Book review updates

Since I’m in Toledo this week sitting hospital vigil for my mother’s hip replacement surgery, I’m not up to a regular, thoughtful blog post. Spending all my energy on being the good daughter!

So to give you something to read since you were kind enough to stop by, here are the latest book reviews I’ve written for MetaPsychology, a great review site. Very different topics, but both highly recommended:

The Psychology of Spirituality: An Introduction. Larry Culliford. Jessica Kingsley Publishers, London. 2011.

The Quarter-Acre Farm: How I Kept the Patio, Lost the Lawn, and Fed My Family for a Year. Spring Warren. Seal Press/Perseus Books Group, Berkley, CA. 2011.

Let me know if you enjoy them as much as I did!

Banned Books Week

In honor of this year's Banned Books Week, a replay of my post from last year:

http://cpatlarge.blogspot.com/2010/09/theyre-talking-about-banning-books.html

Will things ever change?

Celebrating success

I have a new publication! My essay “Powerful Eyes of Love” is in the second Reflection from Women series anthology titled The Moment I Knew: Reflections from Women on Life’s Defining Moments. Editor Terri Spahr Nelson selected thirty essays and poems from women in six countries for this amazing collection. Copies will be available at Amazon.com in a few weeks, at independent bookstores (not sure where – ask your local bookseller) or online at http://www.sugatipublications.com 

This whole process has been an incredible learning experience, from the writing through publication. The essay started as a challenge exercise with fellow writer Tami Absi, whose work is also in the anthology, and I thought it would be light-hearted look at one of hubby’s goofy hobbies (doing doughnuts in the mall parking lot after the first snow). Instead, as the words hit the page, they dredged up emotions I thought were long healed and morphed into a paean to his love and patience over the years as I’ve struggled to overcome what he calls my “ghosts.” Maybe I’ve not moved on as much as I thought, but the new awareness I gained from writing this essay is helping the process. The eighteen months since I wrote the piece have been a time of amazing growth, and I’m thankful to Terri for finding value in my words and choosing the essay for this collection. 

Sugati Publications says, “There are some moments in our lives that are so significant they become etched in our memories and they leave behind indelible imprints. These moments often change us in ways we never expected. We asked women around the world: Tell us about the moment you knew. The top thirty most intriguing, captivating and touching responses are featured in this women’s anthology.” They are donating a significant portion of the profits from the sale of this book to three charities that assist women: Women's Microfinance Initiative, the Nurse-Family Partnership Program, and Women Writing for (a) Change. If you purchase a copy online from Sugati, a greater percentage goes to these worthy organizations. 

And if you join the Reflections from Women group on Facebook during the month of September, you earn a chance to win a free gift book signed by the editor. Drop me an email and I’ll send you a signed bookplate, if you’re into that sort of thing. 

Thank you for celebrating this success with me.

It's a small world, but I wouldn't want to have to paint it. ~ Steven Wright

Kevin Bacon’s six degrees of separation is a misnomer; after these past few weeks, I’m down to maybe three. Widely divergent parts of my life are colliding in the oddest ways:

Our daughter is dating a young man who once was engaged to the daughter of a woman I went to high school with, and with whom I’ve recently reconnected because of our thirty-fifth (!) reunion that woman’s older sister went to school with my mother.

That young man’s mother is friends with another friend of mine, a woman I worked with back in Toledo for six years whom I haven’t seen for almost that long.

At a Labor Day open house in the Dayton area, we met a barbershop quartet (we travel in the most fascinating circles!) who knows the choir director from the high school our children attended in a suburb of Toledo because he also sings barbershop.

One member of the quartet is dating the ex of a lawyer I worked with while at federal court (again in Toledo…hmmm) over fifteen years ago.

Another reconnect from high school recently “friended” a man on Facebook (related somehow to a teacher our children had in school) who shares a mutual friendship with yet another man I worked with for several years, none of whom are in the same field.

I’ll stop before it gets any more convoluted, and without even mentioning other bizarre connections that appear on Facebook and Twitter on a regular basis.

Is it really a small world, or has social networking simply drawn our circles closer and made us more aware of tenuous connections? Employers and professors, colleagues and family, writers and friends – it’s more and more difficult to remember who fits where, and shares what pieces of my life. Anyone who thinks they can operate in complete anonymity if they have any sort of online presence is sadly mistaken. At another recent gathering (I’m really not a social butterfly, but it events happens), the host was nonplussed when several guests mentioned using Google to find her street address. We all connect in the ether but often have trouble locating each other in real life, and she didn’t think about providing that information with the emailed invitation. It can be disconcerting to realize just how much data about us is available with only the most cursory Internet search.

