For the 9 Millionth time...He did NOT kill John Lennon...

...Mark David Chapman did.  But, there is a website that says he did.  They even have a little book proving all their, um, cough, *theory*, cough.  I post the link because I find it humorous and rediculous.  I think you might, too.  These people even have a van with their website painted on the side.  That's how I found out about them, in New York City, on John Lennon's birthday, headed to Strawberry Fields with my other soulmates.  It is the most amusing thing I've come across.  And sad that they can make money on something so tragic.  Society.  Ahhh, gulible society, supporting this lunatic.

Anyway, Stephen King did not kill John.  He saved my life.  Again.

I have all these things to say.  I know there is a novel in me.  Somewhere.  Deep, deep inside.  It needs to come out.  I need to write.  But I can never seem to get past 5000 words.  And that is not a novel. It is not even a novella.  And, by definition, it isn't even a short story.  I'm just writing really long, fictional journal entries.

I have this picture in my head about this breath spray from when I was little.  It was a green and white canister.  How can I make that a story?  It's just breath spray...

But my mind will not let it go.  On Saturday, I put Stephen King's On Writing on the ipod in my car.  I always listen to this when I need to get the ball rolling.  I listened to it until the very end, last night on the way home from work.

While listening, I got a couple plot ideas.  I have written them down and am working on streaming them together.  I don't know if this will be my novel or another short story, but it is something. 

And it all started with a one ounce green and white can of breath spray from the early 1980s.  It's weird what the mind remembers...

...and how some small, seemingly insignificant item from childhood can become a story, if I let it.


p.s. For those of you who haven't yet checked it out, I started a new blog for my cooking adventures.  Please check it out, comment, and follow.  Thanks!
http://www.ivygrowsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/

I'm doubl-ey writing!

Here's a quick note to let you know I have started another blog.  Not to replace, but to add to my writing.  It will highlight my kitchen and the happenings that take place there.  As many of you know, I have really enjoyed this journey of learning to cook, and taken several pictures.  I have also had a difficult time expressing how much this process has meant to me, what I have learned.  So I set up the much needed outlet to write about it, not just posting pictures on facebook, or writing a sentence or two here. 

Writing has always been my creative outlet. And cooking has become a close second.

If you have a second, please stop by and sign up to follow.  Your comments and suggestions are welcome.
It's new!  It's exciting!  It's mine!

Thank you all for your support in my writing, here and over there.

http://www.ivygrowsinthekitchen.blogspot.com

Back in the Saddle Again!

And the rest of my ABCs...(condensed, of course...)

Picture it: Atlanta, Georgia, April 15, 2011...

I’m sitting innocently at my desk, a stack of paperwork in front of me. I long for the paperwork to be over. For the day, Friday, to be over. I am methodically going through the stack while wondering how I can write a blog on my chosen M word, excited that I have been keeping up with the ABC Challenge, and that, half-way through, my desire to write has really been rejuvenated by this blogfest.

I sneeze.

My right arm goes numb. My hand, the dominate one, is twitching and suddenly goes limp and numb as well. My neck, well, there's no numbness there. It's screeching, seething, agonizing pain. I wish for numbness, but it never comes.

And so it began. The last two months of my life have been chiropractor visits, massage sessions, bikram yoga, and finally doctors and surgeon consultations. I have a bulging disk in my C6.

This is nothing new. Two years ago, I had the same thing happen to me on my left side. That time, it was caused by running. Uber-stressed in my last semester of school (summer, no less), I took up running. I was so caffeinated, that I could not go to sleep at night. Once I was ready to sleep, I would put on my running shoes and go. Problem: I have flat feet and was running on pavement. Solution to sleep, but not my body. One week after I graduated (stopped running), I woke up in the middle of the night with this exact same pain and numbness, just on the left side.

What the sneeze did, in essence, is reactivate this injury. Apparently, a sneeze has a speed of up to 100mph. That's a lot of movement in that short period of time. One side of the nerve controls the left side of your body, the other side controls the right. When I sneezed, the side that controls the right gave in and dropped, after two years of supporting both ends.

