Quin·tes·sence October 31, 2007

Pronunciation: kwin-ˈte-sən(t)s
Function:noun
Etymology: Medieval Latin quinta essentia, literally, fifth essence
Date: 15th century
1 : the fifth and highest element in ancient and medieval philosophy that permeates all nature and is the substance composing the celestial bodies 2 : the essence of a thing in its purest and most concentrated form

My pal Julie called me “The Quintessential Blogger.” Wow! If the essence of my writing is hovering in the fifth element in it’s purest form, then what else could I hope to become? I… have arrived.

I overheard someone yesterday trashing bloggers. He was slaying our good names, saying we’re losers for even having the time to blog. Losers for recording our lives? Au contraire, mon frere! I blog, therefore I am! What I don’t have time for is writing long-hand in a journal. Bloggin’ takes but mere minutes for my fast-typin’ ass… or fingers, as it were. However he likened bloggers to having nothing better to do with our lives. I wonder if they said that about Shakespeare and Mozart. How tragic that one day he’ll have nothing of his own to read and reflect upon. What a shame he shan’t ever be self-quoted.

My friend said she wanted to start a blog so she could feel famous.

(Is that why we do this?)

I said in a former blog entry that I write for none other than myself. Once again, to quote my hero Alice Walker, “I think writing really helps you heal yourself. I think if you write long enough, you will be a healthy person. That is, if you write what you need to write, as opposed to what will make money, or what will make fame.”

So I tell you this. It matters not how many eyes ever or never comb these words. I don’t write for someone, anyone else. I write to record the sweet moments, the tough ones, and to track my own progress in life – or lack thereof. If someone happens to stumble upon my writing and through some celestial phenomenon finds themselves better off for having read it, then bonus. I don’t know that I’m delivering anything particularly compelling, controversial or provacative, but that’s not the point anyway. At the end of the day, I’m writing to hear myself think.

My Quote? October 30, 2007

I always figured it would be great if I died having been quoted for saying something cool. Yoda has “Do or do not. There is no try.” which has long been my favorite. But c’mon. I’ll never be THAT cool. I know there is no original thought, but one day while I was running… wait. I’ll preface this by saying that there are a lot of runners in this world. When I am feeling particularly lazy and apathetic, it never fails that I quickly encounter someone running. I pass them in my car or see them run by my house. I see them in the company gym on a treadmill during my lunch break. Shame descends upon me when I come to the realization that a little over a year ago I was running, swimming and biking nearly every single day in training for my first triathlon. Ok, so maybe I gave birth to my baby and I should resist over-achieving. But he’s 8 months old now. What’s my excuse for not getting back on the horse?

Well alrighty then, I’ll tell you. Here’s the question: “Why do people run?” Running is hard. It’s painful, even boring. When I go running my knees hurt and I get shin splints. I can’t properly ascend stairs for days. I actually cracked my toilet seat once from falling on it, my hamstrings were so upset with me. So why do millions of people do it then? Am I just really bad at it? And where are these people running to? Better yet, what are they running from? This was the thought that occured to me last year as I was running and suddenly hit that proverbial and euphoric runner’s “high.” I had an itty bitty epiphany: People run for an infinite number of reasons. Many are running for health and fitness. Others are running in memory of someone they loved. Some run just to prove to themselves that they can. Regardless, all of us are running with tremendous weights from our pasts gripping tightly our ankles. Anger, resentment, grief, trauma, pain, rejection, fear, heartache, and the list goes on. The very commitment to run, by default, can liberate us from those shackles.

In any other circumstance, running would be generally discouraged. In battle, you don’t run away. You stand and fight. In a marriage, you don’t run. You work it out. In legal matters, you don’t run. You accept responsibility and do your civic duty.

I decided to write “my quote” down so I wouldn’t forget it.

“We run not from our past, but toward our potential.”
- Denise Petti

As I typed it just now, I second-guessed myself and decided to do a google search to make sure it wasn’t something laying around my subconscious mind that I was trying to claim as my own. My search came up empty, so might I actually have penned something that has never been said? I doubt it, however I’ll claim temporary ownership until otherwise contested. Feel free to call me on it, but if I’m right, then start running.

Intuitive Intentions October 29, 2007

I’ve been reading books lately authored by spiritual intuitives. (There are actually two people in my life that I consider quite gifted with intuition, so this topic especially holds my attention.)

