Today...

I am sitting alone in a Corner Bakery booth, ear buds firmly in place, Mason Jennings drowning out the many conversations taking place around me. In my hand, alternates a red pen and a fork, taking bites of pasta in between essay comments and grading.


I have a lovely seat by the window that frames the courtyard containing seasonally decorated trees. It’s quite picturesque really – there is just enough of a breeze that the rustling leaves create a subtle, almost star-like twinkling effect with the white lights.

In contrast to my rather gloomy Saturday, tonight I do not feel lonely or lacking. There is no melancholy, no invisible weight, no real longing aside from the wish that these essays will magically grade themselves. No, tonight, after a long day of kids, meetings, grades, lectures, and tests, I am at peace. Tonight, sitting here in my corner of the world, I am content.

Therapy via Blog

Mental Health Days. Have you ever taken a mental health day from work? I am not ashamed to say that I have. In fact, most of my "sick" days are of the mental health variety- that breather I need in order to get my priorities back in order, to refocus my lessons and my motives for teaching.

I took such a day today, except today is Saturday – no kiddos, no lessons, no commute to call in sick from, so you may be wondering from what, then, did I take a mental health day.

I have been quite moody lately. Not in the sense that I am snapping at people or throwing random tantrums. I have, though, been a bit self-pitying. I am usually good about fighting this melancholy that comes along, but today I called in. I did not reason it away or seek outside stimulus to, at the very least, distract myself. Nope. Today, I breathed deeply this melancholy and let myself feel the full force of its almost tangible weight.

I am sure there are many, many arguments as to why this is a stupid and possibly psychologically damaging practice (which is why I normally do not do this), but today, I did not have the energy to fight it. Nor, quite frankly, did I have the inclination to find the energy.

I ignored my phone, my email, and my better judgment and wallowed in my onset loneliness/heaviness. I allowed my over analytic mind to critique all my shortcomings, question my decisions, and steal what little motivation I had in me. I indulged in Del Taco, baked brownies, and watched tv via Hulu pretty much all day. I should feel awful about this. I don’t. I called in sick. Yes, from life.

I am realizing that my melancholy is like the flu. I feel achy (emotionally) and it gets worse before it gets better. Though I wallowed today, my fever broke. I am not fully recovered; however, I can say with certainty that I am on the road to recovery. I took a break from my hulu marathon to browse some art bloggers sites, which got me drawing and even feeling a little inspired.

It may sound small but this is the equivalent to taking that first shower after being in bed for a couple days. That refreshing feeling, as if the last few days of blah are circling the drain, never to be seen again.

Just Be

Whilst (yeah, that’s right, whilst) driving to work on Friday, I did something I never, ever do: I turned off the radio. You heard me, off, not down, but off. I am a fiend for sound – music especially, but I’m not opposed to talk radio either. In fact, Damien Rice is serenading me as I type this, but I digress.

It started with me being tired, physically, mentally, and emotionally, so I turned down the radio and said a very exasperated “Lord, I need something.” I did not specify what that something was because I didn’t quite know. I am blessed, so very blessed, but I have been feeling as though I am missing out on something- oh that elusive something.

When I did this, I turned the radio completely off in order to focus a little more. I’m pretty sure it was right after the “Lord, I’m just… done” lament that “Be still and know that I am God” popped into my head, and I was immediately a little more settled. This lasted for a good two seconds before I realized this is not what I am good at, this being still thing.

Even when I am being sedentary, I am not still per say. Regardless of my activity or inactivity, my mind is usually racing. I’m sure I am not alone. If over analyzing were an Olympic event (albeit a really, really boring one), I would be the Michael Phelps of the event. Even as I was trying to “be still” in my car, the idea to write this down was streaming through my brain. Ironic, right? It is not that I am not content with my own company; it’s just that the hamsters that keep my brain going never seem to need to rest. Pesky little things really.


This is the hamster in my head, keeping my brain on a constant loop

Anyway, I am trying to practice being still. I figure I can give this a go during my commute. I have heard many people say that one cannot be still while driving, but I am thinking this would actually be good for me. I obviously have to focus on the road, which will take enough of my attention to allow me to just be. This is the plan. Wish me luck.