But that’s life in the technology world, small or not.

Extra post this week, with my entry in Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge. Revenge is the topic. How’d I do?

Sure I tapped the boss’s account; I’m a hacker. This time it was at Sylvia’s request. Above board, she said. Vital to the company, she said. Right before she fired me for violating security protocols I helped write.

But Sylvia’s an IT illiterate, got her job because of looks. She’ll pop the flash drive I gave her into her laptop to retrieve the incriminating lovesick emails she sent him. She’s never heard of thumb sucking. By tonight, the business data will be wiped, and I’ll hold all the cards. And the bank accounts. Not that anyone will ever know.

BTW – Chuck’s blog is well worth following, as long as you’re not opposed to great information surrounded by crass, vulgar humor and obscenities. He’s a hoot!

My mood has been thrown completely off-kilter by the abrupt change from 90+ and sunny on Saturday to 65 and breezy on Monday followed by two days of chilly rain (with more forecast for the rest of the week). I can’t seem to force my way through the gloom. It’s turning the white page before me to gray, making it harder than usual to fill the blankness with words…the letters melt into the shadows. It’s much too early in the year for SAD (seasonal affective disorder).

I’ve read several pieces recently scoffing at writer’s block, espousing butt-in-chair discipline along with helpful tips on breaking through, even urging writer’s to produce from a sense of desperation at the possibility of starving. I wish I could say they were inspirational; instead, while showing me I’m not alone in my struggles, they’ve reinforced my despair. I’ve heard it all before, even shared some of it with fellow writers when they floundered. Now those words come back to haunt me with their ineffectiveness when a shroud blankets my mental functions. It’s similar to telling someone who is depressed to cheer up (been there, too). Yeah, right. If it were that easy, there wouldn’t be a problem, now would there?

I found a haiku I wrote several years ago that helps put things in perspective:

Light dispels shadows

Offering freshness and hope

In a dark, dark world

 Light – that’s it. Preferably sunlight, but even a lightening of mood by focusing on the positive, reinforcing those neural pathways instead of strengthening the negative ones. Dig out a warm sweater, bake the bread I proofed yesterday, make a pot of comfort-food soup. And as a good friend just reminded me, persist! The words will come. These did.

I wrote recently about all the emotional turmoil life was sending my way – or rather, that I was snatching out of the universal ebb and flow and clinging to unnecessarily. At the end of those musings, I even thought I had a handle on things, that I’d mentally resolved all the painful issues I tried to help friends deal with, being patient with my own feelings along the way, and was ready to move on mindfully.

Wrong.

My body rebelled against my unwise attachment to the status quo by felling me with a multi-day migraine; equanimity promptly went south…and left me gasping, literally, in the dark of early morning when night terrors wrenched me from a restless not-quite-sleep shot through with lingering but unrecallable dreams.

As is so often the case, writing came to my rescue. A 900+ word meandering sob-on-screen poured out during a weekly morning session with a fellow writer will likely never see the light of day (or a pair of eyes other than my own), but it helped clarify my thoughts – even the ones I didn’t know I had – by doing as French writer Maurice Blanchot says: “There can be this point, at least, to writing: to wear out errors.” I certainly wore myself out physically, mentally, and emotionally.

When Hubby came home from work and looked into my eyes, he knew, as he always does. He held me and comforted me, but he also gave me the emotional space I needed to work through the turmoil I couldn’t begin to explain. After a few quiet hours home alone together puttering around the yard, it hit me: the logical, analytical side of my brain was battling to make sense of feelings it had no business trying to explain. Pain just is; it’s a part of life, like eating and breathing. Beating myself up because I can’t find answers to questions I don’t need to be asking is an exercise in futility that only creates more pain. It’s a vicious cycle, one the Buddha tells us to avoid by letting go and simply living in the moment, accepting and experiencing every moment on its own terms before releasing it and moving on to the next.

In a book I reviewed recently called The Psychology of Spirituality,  author Larry Culliford says, “When a loss is fully accepted, and only then, something is completed and the process can move on…painful emotions do not disappear but are transformed by the ‘catharsis,’ the release of energy, into their pain-free counterparts (anger/acceptance, shame/worth, etc.).” That day, from the nightmares, to the writing purge, to the Aha! moment in the garden, was my catharsis. I released the negative energy I’d been clinging to, all the pain my friends and I were experiencing, and flowed into acceptance.

