disregard of normal restraints.

Behold, I am doing a new thing. See how it rises up.