In Praise of Vinyl

Before the modern conveniences that deliver music through cyberspace and MP3 players, before Compact Disks, before cassettes, before eight track even (now I’ve lost some of you, but stay with me), there was vinyl. Some of you may not be familiar with the record: a wonderful compacted circle of vinyl that fills the room with whatever song that has been pressed into its grooves.

Personally, I have a very modest collection of these throwbacks. Cultivated through garage sales and thrift stores and whittled by various moves, the collection I have now is one of those things I cannot image getting rid of. There are times I think that I do not need these records (those rare moment of logic I experience). In fact, I have most songs on my ipod, and let’s face it, I listen to that more than any record I own. I mean, it’s not as if I can strap on a record player as I work out or hook one up in my Jetta, right? So why do I keep my records?

The answer is quite simply because I love them. Many people mock the record for its scratched effect and white noise that it creates, not to mention many of the song mixes are laughable by today’s digital standard, but these are the reasons why I love records.

I love the absence of auto-tune, digitally adjusted guitars, drums, and basses, and perfectly balanced sounds. Although I know much planning and work went into making these vinyl fossils of music, the lack of polished audio perfection gives them a raw, almost spontaneous feel. A feeling that if I were magically transported to a Glen Miller concert, it would sound exactly like it does on the record.

Perhaps my imagination runs away a little too much, but I also get the idea that the artists and engineers had to be more creative in translating the sounds they heard in their heads to what could actually be recorded.



Brian Setzer paid tribute to Sun Records by recording from its early catalog of songs and using the same techniques as they used. I thoroughly enjoyed reading about his experience of recording in a bathroom or singing into can in order to achieve the sound he was after. I suppose I assume all artists had to be so inventive during the reign of vinyl.

Somehow records make me experience the act of listening to music more.

Getting back on track

Write about a “plate of sunshine”:


I once had a plate of sunshine, but I ate it.


Okay, so that was short. So…what to write, what to write? My brain is rusty, my fingers fumbly, my soul anxious for words, for expression that I want to unfold. But why? What is this thing in me that needs to write, to make electronic expression of my thoughts, emotions? Is it odd or ironic that I find it impossible to put that desire into words? Ha! I am speechless over my need to speak. Hmph. Either way, I found myself searching through prompts and came across the above and, well, you see how far I got.

A few images come to mind in the “plate of sunshine” vein: sunshine snacks on a plate, pancakes with cut strawberries outlining it sugary perimeter, sugar cookies with yellow sprinkles, or even just a plate full of food that was made with cheery disposition. I even had a weird image of me on a plate due to a nickname I had a lifetime ago. But, like I said, my mind is a bit rusty, so the images stopped there – no story or even funny little anecdote.

I think, no, I know I forget that writing is not just a talent, it is a discipline. I have some incredibly talented friends, some who write enrapturing novels and others who write beautiful songs, and I allow myself to be lazy in writing because it seems as if it comes so naturally to them. This is not to say that they don’t work, I know they do. Nevertheless, there does seem to be this mystique around their creations that I seem to fall so short of in my own writing. And so, instead of practicing, I shrug my shoulders and say “you either got it or you don’t” and let myself off the hook.

However, I do believe it is time that I am honest with myself: I could be a lot better if I were more disciplined. If I treated writing like any other skill, I could grow it and strengthen it. I must also admit however, that there is a bit of fear there as well: what if I’m wrong. As long as I don’t push myself, I can use that as an excuse. The silly (and sometimes pathetic) notion that if I don’t try, there’s no way I can fail. It’s science after all, and you can’t fight science, right?  No more.  Today is the day it ends and I get crackin'.

To all those that encourage this little literary release of mine, thank you. I will now do my part and be more diligent in honing my skill…and this time, I mean it.

Staying Positive

Blessings are those things that make life worth while, yet they are also those things that we can overlook or  easily forget, especially those small blessings that fill the spaces between “major” life events. I know that I am guilty of focusing on the task at hand or the latest thing to go wrong (which is even worse) instead of keeping my mind on the good things that happen. I have an FB friend who continually posts “Stay Positive” and even went so far as to explain that it wasn’t just a flippant saying but truly a way of life.