I won’t be quite so cavalier this time and claim to have conquered the emotions, but I have learned a valuable lesson. It’s good to stop thinking occasionally, because while the unexamined life is not worth living, too much examination can make that same life unlivable.

Thank you Fire Dog Lake for hosting an online chat interview with Terri Spahr Nelson, editor of the Reflections from Women anthology series, and contributors to the soon-to-be-released second volume, The Moment I Knew: Reflections from Women on Life’s Defining Moments – including me! My essay “Powerful Eyes of Love” joins personal stories and poems collected from thirty women in six countries in what is sure to be an inspirational collection with practical and far-reaching benefits. The publisher’s website notes, “In the spirit of empowering and supporting women, a portion of all of our profits go to agencies providing assistance to women and girls.”

The Moment I Knew will be off the presses any day now; advance copies can be ordered through the Sugati Press website.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood…

Choices.

From the moment we awake each day, we’re faced with countless choices. Red blouse or black shirt? Hair up or down? Green tea or café mocha? Most we make unconsciously, out of habit more than decisiveness, which is probably a good thing or we could find ourselves constantly facing what science now calls decision paralysis. When faced with too many choices (do we really need fourteen varieties of peanut butter on the grocery shelf?), it becomes easier to simply not choose – which, of course, in itself is a choice.

And then there are the big choices, with larger consequences. What to study in school; when and if to marry, and whom; where to live. Enlist in the military, buy that new car, accept that job offer. If and when we become parents (another choice!), it’s our job to teach our children to make wise decisions. Tough to do if we’re still in the process of learning that difficult lesson ourselves, and painful when we watch them follow our trial-and-error path. But if we’re lucky, we learn together and maybe they won’t make quite as many mistakes as we did along the way.

Society relishes watching people stumble over bad choices, whether it be celebrities – she married the guy how many hours after they met? – or politicians – he sent what kind of message from his congressional phone? – or the hapless people who display themselves on America’s Funniest Videos – what did that goof expect to have happen when he rode his bike off the roof of the garden shed?

And it’s far too easy to Monday-morning-quarterback the decisions of others, to make that determination of wisdom, or lack thereof, from a distance and after the fact when things fall apart. Too often we forget that even the most carefully thought out plan of action can lead to unexpected results. And while “it was meant to be” might salve the wounds for some, it shouldn’t be allowed to relieve us of responsibility for the choices we make.

It’s harder when the ones facing the painful consequences of poor decisions are loved ones. Then we have more choices of our own: when to (gently) point out logical expectations in the hopes of preventing another disaster; when to help bail them out of the often devastating results without enabling further thoughtless choices; when to simply be there to pick up the pieces and hold them when they cry.

I think this is a large part of why I enjoy writing fiction. Mostly, I hate making decisions in real life. You don’t want to dine with me at a new restaurant with a multiple-page menu; we could be there for hours while I decide. But when I write, I have something life rarely offers: control of the outcome. Decision paralysis isn’t a problem when I know where my characters’ choices will lead. Entering that dimly lit room alone with only a fireplace poker to investigate strange noises at midnight makes perfect sense to an author. I know who the bad guy is (okay, unless the characters get particularly obstinate and take matters into their own hands…fellow writers, you understand!).

Sometimes it’s good to take the road less traveled by; it does make all the difference. But do it with eyes wide open, not blindly or thoughtlessly, damn the torpedoes full speed ahead. Identify potential consequences and be prepared to face them with equanimity. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way, and continue to learn every day.

And that’s not a choice I take lightly.

Change is inevitable, except from vending machines. ~ Robert Gallagher

Why is it the universe seems determined to keep me off-balance? As soon as I’ve accepted that I’ll never find a ‘real’ job in the current economy and finally settled into a reasonably productive writing routine, a contract job appeared which required regular hours and real clothes every day. After a week or so I adjusted, found where writing best fit around the newly imposed schedule, and even acclimated the dogs to surviving without me for most of the day. Then for no particular reason, the contract was yanked out from under me with less than four hours notice and I was floundering again.

But I moved on, back to the discarded writing routine, with a few modifications learned during the contract (write first thing in the morning, after tea and toast but before email and Facebook), focused on new words early in the day when my mind is fresh, and saved research and the business end of things for later in the day when I shift from the desk to something other than housework or the possibility of a nap.

Then Hubby left town for a week on business and life is upside-down again. I thought I’d get even more writing done while he was gone; instead, I spent the week preparing for houseguests, obsessing over grubby floor tile and dingy carpets. He came home, the guests came and went, and another week of writing time was lost.