I've been in bed. I was in bed for nearly two weeks. Then I slowly started to get up and out. Every movement was deliberate. Every action pre-planned. Living this way is a great teacher. Patience is not something I come by honestly, and I had to be patient, both with myself and my surroundings. I had to not get frustrated.

Chiropractic helped. Massages helped. Bikram Yoga helps. But nothing was fast enough. So I went to the doctor. They took an MRI and sent me for a consultation with a surgeon. I’m not excited about that. I am thinking I will not get surgery. So, my next step is an acupuncturist. I am going to get an appointment to go see one for next week.

The worst part of all of this was that I could not do my two favorite things: write or read. I could not (and still have trouble) writing because my hand was numb. My thumb and index finger are still numb, so it is difficult to hold a pen. Typing was annoying because I could not really support my laptop and my fingers were not doing what my brain told them to. More frustrating than anything, really. Reading was difficult because holding a book was a little much. It is still an interesting feat, however, I do a little everyday. 

There are lessons in everything. I am still realizing the ones I have learned in the last two months. Maybe I will write about them someday soon. I do not want this time to go unfounded, and lessons have always been a growing point for me.

I had a list written out of the subjects I wanted to write about for the ABC blogfest. I'd like to share the rest of it, beginning with the letter M, where I would have been on taxday 2011, when all hell broke loose. I am only going to write a few sentences about them, since we are covering half the alphabet in one sitting. 

Meatloaf. and Mashed potatoes. and Macaroni and cheese.

These are my favorite foods. I crave them often.

New York City.

This is my place. It is where I feel safe. I long for it when I’m not there.

October.

The month of my birth. It is a breathable month, the trees changing colors, the cool and crisp feeling of the air, the wind. It reminds me that I am alive. I was actually due in November, but I was meant to be an October baby.

Prepositions.

I love prepositions. I am obsessed with them, the way they change and interchange, or completely change the meaning of a statement.

Quiet.
Being quiet is something that I had to learn. Be quiet and listen. To myself, to others, to the god of my understanding.

Reading.
I love to read. I always have. It inspires me and takes me to a whole other place.

Shickley, Nebraska, population 376.
This is my hometown. I’m going to write an entire blog about it someday, since I didn't get the chance during the blogfest.

Tattoos.
I have them. I’m getting more. I'll post pictures soon.

Underwear. My secret girly obsession.
I am not girly. But I love girly underwear.

Virginia Woolf.
My favorite author. I have been reading Virginia since I was in middle school. There's something about her style that encourages and drives me.

Walking.
Walking is my favorite activity. I feel alive when I actually take the time to get there slowly, observing, watching, looking. It is one of the best things about New York City.

Xanthrippe Richmond. my original pseudonym.
In seventh grade, I developed this name as a way of writing from the outside. Xanthrippe even had a signature very different than my own. S/he always wrote in green ink.

Yoga – My biggest fight turned into my biggest need.
I did not want to do bikram yoga, I thought it was a little nutty.  But, it has turned into the 90 minutes of my life when I am able to shut down my head, and focus on my body, mind, and spirit. I go to solve problems, both physical and mental. And usually walk out of there with a solution.

Zealots - they scare me.
Living in the bible belt, I have seen my fair share of zealots. They are crazy and creepy. One of them told me I needed a hug a couple months ago and I screamed like I was a human rape whistle.



Zealot



That is the Reader's Digest version of the rest of my alphabet. It's good to be back writing. Even though this took longer to type than it should have, it sure is worth it.

 

Kinky. My word in 7th grade.

Kinky - (adj.) quirky or eccentric.

I love this word.  I have since I came across it all those years (YIKES!) ago.  Quirky or eccentric...all in five little letters.  It seemed perfect!