This is my dad and me staying positve.

When I am faced with seeing things positively or negatively, I generally feel that things will work out and that, in the end, the good outweighs the bad. I must confess, however, that this school year, I have found that I am loosing sight of the big picture and am allowing myself to indulge in wading in the negative side of things. A puddle of pessimism if you will, which, left unchecked, will grow. Here I am, checking myself. And not in that downward spiral being negative on myself for not being more positive kind of way, but in the truly staying positive with real life evidence to back it up kind of way.

This idea of literally counting my blessings has been rolling in my head for a bit now and his reminder of lifestyle over tagline boosted me to create a list of blessings. The idea being akin to daily bread, you know, as in “give us this day…” and focusing on the small, could-possibly-fall-through-the-cracks kind of tidbits that I am privy to on a daily basis. Although it is true that there will be days that I am bowled over by Heavenly favor (which really, shouldn’t I be everyday when I actually consider all that God has given me), the main focus of this “track” sheet will be to remind myself of the good things, even on the days that feel like they are plotting against me.

So, I've decided to have this open for viewing. I strive to be Pathologically Optimistic; the daily posts will be similar to the “high/low” game, you know, without the low. I hope you enjoy and feel inspired to do something similar. I would also love if you shared your highlight of the day with me.

An Open Letter

To Those Who Create:


Thank you.

For your bravery and generosity to share a piece of yourself, thank you. For your words, songs, images, thank you. For your inspiration, thank you.

There are so many distractions and stresses in this world, it so nice to be reminded of its immense beauty. Sometimes the beauty is from the ashes, but there is beauty just the same. Other times it is a matter of capturing a moment of pure bliss that reminds us of the capacity for joy in life.

It is a brilliance to see this yourself, and (as corny as it may sound) it is a gift when you let the world in on your view of things. Whether that perspective is melodic or seen through a viewfinder, it is unique. It is art and, more profoundly, a window to the artist.

So much is told about a photographer by the focus of her photos, her portfolio. What an insight song lyrics can give to a your history and philosophy. How telling it is that you can write about stories and observations that add laughter to the lives of your friends (and subscribers). I am blessed to have so many selflessly creative friends who put it all out there. You expose so much of yourself in the quest to share your creations and that is down right noble.

It is not an easy thing to put your work out there, so, once again I thank you.

Sincerely,
One Who Has Been Inspired

PS. I know the 'thank you' is a little vague, but follow the links to see, read, listen to the details.

Musing....The "Emo"

They say (in the proverbial sense) that weather has a lot to do with one’s emotional state of being: the idea that there are more depressed people in gloomy climates than in tropical ones, yadda, yadda. Perhaps this is true, perhaps not. Personally, I pull for the idea that emotional well-being is a state of mind that one controls oneself; however, it must be noted that this is not an impenetrable tower. One can be infected, as it were, by surrounding persons. I say this because there are days where I feel as though my noble intentions of being upbeat are dashed by some of my students’ teenage melancholy, as if their “emo” were infectious.


Now, I am not going to blame all my sour days on these walking Mood Swings; after all, I do have my own days of walking up on the wrong side of the world. I will, however, say that being surrounded by heightened emotions all day, every day, begins to wear on me. Stupid things that I can normally blow off suddenly seem catastrophic. An ignored email (phone call, text, what have you) that would normally be attributed to a busy life becomes a conscious decision to send me a message. My already analytic brain goes into hyper-drive, and I must make myself take a step back. I determine to have a good week and this nagging, melodramatic nonsense vies to get in.

It is frustrating.

It is work to push it back.

But I am taking a stand. I say no to the “emo," regardless of how many of its carriers sit in my classroom. True, it is harder to pull someone up than down, but harder does not equal impossible. If I can catch a bad mood, surely I can spread a good one.

Now, if I can just avoid catching “the dumb” that has been making its way 'round school...