Once more I tried for the butt-in-chair regular writing time. I managed for a few days, only to be distracted by life again. A close friend needed my support when he lost a family member; another friend, not as close but much too young, died tragically. Five deaths in our extended circle in less than six weeks – and I expect to be able to concentrate?

I realized this morning during a rather frustrating attempt at restorative meditation that while I’ve been counseling those closest to me to be patient with their grief, I, too, need time to grieve. Maybe my sense of loss isn’t the same as they’re experiencing; maybe I’m simply being too empathic and absorbing their pain because I want them to feel better, but my emotions are real, too. I need to accept them, work through them in my own time, and then move on. No rush. No ‘shoulds’ about what I feel or when. But no denial, either.

Ego. Self. Attachment. All lessons I’ve been faced with again during these experiences. My ego took a beating when the contract was pulled; my irrational, approval-seeking self was on display for our guests, who really didn’t notice or care if the windows were streaked; my attachment to those I care about, and those who have died, has been shown for the ephemeral thing it is. The feelings are all real, but they are also to be faced, and accepted, and moved beyond.

I guess the universe is in synch better than I realized. Now to ease back into that flow myself, instead of fighting it.

O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention. ~ William Shakespeare 

elsaelsa.com

What is it about fire? Humanity as a whole marks the beginning of civilization with the harnessing of fire. It warms us, cooks our food, and in its wild, flaming state – preferably contained in a campfire ring – entrances us for hours.

But it also terrifies us. Uncontained, fire is a horrifying menace. Wildfires in the forests of California and the plains of Arizona and New Mexico have devastated countless lives this season, scorching untold acres of land. We load our homes and businesses with smoke detectors to enable us to escape its fury. Furniture and clothing are often drenched with fire-retardant solutions of questionable safety that we’re willing to overlook if they save us from the blaze.

Yet even as it burns through our communities, we are attracted to its flames, mesmerized by the flicker and gleam of indescribable colors. We have a condition named for the more extreme fascination: pyromania – fire madness.

Shakespeare had it right, as he so often did, when he yearned for a muse of fire. As writers, we need that spark of creativity, a gleam of horrifying reality, almost uncontrollable, whenever we embarked on a new project. It gives us impetus to do battle with our self-doubts; enchants us with possibility while terrifying us with fear of failure; and draws us into the deepest recesses of ourselves from which the best writing springs.

I generally prefer my muse to be a bit calmer, easier to control, but as a fellow writer noted in last night’s critique group, maybe we need to write in the throes of fiery emotion more often. That’s when bold, gripping, and powerful words explode onto the page.

And with the right kind of fire, we can also make s’mores.

"It is the other who exposes me to unity.”*

Because Hubby’s grandfather emigrated from Schuivers Kapelle, Belgium, in 1920, our family has always had an affinity for things Belgian, even while not quite understanding what that meant. All I’d ever learned about the country over the years was the capital (Brussels), the two-language split (French and a form of Dutch called Flemish), and that they were really good at making beer and chocolate. This weekend, we were fortunate to learn more.

Through the auspices of the Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp in Twin Lake, Michigan, and the local organizing efforts of the hard-working Brent and Rachel, we hosted a pair of musicians associated with Concert Band Maasmechelen from Maasmechelen, Belgium. For three days, we were privileged to immerse ourselves in their culture while sharing ours with receptive participants. The United Nations should be so successful.

Our guests Bart and Marijke (it took me a day-and-a-half to pronounce her name correctly) were delightful. From our first meeting in the parking lot of Wright State University’s Center for Creative Arts at two-thirty Friday morning (the group had transportation problems out of Chicago), we continually found common ground from our love of nature and hiking to a shared sense of  being overwhelmed by too many choices in restaurants, supermarkets and bookstores. The four of us talked for hours about daily life, education, food, family gatherings and of course, music. Bart plays euphonium (baritone, for most of us Westerners, although there are subtle differences) and trombone; Marijke plays violin, viola, and cello, although not on this tour. For the U.S. trip, she is part of the organizing staff. We chuckled together over her task of asking each member, “Do you have your papers?” before boarding the bus to head north to the second of four concert stops.

We knew immediately upon our arrival home in the wee hours of Friday morning that things would go well because our dogs loved them, and they loved the dogs. We spent the day (after sleeping off their jet lag) strolling through downtown Yellow Springs and lunching on the patio at Peach’s Grill. American meal portion sizes stunned them; Marijke took lots of pictures of food and beverages, along with the scenery. We learned quickly to counsel them on when to share an entrée to avoid difficulties. The practice of taking leftovers home in a doggie bag amazed them, as did the standard glass of water served gratis at each meal.