I used to have this habit when I was younger of looking through the dictionary at random to find new and interesting sounding words.  Two years later, I eventually read the entire thing.  I also had a habit of writing out lists of words I liked, and then spending time looking them up in the thesaurus and finding new ways of saying them.  Which, I think, is how I came across kinky.  It is a synonym for different.  It means a lot of things.  My seventh grade brain couldn't wrap itself around the other part of the word...

Kinky- (adj.) slang  given to unusual, abnormal, or deviant sexual practices; perversly erotic in behavior

Who knew it was sexual? 

Who knew it meant deviant behavior?

Who knew it meant perversly erotic?

Who knew it meant all these things?

I guess a lot of people. Apparently, not me.

In my ignorance (lack of knowledge), I said it.  A lot.  I used it in any sentence I could for a long time, both verbal and written, as I did with all my new word finds.  I have always loved words, and when I found one I particularly liked, it became my word, a word I would use to the extreme. 
 
There are so many things I love about words in general, and the word kinky seemed to have it all.  Kinky.  I love the way it sounds.  Kinky.  I love the way it is spelled.  I knew then that the letter k is a rarity when standing on its own twice in a single word.  Kinky.  I love the way the letters look stacked together. 
 
I guess I'm lucky that my parents let me use words, no matter what they are.  I feel I'm lucky that I love words and wanted to use them.  I get so discouraged when I hear parents say to their children "Don't say that."  To kids, it's all an expieriment.  It's just them testing the waters of their brains and their vocal chords.  In school, teachers tell their students not to write a certain way or to use certain words in their writing.  It's all about the challenge of the new.  It helps them grow and change and become who they are. 
 
Wow, this post took a weird turn.  But, writing it out sometimes does that.  Stop filtering.  Say what you mean and mean what you say.  And find new ways to say it.

J: When I balk at writing, it must be of the honest kind...

I love to write. Obviously. I always have. It’s something that comes naturally and easily.

I write stories. I write poems. I write lyrics.

I even think story form most of the time.

So, what does this have to do with the letter J?

I hate to journal.

Journaling is, um, real. It is directly attached to feelings.  And has a purpose. It is writing for the sole purpose of an outcome containing growth and getting through. And it there is all kinds of room for error, for improper spelling, grammar, and punctuation.

Getting through what?  Getting through the roadblocks in my head and the speedbumps in my soul.

I journal about two or three times a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It depends what is going on. I have kept journals on and off for years. Initially, I always balk at the idea. It is frustrating to me. It forces me to look at myself, to be honest, to work towards a solution. And sometimes, that is just not fun.

I write what's real in my journal.  I write and write and write.  The same things over and over and over.  The point of journaling is to find a solution.  And that takes days.  Sometimes weeks.  On the same issue.  The words change from day to day, and eventually, the problem words turn into solution words, the solution words take over, and all of a sudden, days later, I know what to do.

As I move through each day of journaling, I re-read the entries and ponder my course of action.  As I re-read the entries, I try to ignore the writing mistakes I made in my haste to get all the thoughts and feelings out.  Sometimes I get stuck on the mistakes.  Sometimes I wish I had typed instead of hand-written my journals so I could go back and correct the mistakes - as if they were never made.  This is deflection, not wanting to face the issue on paper, and instead, focus on what I can fix.

But I must hand-write.

As much as I detest the act of journaling, I see it for what it is, and it is finding soltutions.  It is unabashedly looking at myself and knowing there is room to grow and change and become.  And that makes it worth every minute, every word, every imperfection those pages contain.

Commitments Changing My Shape...

...well, as the title would imply, I have committed myself as of late. No not to the mental institution (those some would argue that would be helpful...), but to others.  And in doing so, have found that I have re-committed to myself.

I would not take any of my decisions back. It has been a roller coaster of a few months, and I have learned many things about myself and those around me.

I have learned that I have the ability to be a better friend than I ever imagined - selfless and loyal, choosing what is right over what will make me feel good.

I have recently had the opportunity to make a decision not based on self. And I did so without hesitation or thought.

I have learned that I do not need to be in the center, I can be on the outside, or standing next to or with someone, and be perfectly perfect.