Cereal and Beer: A Philosophy

So, about a month ago now, a friend was staying with me, and during this time, said friend went “grocery shopping” (why the quotation marks, just wait) and brought back cereal and beer. That’s it. Granted, this was not a permanent residence, so I wasn’t expecting bags of produce and such, but it still struck me as funny that these two items were deemed essential. I even laughed a little. Now, upon reflection, I realize just how Zen this is. Not because I have an affinity for beer – anyone who knows me knows I detest the stuff (even if it does have a hint of blueberry) – but the philosophy behind it is quite brilliant. Stay with me on this…

I am a list-making, goal-oriented, gold-star kind of gal. The plus side of this is that I tend to get things accomplished. I mean, I wouldn’t have my awesome career or the ability to take care of myself without being this kind of person. Being left to my own devices as a kid (as long as I wasn’t burnin’ the house down anyway), I had the choice of either taking on the big picture or letting my life get away from me - even if the responsible decision felt overwhelming at times.

The downside is that I have lists, goals, and gold-stars dictating my idea of should. When I go to the grocery store, I should get list of fruits and veggies, water, meats, etc. I mentally plan meals or at least the basics to throw a meal together. This is not bad per say; it can even be argued that there’s purpose in it. The inherent problem, at least for me, is that I convince myself that I have a lot of “essentials” that are not, in fact, essential. I also get it into my head that I have to have the whole thing figured out ahead of time - the idea that if I don’t know where I’ll end up, my first step is futile at best, disastrous at worst. Admittedly, this is a little dramatic for groceries, but I do hope you’re following the metaphor.

So, how does the beautiful combination of cereal and beer come into play? One is a want, the other a need. Perfect balance. This does not negate my desire for purpose in life, but it does help with my ever continuing search for perspective and overall enjoyment in life. In actuality, it helps this quest for purpose by slowing things down and taking one task at a time. Perhaps the new question (or heck, even list) I pose will be this: what is one need I have and what is one want? Fulfill a need and a want then move on to the next thing. Keep the big picture somewhere in the background, but maintain a clear focus on the small steps that make up the journey. Who knew I’d ever get so much out of beer?

A bit of fiction

I have an itch to write, but so frazzled with other agendas in my life, I could not think of a solid idea – I just knew that I was letting myself get rusty again, falling into the trap of letting teacher work get in the way of personal work (and development quite frankly).  Luckily I came across this prompt: show a dirty room without using those words.  Well, here it goes...

When my third entreaty to get inside was ignored, I decide to open the door and go in anyway.  This is easier said than done as I find resistance from the discarded bills, fliers, and other mounded collection of useless advertisements.  With a little more force, however, I manage my way in and immediately try to suppress a gag as my sense of smell does not need the same time to adjust as my eyes.

When the room does come into focus, my mind is racing to keep up, to take in how this place has changed in just a few short months.  The same pictures hang on the wall, but are now laden with dust.  This same film has also painted every other surface in sight.  I shudder to think at what the shag carpet is now housing.  I force myself to continue, creating a makeshift pathway through the once pristine living room, knowing I'll have to go all the way to the den to find him.  Most likely he'll be in that chair of his that has balded from use.  The closer I get to the den, the more the smell of rotting food and poor hygiene prick at my eyes and lump in my throat.

Once I make my way to the den, I fully take him in before he notices me, giving me time to see the greasy hair, the week old stubble, and the frail, arthritic hands clinging to a now tattered picture. I doubt those hands have really held anything else since she's been gone.  When his watery eyes finally meet mine, I force out a very thin, almost choked, "Oh, Dad."


[Okay, so I veered a bit from just the room, but I wrote; that is an accomplishment today.]

Fasting Revelation

Last week was my church’s Seek Week and it’s no misnomer. The church staff and attendees alike are to actively seek God’s direction for the church through fasting and prayer. Instead of having some textbook ten year plan, each year is planned one at a time. This is my third Seek Week at RockHarbor. In the past, I have prayed for the church during that week, when the emails that were sent out reminded me anyway. Even then, the prayers were more for the leaders and said as a “good for them for doing this” kind of sentiment.

This year, however, I knew I needed to be a little more pro-active. This year I would actively pray and fast. Now, I have fasted before in my life. I have fasted chocolate or soda or TV for a specified amount of time. I have even gone without food for 36 hours (not as easy as it sounds). This has been my history. So when I decided I would abstain from all solid foods from Sunday to Friday, I had little confidence of my success. Thankfully, that rarely stops me these days, so I proceeded.