Following Friday’s rehearsal at Wright State, we went to Abuelo’s for dinner (Mexican food is so American, isn’t it?). Saturday included a trip to the Yellow Springs farmers’ market and a visit to the Glen Helen Raptor Center. In the afternoon, we attended an informal wedding reception for friends in Waynesville where Bart and Marijke became the main attraction, graciously answering the same questions over and over as they were introduced to each new arrival.

Concert Band Maasmechelen’s performance Saturday evening at Young’s Jersey Dairy was woefully under-attended, but the musicians played like they were at Carnegie Hall. Enthusiasm, passion, and talent were evident in every piece from Bert Appermont’s “Saga Candida” to “Soul Bossa Nova” by Quincy Jones. In a nod to their American hosts, the band ended with a spectacular “Stars and Stripes Forever,” complete with a talented piccolo solo. And naturally Young’s provided the visitors with ice cream after the show.

In keeping with the international flavor of the visit, on Sunday the four of us attended the Celtic Festival at RiverScape Metropark. After enjoying a typically rousing concert, our Belgians went home with a CD of Dayton’s own Dulahan.

All fifty-eight members of the tour and their host families gathered at John Bryan State Park for a potluck picnic Sunday afternoon. Organizers managed to crowd nearly everyone onto the bridge over the Little Miami River for a group photo before we scattered for one last evening at home. We ended our visit with a campfire in the backyard where Bart and Marijke experienced their first taste of s’mores. Nothing like Belgian chocolate, of course (their parting gift to us – yum!), but memorable just the same.

Monday morning brought a sad parting, back in the Wright State parking lot where our adventure began. The group moved on to Frankfort, Michigan; Strongsville, Ohio; and Dowagiac, Michigan, before returning home August 10^th. Follow their journey at their tour blog – you’ll need Google Translate (it’s in Dutch), and technology provides an interesting perspective with unintentionally humorous results.

I’m still processing much of what I learned during our cultural exchange, about Belgium and about us, having been given the opportunity to see our world through another’s eyes. It’s not always a comfortable vision. Bart and Marijke take for granted many things we as a country are just recognizing as important: government supported recycling and composting programs, quality affordable medical care, alternative energies – their solar programs have been so successful, government subsidies are being phased out. In contrast, we take for granted our over-consuming, commercially-focused lifestyle. They were astounded at the wastefulness we surround ourselves with every day, from excess packaging to enormous food serving sizes where much of what is served goes into the trash. “Everything here is so big,” Marijke noted more than once.

But more important was how much we have in common with Bart and Marijke. From our love of animals, to family traditions, to Star Trek and the Franco-Belgian comics of Asterix et Obelix, our cultural differences faded away into camaraderie. We shared jokes and laughter, quiet times and intense conversation. And I’ll never look at a truck labeled “Penske” (Dutch = “little belly”) in the same way again!

It was an experience we will long remember, even as the lessons learned may not be realized for some time. I hope the exchange was mutually beneficial, and I’m reasonably certain they weren’t bored with our quiet lifestyle and not just being polite when we didn’t visit the Air Force Museum, the malls or a zoo. We parted with sharing email addresses and promises to meet again. They’ve invited us to Belgium for a Scottish games festival in September, and we want them to come back to Yellow Springs. I want to cook for them. I want to take them to the theatre and introduce them to our adult children. I want our friendship to grow.

Our Belgian family has two new members, and we couldn’t be more delighted.

*Maurice Blanchot in The Writing of the Disaster

“Follow wherever your writing energy leads you.”*

Writing energy is in short supply for me these days, at least for any extended period. After the wonderfully overwhelming week at Antioch Writers Workshop, I came home eager to write, but thoroughly exhausted and lacking in any kind of energy. It took a few days’ recovery, and time spent absorbing the lessons learned from the morning sessions, before I could write anything.

And lo and behold, I turned to non-fiction.

For months, I’ve been working on an essay reflecting on my undergraduate studies in the World Classics curriculum at Antioch McGregor (now Antioch Midwest). Unfortunately, the program made such an impact on my life that the essay grew to nearly 9,000 words, far too long for nearly any publication I could hope to have accept it. It was also disjointed, unwieldy, and in serious need of editing. I just couldn’t make it happen.