I have learned that teamwork is better. I have learned that when others are in need of support, my motives are pure.

I have learned that after two days in the snow, I get cabin fever. But after standing outside waiting for the car to defrost and seeing three cars slide backwards down the hill in less than five minutes, I am fine with the couch again.

I have learned that I can stand up for myself, even when my selfish and physical needs will not be met by doing so. It's the mental and spiritual stuff that has become important.

I have learned that I can take time with myself. And that I value that time.

I have learned that letting people in is not always a bad thing. In fact, it's nice to find understanding.

One commitment I let up on is to write. So here we are. I'm writing. I have joined up on the A to Z BLOGFEST to continue and encourage continuation. April is quite a ways off and I have made a shape-shifting commitment. So I shall write until then, and continue then.  That gives me at least of commitment to write, continually, through the end of April.  And it feels good.

Here goes nothin'...

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An Honest Award

HonestScrap…I’ve been wondering when this would be necessary.

Crap. HonestCrap…I’ve been debating on what to write about.

***BAD WORD THAT STARTS WITH F. HonestFlip…My mind turns at every corner, yet I cannot find words to fit in the swerve.

Foot Taps. HonestTap…I do not like tap water.

Scrap.  HonestScrapAward.  Write.  Now.

Once again, my dear friend and Rebel, Olivia has given me an undeserved award. The Honest Scrap Award. She has given this, in spite of the fact that lately, I cannot figure out how to be honest in words.

Maybe this is the gear-up to get back. Ten honest things about me, as per usual upon the award acceptance speech. But first, I must say thank you to my Rebel, you may have helped me get back into my life, or rather, get my life back.

1. (For my Olivia.) I am 4’10”. I don’t know why, but I haven’t grown in height at all since 5th grade. In reality, I haven’t grown much anywhere since 5th grade.

2. I am currently at a crossroads. I think I’ll choose the road less travelled. No matter what you or anyone else thinks. No, I do not know how this will affect me in the long run, but it’s a risk I’m going to have to live with, not you.

3. I needed the aid of the internet to figure out if it was effect or affect in the last one. In spite of my grammar-superstardom, I still get those two confused. It frustrates me beyond words.

4. I have recently found that I do not believe in the things I have always wanted to believe in. Others believe, but I do not. I guess somethings are not meant for everyone.  And wants cannot always be achieved.

5. Someone asked me to start journaling recently. In spite of my love of writing, it is harder than anything I have had to do in recent memory. It has been helpful, and also has led me to abandon myself fully to new ideas about myself and others.

6. I recently starting Yelping.  No, not dog noises, but the website.  I guess I think since I can (sort-of) cook now, that gives the right to judge others.

7. Learning to cook is the best thing I have done for myself in a long time.

8. My favorite movies are Back to the Future (all three), The Hours, and Annie Hall. I watch the last two every time I’m sick or sad and they make me feel better. I have a tendency to say “la-di-da” like Annie Hall when I can’t think of anything to say.

9. My favorite color has always been green. But I lean towards blue for most purchases.

10. This list took over an hour to write. It is hard to get past my own insecurities.

I’d like to leave you with a song. My current obsession of a song. I can’t stop listening to this one. It’s pretty new, shocking, I know. But there’s something in the beat and the lyrics that drive me to a familiar place.

Inspired. But stuck.

I had this inspired sentence on Saturday.  I have been working working working to make it into something.  But, sometimes, a sentence is just a sentence. 

As James St. James once said, "It's really a shame you can't publish a sentence. I'm convinced it would be a best-seller."

(Okay, I'm not sure if he really said it, but Seth Green said it in Party Monster.  But whatever.  Here's my sentence.)

"I shall never take music for granted."

There.  My bestseller.