It would seem to me that two authors in particular, and I’m guessing many more, share the same sense that our spirits actually write our own scripts before we get here… that we strategically plan the family we’re born into, who we will meet and why. Which would explain when we occasionally meet someone for the first time, it feels less like a “nice to meet you” and more like a “Oh! It’s you again!”

I am fascinated by this phenomenon. If it’s true that I etched my own sketch before I got here, that means that I deliberately included the pains-in-my-ass? Curious.

I suppose it’s not unfounded. After all, our spirits do so long for growth. This journey is actually fun and invigorating if not entirely exhilarating to them… and hardly but a blink of an eye in the vast scheme of eternity. I am picturing my spirit hovering blissfully in another dimension prior to my birth, sitting around a computer monitor and going, “Ooh! Let’s put this asshole in there!” I might have laughed and said, “That’s GENIUS!” and typed away gleefully. I likewise added all subsequent interpersonal complexities, family feuds and dysfunction junction.

I therefore realize that all my resentment and anger is entirely moot. I very well may have craved all this nonsense. I daresay I must be grateful for it! For what comfort it is to know beyond all logic that the morons driving me to drink have their reasons for knowing me too, and that our spirits wouldn’t have it any other way.

Good Things Happen In Threes October 26, 2007

Three is Michaelina’s magic number. When she wants a snack, she asks for three marshmallows. Each night we lay in bed together and read, so as she brushes her teeth three times, she never fails to ask for three books. We usually snuggle and read for about 30 minutes every night. Afterward, as I am running around doing my close-of-day routine – washing my face, sorting the laundry, tidying up – she asks me to lay with her. I usually sigh, reminding her that I just did. She presses me, and I typically respond with “ok, but I have a lot to do, so just for a minute” to which she always replies, “How ’bout three minutes?”

That child constantly and consistently gives me pause. There have been times when I’ve hugged and kissed her goodbye, left the house, been halfway into my car only to look up and see her tearful face in the front window. I sigh heavily and do the about-face back into the house. “Lina honey, mommy’s going to be late for work. What’s the matter?”

Wiping her eyes and sobbing loudly, she sputters almost incoherently, “You forgot to give me three ki-hih-sses!”

I hug her, comfort her, kiss her thrice, then inquire as to why one of my kisses is not sufficient?

She hugs me tightly and replies, “‘Cause I just love you too much.”

History & Humility October 25, 2007

“Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”
– George Santayana, Philosopher & Poet

It’s no mystery that we are a sum total of all our parts, or in this case experiences. Naturally our history – and for better or worse, our reactions to it – make us who we are. This is no new philosophy, as George Santayana penned this quote circa 1893.

I often wonder what I would say or do if I ran into a few select people from my past. There’s the guy who broke my heart, the guy whose heart I broke, and the guy who ran out on my grandmom and dad and never looked back. There’s the friend who claims I sent him into therapy, the girl that laughed at me when i was most vulnerable, and the schoolmate who I vehemently insulted in a spontaneous reaction of immaturity and ignorance. There’s the girlfriend who wrote me off one too many times, who I eventually wrote off myself, only to see her graciously attend my father’s funeral 12 years ago.

Forgiveness is mysterious. Forgiveness is selfless, and generally only as good as the receptiveness of the person offering it. For it’s another known fact that perception is, in large part, reality.

“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”
- Albert Einstein

To continually blame things outside oneself for lack of forward movement, is ultimately a perverted self-indulgence and paralysis of the highest order. There always exists an opportunity for progress. There is profound liberation in simply not giving audience anymore to what someone else said or did. To forgive is to be humbled and filled with a grace that surpasses understanding. It is an inexplicable knowing that we each are tragically flawed. And if you stare at your own reflection long enough, it’s amazing how different things begin to look.

Remembering October 23, 2007

It was Michaelina’s 6th birthday yesterday.

What? SIX?!