After AWW, and some wise words from fellow writer and blogger Lisa Kilian, I finally did what I’d been resisting – I tore the damn thing apart, all but started over (still couldn’t bring myself to toss quite all of it), and ended up with just over 2,500 words of a much better essay. It needs a bit more fine-tuning, and my beta-reader for this project, while agreeing I needed to put back the personal commentary I cut out during my slash-and-burn session, asked two very pointed questions: who is my audience? What one specific point do I want to convey? With his encouragement, and push in the right direction, I’m more optimistic about actually finishing this piece than I have been since I started.

So where does that leave my fiction? I’m heartened by the fact that writers such as Orwell, Hemingway, and many others also wrote essays (not that I’m putting myself in their class by any means), but there are only so many hours in the day, and I have only so much writing energy.

Besides the essay, I have a novel in progress, one I’m shopping, one that needs heavy rewrites and two fragments, plus I have a book review due in a week. I have short stories out on submission, and a few that need edits before I can send them out as well. But I also have an insistent idea for a non-fiction book that I’d love to continue researching.

And like it or not, life, and family, require time and energy. I realize now, every day, why my writing languished while we were raising children. I simply can’t do it all.

Fellow writers, especially those with small children, how do you manage to keep your writing energy replenished, and directed to the proper outlet?

I keep picturing juggling torches or spinning plates…

*Matthew Goodman, author of The Sun and the Moon: The Remarkable True Account of Hoaxers, Showmen, Dueling Journalists, and Lunar Man-Bats in Nineteenth-Century New York, etc.

My first guest post is up at Lost in the Writing, a blog by fellow writer Lori Lopez. Stop by to read about my experience filming a video lesson for high school students and stay to check out Lori's work. Good stuff!

Seems to be quite a few dog stories in the blogosphere this week…we have so much to learn from our canine companions!

Even though we’ve shared our home with several dogs at various times over the years, we’ve only recently taken up dog training. For most of our canine companions, once they were housebroken and learned the trash can was not a buffet, we pretty much lived together in genial chaos. But two weeks ago, with the addition of dog number three, our son’s five-year-old beagle Indiana on long-term foster care, we realized we had to get serious or go insane.

Barkley, our five-year-old English Springer, has begun acting out since Indy arrived, responding more aggressively to unexpected guests and perceived threats. (my apologies again to the kind gentleman who interrupted his evening walk to tell us about car lights left on!) I can only assume he’s trying to establish dominance over the newcomer. Either that, or standing guard so no more dogs invade his domain – look what happened last time he let down his guard! We’re holding regular practice sessions, knocking loudly on the front door at unexpected times and teaching them the proper way to respond. It’s a slow process, but it seems to be sinking in. Us, 1; dogs, 0.

The kitchen trash is another thing entirely. Barkley has taken a cue from Indy and now they share the fun of tipping the can and strewing its contents while we’re gone. I’m pretty sure eight-year-old Chi watches from across the room, unwilling to face the Wrath of Mom. We try bribing them with Kong balls and treats to keep them occupied when we leave, but so far the only solution seems to be removing the temptation entirely. Us, 1; dogs, 1.

Meals were a bit of a challenge. Chi and Barkley were content to watch while I filled dishes and carried them to their dining spot near the water bowl. Indy, not so much. It took some convincing to teach him patience, but I believe he’s following their lead on this one. No fighting over each other’s bowl, and no more attempts by Indy to claim Chi’s dish by marking it in the usual male-dog manner. At least he’s enough of a gentleman to wait until she’s finished eating to hike a leg in her direction. Us, 2; dogs, 1.

Bedtime is a round of musical chairs. Chi starts on the loveseat at the foot of our bed, then moves to the floor next to my side. Barkley starts on our bed until Hubby dislodges him (no puppies in our nighttime slumbers!), then takes either the loveseat or the actual doggie bed on the floor near my desk. Indy came with a bed our son insists he loved more than anything, only to find he’s completely uninterested in sleeping there. He moves from our bed, to the back cushion of the loveseat, and more often than not ends up in Hubby’s desk chair, where he’s elevated enough to keep watch on all of us. We’ll give that one to the mutts, although the bed remains ours. Us, 2; dogs, 2.

For the past year, our wide fenced yard has been sufficient to contain Barkley and Chi. Not for Indy. Since his arrival, on more occasions than I can count, he’s found openings just large enough for him to wriggle through and head out to explore the neighborhood. We fix and patch and replace fencing, but he’s very resourceful. Then Hubby had a brilliant idea: attach Indy to a long lead that allows him to reach the fence, maybe even get through, but not go any further. That way, as he finds an escape route, we can block it without chasing him up the block first. One by one, as he locates the gaps, we’re right behind him closing them up. Until we’re confident enough to let Indy run free in the backyard without running away, I’m calling this one a draw.