Sheer Fucking Pride and Stupidity

“I wanted to be a writer, that's all. I wanted to write about it all. Everything that happens in a moment. The way the flowers looked when you carried them in your arms. This towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread. All our feelings, yours and mine. The history of it, who we once were. Everything in the world. Everything all mixed up, like it's all mixed up now. And I failed. I failed. No matter what you start with it ends up being so much less. Sheer fucking pride and stupidity.”

~Richard Brown, character in The Hours by Michael Cunningham

This is my goal. Well, up until the line “And I failed...”

I want to be a writer. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was thirteen years old. Good god, has it really been twenty years? Wow. Sometimes, I just don’t know where the time goes...

I found out that I could write by accident. But I loved it immediately. I found out that this crazy imagination and my ability to store everything could turn into something amazing if I put it in sentences and applied the rules of grammar. When my humor seeped through my pen, it was magical. When I put that pen against the paper, I felt a freedom I had never known.

Why did it take so long? Why didn’t I know this before I was thirteen? Mainly because I spent the first years of my little life riding my bike and playing on the playground and climbing trees. I love the outdoors. I was too busy to sit down and concentrate on a thought. I lived in a small town and I didn’t ever have to be home after school. I played.

When we moved to a larger town, that kind of stopped. I still played sports, but the freedom and bike rides and tree climbing had to stop. So I became a home-body. Then, in seventh grade, I had an English teacher that blew my mind. She taught us parts of speech and grammar and writing. I totally got it! Though I already knew about the parts of speech (I can still name all 23 helping verbs), there was something about her style made it really interesting. And she liked my writing.  I found it effortless, which in my young mind meant I wasn’t really trying. She pulled me aside and told me that one does not equal the other. It is, in fact, the exact opposite. Effortless equals gift.

I began to try this thing out.

Was I a poet? Sort-of.  But not really.

Was I a non-fiction writer? No.

Could I make up crazy funny stories? Yes.

Could I write if you tell me what to write and how long to make it and exactly what it is supposed to be about? Only well enough to get the grade.

Does writing soothe me? Most definitely.

Does writing excite the hell out me?  Oh yeah!

I began trying to write like the writers that inspired me. I thought I could be the next Virginia Woolf (minus the drowning in the lake part). I have been reading since I was three, so I had vast material to go on. I thought maybe I had a little Shel Silverstein in me, crossed with some Judy Blume.

I wanted my writing to be relatable. But, at thirteen, how do you know what relatable is? I knew I related to Judy Blume books more than The Babysitter’s Club, but only now I know it is not because I wanted freckles, and I certainly did not want boobs!. (For the record, it is because Ms. Blume wrote about real life, all wrapped up in a funny little bow.)

I continued to read. I would spend hours in Barnes & Noble, searching for the perfect next read, or maybe two. I am notorious for reading three, sometimes four, books at once. I can’t stop reading, and if I don’t have the book I started with me, I’ll just pick up another one. (And I’m not very organized in the morning, so that happens a lot!)

Somewhere along the line, I picked up The Hours by Michael Cunningham. Wow. That book turned me around. It gave Mrs. Dalloway an amazing life – a human life, across three time periods. It nudged me read Virginia Woolf’s books again, and fall in love with her all over again. It brought pen to paper, seeing things around me again, as I had not seen them – from the writer’s perspective – in many, many years.

As I related to Richard, a famous writer though totally dissatisfied with where life had plopped him down, I began to feel. When the movie came out, I rushed to the theater and came out rejuvenated. I wrote like crazy for a long time.

But then I majored in English in college, thinking it would only reinforce me. Not so much. I became discouraged by the necessity and the rules and the lack of freedom.

So I stopped.

Completely.

Writing was no longer fun, it was for a grade.

I graduated eight months ago. I’ve been doing this blog for about a month. I really wanted to start writing again. I really began to miss it. And so far, it gives me the high I remember.

Why do I tell you this? All day Friday, this quote was in my head. I watched the clock, counting down the minutes until quitting time so I could write about wanting to be a writer. Sometimes a thought comes to me, and I have to write it on my wrist to remember it. (I usually don’t write on my hand because I am obsessive about washing my hands.) This one required no wrist-notes. I knew it. I knew that I wanted to tell you about how I came to write. I knew I wanted to share with you how one little paragraph in a great big book and a movie that changed my life.  I wrote it as soon as work was over Friday.  This is the first chance I've had to type it in.