My husband and I talked about it last night in disbelief, and shared some nostalgic recollections…

I remember her being a tiny little baby, nursing, staring up at me, cooing and giggling. He remembers her sitting straight up with perfect baby posture watching “Elbo.” I remember her first day on the beach, eating sand and chasing seagulls on all fours. He remembers her eating first foods, grimacing and laughing uncontrollably when he’d pop up from beneath her high chair tray and say “GOO!” I remember her opening and closing the doors of our dining room hutch over and over and over again – learning early the fascinating lessons of cause and effect. He remember her eventually determining she could fit inside that cabinet of said hutch, close the door behind her and hide. She would quietly wait for us to open the door and yell, “RAH!” then break into hysterics, close the door again and wait. I remember when she would spend hour after joyful hour tumbling off the couch into my arms. He remembers the first time she called him “Da-Da.”

We remember when she would climb up onto the piano bench, pound on the keys and “sing” a song. She called horses “vorsies.” She called french fries “scrench cries.” We remember her trying to find Easter eggs, walking aimlessly around the house, oversized basket in hand and voice cracking each time she said, “RI-DAYER!” (A.K.A. “IT’S RIGHT THERE!”)
We remember her first tooth, her first birthday, her first pee-pee on the potty. We remember. We remember. We remember…

I can still remember when I was six. Letter books, snack time, my first crushes on Bill Rowe and Mike Starke. I remember art class and music class and Mr. Phister reading to us in the library. I remember the Christmas concert and how much my mom loved the song we sang, “Chicken Soup.” She still remembers it and talks about it like it was yesterday.

You know what? It was.

The Life of a Kindergartner October 22, 2007

It’s funny – often when we take our daughter to school, an entire entourage of little bodies literally drop everything they’re saying and doing and run in her general direction screaming “MI-KA-LEEEE-NA!” She is bombarded with hugs and laughter and falls to the ground in a huddled blob of squeals and giggles. I can’t recall ever having a welcoming committee like that.

Since she’s quite new at the whole school thing, she still tells the truth for the most part, so she hasn’t yet learned that taking full advantage of an illness, or even better – faking one, can occasionally free one from academic monotony and obligation. But last week she said she wasn’t feeling well. Her ears and throat hurt. I suggested she stay home from school so daddy or I could take her to the doctor. Since kindergarten may be likened to a 3 hour party, the thought of not being there was unheard of. She sat on her bed, quite vexed.

“But if I don’t go to school, they’ll need a subsitood.”

I sought clarification, “You mean a substitute, honey?”

“Mmm. Hmm.”

“You mean they get a substitue teacher when your teacher is sick, so you think they’ll need a substitute Michaelina when Michaelina is sick?”

“Mmm. Hmm.”

I explained that sometimes children have to stay home from school to rest and feel better. I told her that her teacher understands and would never want a substitute Michaelina because after all, there’s only one Michaelina and her teacher wants her to be nice and healthy.

She furrowed her brow and replied, “Then who’s gonna be the line leader?”

Carpe Diem October 21, 2007

I am in a season of discovery. My good friend Maria and I always talk about the seasons of life. One thing is for sure, the seasons seem to change quicker than I’m able to take it all in. Often it seems no sooner do the leaves turn vibrant orange and electric yellow, then suddenly the trees are bare altogether. No sooner does the first snowflake fall, then suddenly the crocuses peek their little heads out of the ground. No sooner does the first helicopter bud spin down to the driveway, then the blistering heat makes it’s abrupt entrance.

I took the time to “smell the roses” the other day. I walked out of work for my lunch break and the air was so crisp, the sky so blue, the sun so warm on my face that it stopped me right in my tracks. I stood there on the asphalt in the middle of the parking lot and took a deep breath through my nose. I could smell the trees not far away from me. I could smell the freshly mowed grass. I could smell invigoration, inspiration, motivation.

I thought to myself, I have to remember this moment – the smells, the sights, the sounds, and this incredible feeling… an absolute knowing that above all else, we each need to stop rushing, open our eyes, take a good long look around us, and breathe in deeply what presents itself to us on a daily basis. There are times we need to step out on faith, take action, and move swiftly forward with our senses strong and lucid toward our next important moment. For all too soon these sights and sounds will be gone, replaced with others that we might also fail to notice.