Stepping back, however, to look at the big picture, I’m not sure who is training whom. We’re engaged in a not-so-delicate pas de deux; they learn the behaviors we expect, we learn patience when we’re disappointed. They figure out what they can get away with, we decide how much we’re willing to tolerate, and bribe. We’re coming to understand most of their actions are simply what dogs do, whether it be chewing or barking or loudly wrestling with each other when we’re trying to work. Like when we were raising our children, we need to curb our expectations with reality, setting reasonable limits, and working to make those limits understood, all while taking into account individual personalities, theirs and ours.

Dog training. People training. It’s a toss-up, but as long as we don’t insist on a zero-sum game, we all win.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…

…with my apologies to Charles Dickens!

After four intense days of being ‘on’ with the fantastic community that is the Antioch Writers Workshop, I’ve reached a saturation point. My introvert self craves solitude, and quiet, and a few minutes alone to write something of my own. But by the time I get home from my workfellow duties, even when it’s mid-afternoon and I miss out on the opportunity of faculty lunches and the incredible workshopping sessions, my mind is numb. I can’t recall the words that buzzed and popped during the morning instruction or during the hallway conversations and quick chats while commuting. I’ve drained my energy reserves.

It’s encouraging to see the talented Nancy Pickard shares my need for quiet when I find she escapes the throngs of adoring students for a few minutes alone. And Matthew Goodman, whose work I admire tremendously, offers the caveat to all the novice and not-so-novice writers in attendance: get used to being alone. That one, at least, is not a problem for me.

The trials of being an introvert seem to be a common thread at AWW. Many of us grudgingly wear that mantle, wishing it were otherwise, knowing it’s useless to fight it. While we can leave some of the gatherings energized and motivated, too much community time is exhausting. I love the sharing, the discussions, the common struggles and shared triumphs. I soak it all in and yearn for more, but my mind rebels by shutting down.

When I fight the inevitable crash, my frustration grows and I berate myself for my weakness. Futile response, of course, and certainly not healthy, but it’s an ingrained habit I’ve only recently learned to recognize. Now that I’m aware of it, I gather the few remaining shards of energy and gently dissolve the negative emotions, resting instead in the powerful camaraderie of the writing community that, in smaller doses, gives me the strength to continue putting words on paper every day, no matter what the outcome.

A tremendously supportive spirit surrounds me at AWW, from the generous personal sharing of the faculty, who give of themselves far beyond any contractual agreement, whether it be in training classes, one-on-one critiques, or pitch sessions, to the gamut of students from published authors to those who are only beginning to dare self-identify as a writer. This is my third year in attendance, and I’ve learned that Tuesday/Wednesday is my breaking point, when my brain is full, my emotions overwhelm and I must back off, regroup, and focus on the important things to be gained from this highly charged week.

Balance. Time together, with fellow writers who understand the journey we’ve chosen; and time alone, to ponder, and imagine, and refill that energy reservoir.

I truly have the best of both worlds, if I can only remember to approach them with the proper mindset, in the proper time.

A weed is a plant that is growing in the wrong place. ~ unknown

Garden mavens, you may want to stop reading now.

When we moved into our new home last July with its beautifully landscaped garden, I promised to learn how to tend the lush vegetation and I’ve tried, really I have. In the fall, I hesitated to pull and discard much, not knowing what was planted where, and as green shoots appeared in the spring, the wonder in watching the yard explode into color in first this patch, then that one, was a delight.

Now it’s mid-summer, and the early flowers have died off. I need to learn which to cut back, which brown stems to pamper a little while longer, and which to pull up and compost. “Eww, that’s a weed – get rid of it!” my more experienced gardener friends point out.

www.sageherbalhealing.com

I’ve never understood that. It’s green, it grows nicely. Some even produce delicate flowers. What makes it a weed, something to be eradicated with the vengeance of a Navy Seal?

As I was clearing the yard of downed twigs and branches in preparation for mowing, dutifully yanking up and discarding the nasty weeds, mourning a bit each time I tossed a lush green clump onto the pile, it hit me. Those “weeds” are the common folk. They’re prolific, don’t need planting or cultivating or nurturing. A little water now and then, which Mother Nature kindly sees to if we’re lucky, and they’re happy. No one needs to watch over them when we go on vacation or get too busy to attend to yard work...work we might prefer to pay someone else to do.

And somewhere in the murky mists of time, a gardeners union realized they couldn’t make money off those pesky common folks. They were everywhere, in the village square and the castle garden and everywhere in between. Nurserymen couldn’t charge a fee to tend to such defiantly independent plants.