I guess I am a writer in cycles. I am happy to be back in the circle of writing again. My life is tons better during the days and weeks and months when I am actively pursuing this. I have an outlook on life that can encompass life from many perspectives. I see life differently when I’m writing, because little things inspire me. I want to write about the big things, yes. But also the little things – “…This towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread.…”

Thank you for indulging me in my quest.

Epic Prolouge

I wanted to post this.  Though it is kind of cheating.  It isn't what is going on right now, but something I wrote a few years ago.  It was an essay for an assignment.  But it is about my pen.  My Papermate Flexigrip Medium Blue pen. 

The assignment was write about something you lost.  While my classmates were writing about people dying and other traumatic events, I wrote about the discontinuation of my pen.  Because I'm sappy like that.  Or maybe because I'm sarcastic like that. 

Whatever.  The title of this sad story is Do I Need To Go To Rehab?

I love this pen. My Papermate Flexi-grip blue medium – I cannot live without it. I love the way it writes – like butta. In my hand, it is like inspiration between my fingers.

The only pen I will use. My life is complete with it in my hand, there is nothing else I need. This pen is my OCD. My hand's OCD.

One pen left in the box. It's time to get some more. Drive to the office supply store. Get more, maybe two boxes this time. There are none on the shelf. Ask a sales associate when the next shipment comes in. Wait, what did you say? They don't make them anymore? Wait, what did you say? They have been discontinued????????

Back in the car, driving home, I do not know what to do. My head is spinning. My hand hurts. Withdrawl. Is that what I'm experiencing? Cold sweats and vomit are coming soon, I can feel it.

Get online. Get on the Papermate website. No Flexi-grip blue mediums available. Oh my god. I will never write again.

Go back to the office supply store. Need pen. Need to find a pen. Need some methadone to get me through. I need some food. I need to write. Hold every pen in the store. Feel it. Write something. They all suck. I hate them all. I'm still starving. I still need a pen.

BIC Atlantis blue medium. Clicky pen. You will do. You're no flexi-grip, but you're not a Rollerball, and that's good. You're smooth. Not butta, but maybe apple-butter. You're not perfect, but I'll get the hang of you. You feel like you could inspire. You will have to do.

Until Papermate comes to their senses.

 
OK, here is the good news, Papermate did come to their senses.  They make my pen again!  No more BIC clicky shit pens for me!  And, of course, I have bought them in bulk amounts in case the famine comes again.

I’d like to thank all the little people…oh yeah, I am the littlest person in the room!

I’m pretty new here. I am still learning my way around, constantly adding and deleting to my layout, and still cannot fix the formatting in my comments.

In spite of my newness (or perhaps because of it), I have been given an award! My long-lost dear friend, Olivia has bestowed a blog award upon me. Honored. I am truly honored.

However, in order to be deserving of said reward, I must do two things.

First, I must pass it along to seven fellow bloggers. That is the easy part.

I feel nervous about the second task. I must reveal seven truths about myself. All at once. For all the world (okay, for the very few of you who read my ramblings) to see. Since I am trying my best to take the fear road of Face Everything And Recover, instead of F&%# Everything And Run, I’m going to put seven truths out there. Maybe you’ll respect me tomorrow anyway. Maybe not. Either way, it was a fun night, eh?

1. Is Ivy Bliss my real name? This is the easy one. Yes. Ivy Bliss, in all its bad-ass-ness is, in fact, my real name. I am not famous, nor do I possess the self-confidence it would take to change my name to something that cool. First name, Ivy. Middle name, Bliss. Last name, irrelevant, unless you are my doctor, work at the DMV, or the bank. My last name is irrelevant because you will not be able to pronounce it or spell it. And it just isn’t as cool.