I call to mind a mother I spoke with at our 5 year old daughters’ dance class yesterday. She was commenting about how adorable my 8 month old son is and how in looking at him, she suddenly couldn’t remember her daugher being that age. She couldn’t recall her being that size, babbling, or learning how to sit up and crawl. She even said, “Come to think of it, I don’t even know if I can remember her being 3!” Although she had laughed at her own realization, I couldn’t help but sense her melancholy. I asked her if she had kept a journal. She said she had pictures and video footage, but never had time to write. The conversation made me realize how fortunate I feel to have the desire to write because this life of mine is moving at such rapid-fire speed, almost faster than I can grasp. My journal entries capture a precious slice of this rich experience, and preserve it like a cherished photograph. What if I always chose instead to say, “I’ll just write tomorrow” or “Well, we have video.” What tender moments might I have missed? What morsel of sweetness might I have overlooked?

To quote Ferris Bueller, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop to look around every once in a while, you could miss it.” Spoken by a true master. If I don’t stop, look, listen and write I might miss things like my daughter changing channels with the “mermote,” or her asking may she please have some “nulk.” I could have passed right over the charming way she called our dogs, “geegees.” and our cat “kee-eey.” I very well may not recall so readily someday, my baby boy responding so happily and willingly to my invitation to “jumpie, jumpie, jumpie!” Or the way he squeezes my face, squealing with utter delight and digging his razory little fingernails into my cheeks, while in the next moment biting them and growling like a little devil. I need to write down and recognize when my husband pats my bottom, bleaches the whites, or waters the flowers, lest I fail to recall him ever doing so.

Like my friend Maria says, “I don’t wanna die with the music still in me.” All I have is today to do something meaningful with the gifts I’ve been given. After all, as cliche as it may be to say, tomorrow may never come.

So Much To Say October 19, 2007

“So much to say, so much to say, so much to say, so much to say… Open up my head and let me out.”
- Dave Matthews

This blog is good for me. If for no other reason than for getting the stuff out of my brain and in front of me. I have found freedom and emotional benefit in such an outlet. Stuff doesn’t bounce around my head. My days feel less strenuous because I’ve unloaded mental weight.

My friend’s daughter is a dancer, poet, pianist, singer-songwriter. I have long admired people like her, people that sieze the opportunity to indulge and pursue the gifts of creative expression. My husband is one of these people. According to author Julia Cameron, it would seem I’ve spent a large portion of my life a Shadow Artist…

“Shadow Artist is a phrase that I invented to explain the fact that very often people who are extremely gifted will put themselves in the proximity of other people who are officially more gifted. And I want to be clear that they are only officially more gifted… If you find yourself married or related to artists while your own artistic life withers, you may be a Shadow Artist – a secretly talented person in the proximity of people who have been crowned ‘creative’.”
- Julia Cameron

I have taken a few measures toward breaking out of these shadows. I have read Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist Way ad nauseum. She places utmost importance on writing every single day, so I decided that blogging would be a logical first step. Expressing myself on a regular basis and allowing my thoughts to flow freely has truly been cathartic. I am also taking a theater course right now at a local university in pursuit of my BA degree. Even though it’s naturally part of my concentration, I view it more as cultural enrichment. Going to see a play and participating in class discussion has proven invigorating and inspiring to my creative sensibilities.

I was talking with a gentleman recently about my writing. I told him I was pursuing self-publishing avenues. He questioned as to why I wouldn’t pursue the more traditional route of querying agents and publishers. I told him that I prefer not to get bogged down by the querying process. I’d rather keep my life simple, the creative process flowing, without getting mentally trapped in a potential rejection quagmire, or swept away in some publishing company’s marketing maelstrom. Besides, I told him, I don’t write for money or notoriety.

He actually laughed at me. He didn’t buy it for one moment. “Every author wants to be recognized,” he said.

I insisted that my ego truly has nothing to do with my desires to write, and shared with him a quote from my favorite author, that I have committed to memory ever since I was but a wee lassie:

“I think writing really helps you heal yourself. I think if you write long enough, you will be a healthy person. That is, if you write what you need to write, as opposed to what will make money, or what will make fame.”
- Alice Walker.

ohhhhhkay October 17, 2007

We’re getting into the car after yet another wildly successful Target shopping spree and my darling little offspring of 5 years encounters a challenge with seat belt fastening. Upon the onset of extreme emotional meltdown, I insist she acquire a semblance of patience and composure – as if patience can be insisted – and remind her that she must always remember to remain calm and ask for help whenever she’s feeling frustrated.

She stops crying and struggling with the belt, looks directly at me and says, “We are not having this conversation.”