The entrepreneurial spirit being what it is, the commoners were renamed “weeds,” the undesirable. If they weren’t rare and fragile, how could they possibly be valuable? Isn’t that why diamonds are considered precious? And since everyone who was anyone would rather have diamonds than limestone, those savvy gardeners could now make money eradicating the pests.

A handful of the more popular weeds, those with the brightest, most attractive blooms, were labeled wildflowers and seeds for them now appear on the home supply store shelves where dollars can be earned. But they’re still commoners, tossed into a stray, inaccessible corner or that last strip of soil near the alley.

www.planetnatural.com

No more! I have a new cause. If the Lorax (hubby’s alter ego) can speak for the trees, I’ll be the defender of weeds. Unless it’s a noxious plant that causes skin rashes or sick dogs, it’s welcome in my garden. The only criteria for me is aesthetics (on my subjectivity…okay, and maybe hubby’s), not monetary value, scarcity or official imprimatur. I’ll trim a bit here and there, thin things out and keep the plot within vague boundaries so we don’t lose the dogs in the tangle. But no more wholesale destruction of volunteer greenery. In my yard, weeds have been rebranded.

The lazy gal’s garden? Maybe. But I bet I’ll enjoy our patch of green just as much, if not more, than those who wage an unending battle to defeat the hardy common folk.

There’s a life lesson in there somewhere…

My latest book review for MetaPsychology.net was posted this week: The Buddha and the Borderline - a heart-breaking personal story of surviving with borderline personality disorder.

Thanks, MetaPsych, for sending me fascinating books to read, and caring about my opinions on them!

Apples and oranges and kumquats, oh my!

I’ve been struck several times this week by the propensity to draw invalid comparisons, everything from Cars2 versus Hangover II – really, do these movies have anything in common other than being sequels? – to an incident closer to home, Myrtle Beach versus Yellow Springs.

Perennial mapmaker Rand McNally is running a Best of the Road contest with categories ranging from Most Beautiful to Friendliest to Most Patriotic. Initial public votes narrowed the community nominations to six in each category before teams of travelers were sent out to visit the sites and report back.

Lovely Yellow Springs, our new home, is a finalist in the Most Fun category. We’re up against Glenwood Springs, Colorado; Park City, Utah; Vacaville, California; Santa Clause, Indiana; and Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I’m not familiar with many of those places, but putting tiny quaint Yellow Springs up against touristy Myrtle Beach does a disservice to both locations. Fun, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. Myrtle Beach offers golf, beaches, water parks, malls, golf, outlet shopping, golf, and did I mention beaches? Such frenetic activity draws a certain kind of visitor and I’m sure it’s a wonderful spot for the sports-minded.

Ah, but Yellow Springs is for downtime, for free-trade coffee at Dino’s or tea and vegan Twinkies at Brother Bears. Lively street conversations with thoughtful people who care about important, and not so important, matters. Wine tasting and live music at the Emporium. Dining al fresco at Peaches or Ye Olde Trail Tavern. Dancing in the streets when you least expect it. Art galleries and artisan shops from pottery to jewelry to fabric design. Buskers of all sorts. Friendly folks. Leisurely hiking at Glen Helen Nature Preserve, biking the Little Miami Trail, or just strolling the beautiful tree-lined streets, enjoying the fabulous gardens and homesteads which dot the town.

How can our intrepid judges, TravelingJules and TravelingJoan, be expected to compare two such diverse locations?

And as always, my thoughts return to writing. As a writers friend pointed out in her blog bemoaning the comments she received on a 250-word contest entry, “…many of those responding neither read nor write in the genre of my story… Some things are genre specific, what might work in one genre, may very well be the undoing in another.” How can readers objectively compare chick lit and sci-fi? Fantasy and cozy mysteries?

The simple answer is, they can’t, any more than Yellow Springs can stand up against Myrtle Beach. A story can be judged on its tone, character development, continuity, narratives, and mechanics. But comparisons? “To compare is not to prove,” says an old proverb. Often based on a false dichotomy, comparisons divide, set friend against friend, brother against brother, and writer against writer.

I need to remember that the next time I read of an author simultaneously churning out titles in three different series while I struggle with juggling a novel, an essay, and a short story or two.

I hope TravelingJules and TravelingJoan remember that as well, and enjoy Yellow Springs to its fullest without the added burden of unequal comparisons.

Flash: Silence...

Honored to have my flash fiction "Silence" up at a great site, The Alchemy of Writing, today. Thanks, Bryan!