Buddy Hackett. He is how I got my first name. His daughter’s name was Ivy and my parents met them when they worked at a ski resort in Colorado. Apparently, they had the Lorraine McFly moment, “Ivy, what a nice name.” (okay, she said Marty, but we are talking about me here)

A waitress. That’s where my middle name came from. I am adopted. My parents were on the way to the agency to pick me up and they stopped to eat. Because, the kid can wait, we're hungry! Whatever, mom. Thanks for making me lay in that crib in the orphanage while you noshed on some grub. Back to the story, they had already settled on Ivy, but had yet to come up with a middle name, and their waitress’s name at said restaurant was…yep, you guessed it…Bliss.

So there you go. My name. 

2. I am deeply attached to notebooks and pens. They are my tools for writing. I find it difficult to be creative if I am not hunched over a one subject, wide rule, spiral bound notebook with my medium blue papermate flexigrip pen (the one with the cap, not the clicker) in my hand.  (And usually a cigarette in the other.)

I handwrite all my blogs, then type them in. I hand-wrote every paper I wrote for school, even the ten-pagers. I type later.

Yes, this takes a lot of time. But, it is how I work. I love scratching out mistakes. I love the hurried feeling I get in my wrist when I am in the middle of a great flow. But most of all, I love how my handwriting changes as the words go on.

In spite of all this, I love my computer and wish more people and companies in the world would be paperless. What a friggin’ oxymoron I am!

3. I love to take pictures.  I struggle to find the time to find beauty in my life.  I tend to be hyper-obsessively-focused on my life.  And that makes this difficult.  When I am behind a camera, I feel free.  I have made a committment to myself to take pictures of at least one beautiful thing a month this year.  And by one beautiful thing, I mean a roadtrip (even if just for a day) to see a place I have not seen before, or a place I have been, but not appreciated.

4. I love dogs. I feel more comfortable around dogs than I do most people. I am fortunate to be a house sitter for many people and their dogs. I appreciate the loyalty and unconditional love dogs give and strive to be more like that.  (Yep, that's my dog and me!)

5. I am shy and reserved. All my friends are loud and out-spoken. I am fiercely attracted to outgoing people. I suck at small talk. My theory is that they compensate for me, and others, in turn, think I am great at conversation. As long as I am not responsible for the small talk, I can play along. I feel amped up and more alive when I am with these types of people. It is easier to be social.

I prefer deep conversations, and they come as a result of the small talk sometimes, and that is good.

6. I believe in music and that it heals. In many ways, I believe it has saved me over and over again. The power of music feeds my soul and reinforces my life every day. It brings me to a place I am still hesitant to put into words, but I can feel the sound on my insides, and I internalize the words. 

7. I used to love to write. This blog is my attempt to get that feeling again. So far, it’s working.

Well, I guess that wasn’t so bad. Thanks again, Olivia. You are everything I want to be when I grow up! (If that should ever really happen!) To all the bloggers I bestow this award upon, don’t forget your list and thank you for encouraging me to write on!

Guess I should start typing!

And now for the awards!

http://thatrebelwithablog.blogspot.com/ - My inspiration for starting and continuing this blog. I am glad you are back. We will make time for each other.

http://gentlysaid.blogspot.com/ - Thank you for all your good words. I think we share humor in many ways.

http://murrbrewster.blogspot.com/ - You are funny and wonderful. Thank you for your support and comments.

http://psychedelicsister.blogspot.com/ - Your pictures inspire me to take more of my own and see things others don’t.

http://lizzysends.blogspot.com/ - I have just found you, but I like your style.

http://www.ratherbeblogging.com/ - I love the Fonz, too! ;)

http://jkoyanagi.com/ - You are an amazing talent, and I enjoy every sentence!

A change of schedule

The problem with being a writer and not writing is now there is so much to say.  I graduated from college in July, and aside from work-related writing, my pen has barely touched the paper.  Or, um, rather, my keystrokes have barely made sentences on the screen in front of me.

So here we are.  I want to spend all my time on this blog.  I want to make up for the last seven months of celibacy.  I want to go on a writing rampage. 

Unfortunately, I have a job, as well as after work commitments.  I have filled up my life too full to find the time to write.  I have a feeling that was a bit subconsciously on purpose.  This way, I don't have to miss writing.  But I do.

I now must rearrange my schedule to make the time.  I am currently on my lunch hour, and will type this into the blog when I return. 

Rearrangement seems to be a theme in my life lately.  I am being pulled our of my comfort zone in every possible way.  Part of it, I suppose, is the continual process of growth.  Another part, being out of school for the first time in forever and having the time now for new experiences and people and situations.  The remaining parts...I don't know.  But everything is rearranging.

Not that I am complaining.  It is quite an adventure, this constant rearrangement.  I balk at change.  I keep a schedule.  In fact, I write one out for the week every Sunday night.  Lately, though, there have been a lot of scratched-out spots on that schedule.  That's new.  I used to feel as though I had to keep that schedule at all costs.

The weird part:  I am finding strength in the acceptance of all the change and delight (instead of fear) in saying yes.  The more my rigid schedule gets interrupted and turned around, the more alive I feel.

How unexpected.

Re-start. Re-write. (to start again. to write again.)

Here is a note I wrote on Facebook.  The comments from my friends started the itch to re-start this blog.  Encouragement is a great motivator!  Thank you, my friends, for starting me up again.

A new kind of morning
(orginially written on Wednesday, February 17, 2010 at 11:32am)

I don't write notes. I fill out stupid questionnaires to pass time. But today, I'm writing a note. I don't have much time to pass, so I'm not filling out a questionnaire. Even though I don't have a lot of time to pass, I need to make the time to write this.

I had a dream last night. I don't know what it was, really. I don't remember it. But I woke up this morning with this incredible sense of urgency.

Back up. I usually wake up with an incredible sense of panic, because (once again) I have only enough time for the quickest shower possible, coffee, work, with very little room for error (and by error I mean a red light, school bus, or someone who can't seem to comprehend the speed limit). I'm always running behind, always in the morning, so I start most all my days in a state of panic.

Today was different. I woke up, as I said, with this inexplicable urgency. But wait, what does that clock say? I blinked. I didn't believe it. It said I had ten more minutes in my day than I did yesterday. No panic? How on earth will I motivate myself without that sick feeling in my gut?

What is urgency? What does it feel like? How is it different than panic? That, I am sorry to say, I cannot tell you. Feelings are hard to describe. But it was a calm start to my Wednesday. While showering, I had several thoughts.

One: I need to talk to Pam on my way to work.

Two: What was that dream? What was it? Dark Greens and Bright Blues and this amazing color I've only seen in the Florida sunset.

Three: No Reds? No reds in my dream? That's weird.

Four: Don't forget the bag with my workout clothes in it.

Five: I love water pressure.

Six: This is weird. Not rushing through this shower feels nice.

Seven: Don't forget the bag with my workout clothes in it.

Eight: Need coffee.

Nine: Why don't I feel panicky?

Ten: I feel like today is going to be a good day.

Eleven: DON'T FORGET THE BAG WITH MY WORKOUT CLOTHES IN IT!

In the end, though, it is now nearly 11:30 a.m. Still no panic. That has made me a little nervous. But, I am enjoying this day. Full of urgency and promise, I am productive in a calm way. That was described to someone not even an hour ago as a “slow start”, but I am realizing as time has gone by that it is not a slow start, but a start of the not rushed, the not insane, in short – a start that is normal. Normal for others, I guess. As I rolled into work on time (having both talked to Pam and got coffee) and felt the promise of this day, there was a feeling of calm, not worry.

Everything will get done today. Because I will continue to work. I am urgent about my work. That doesn't mean I have to be crazy and feel a knot in my gut. Maybe that's the difference.

Oh, and I remembered the bag with my workout clothes in it! :)

I like it.