The week was not fun. Anyone who knows me knows just how much I love food and the act of eating. Some have even witnessed my good-food-happy dance. I am sure my students, had they known I was fasting, would have asked me to eat because I was, shamefully, a bit cranky. I was even tested. Tuesday morning, my dear friend and colleague sent a few glazed twisty doughnuts to my classroom, you know, just because. I resisted. My Bible study, which has been snack free for a while, had goodies galore that night (a freshly baked apple pie included). Again, I resisted.

So, by the time Friday rolled around, I was seriously hoping…okay, expecting a grand revelation. I think my thoughts went something like this: “Um, not to be pushy God, but do you have a divine epiphany you’d like to share with me? After all, I haven’t eaten solid food all week.” And then it dawned on me: I hadn’t eaten solid food all week. The "happy dance for food" girl. The "plan my vacations and activities around food" girl. I had this great peace about life. More than that, I realized that God had answered my prayer.

A couple months ago, I had one of those great moments alone with God where I felt we had a great conversation. During this conversation, I asked God to show me how to live out Him being my sustaining force, not in the churchy abstract way, but in a real life, this is who I am kind of way. I am a tangible person, so I guess I was asking for some type of palpability from God.

For me, the palpability came in the very real hunger pangs and slight but persistent fatigue. More importantly, it came in the success of fasting for a week, knowing that on my own I wouldn’t last half a day. When I was weak, He was my strength, when I was agitated, He nudged me towards patience.

His grace brought me through in a truly "real life" way. I thanked Him for this. And yes, I thanked Him (quite passionately) when I was able to sink my teeth into the best Western Bacon Cheeseburger ever. There may have even been a bit of happy food dance involved.

Five years from now...

Looking at journal prompt for kids…

Journal prompt for an elementary school student: Where do you see yourself in five years?

When I read this prompt, a few things went through my head.  In the Blitzkrieg of thoughts however, the one that stood out was how the answer to such a question changes with age. When you’re young “five years from now” feels like an eternity, and as one gets older, it is clear that “five years from now” happens in a few blinks.

As this was originally intended for a young student, I can only imagine (or vaguely recall) how a fifth grader might answer. Thoughts of a romanticized high school experience along the lines of a great Full House episode may appear. (And yes, I just called Full House great). Your current best friend will still be at your side, naturally. This accompanies other grand notions of high school liberties, oddities, and possibilities.

When we’re in high school, we dream of college and independence, friends and boyfriends, perhaps even apartments and careers. There will be plenty of money and the responsibilities will be of the fun variety as seen on Friends. Heck, the idea that life will be a personal version of Friends isn’t such a bad idea either. After all, five years makes anything possible.

At 20, things begin to pick up speed and the delusions of five year grandeur begin to take shape with a little more life experience thrown into the mix. Personally, I figured that by the time I was 25, I was going to be married (even had someone in mind to fill that role), be a brilliant teacher at my Alma Mater, be wiser, somehow thinner (not sure where that one fit in logically, but it was on the list), travel the world, and live in a different city – somewhere fabulous of course.

When I actually reached the quarter century mark, I had accomplished, oh, not a thing on that grand list. I had at least graduated from college, though that took longer than planned. I did have a nice apartment in a new city: Corona (not exactly fabulous). I did not, however, even have a passport, stamp-free though it would have been. I wasn’t married; heck, it had been at least a year since I had even spoken to the man with whom I was so sure I would spend my life. So…

When I took stock of my life, I knew that it wasn’t bad- I had people with whom I had fun, some even good friends, a nice guy I was dating, and enough frivolity to occupy my time- but I was not fulfilled. Finally at 26, I got off my butt and realized I had to act right then and there. I went back to school and began teaching. A year after that, a nice Irishman placed a stamp in my passport. I also thanked God I was not married – it would have stunted so much that I discovered about myself. And therein lies the true accomplishment: a change in mindset. There would be no more “five years from now”; there would be only “now.”

At 30, I look at this question and smile at the possibilities. I may be married; I may be single; I may be in the same apartment; I may be in a new city. Really only God knows. The only certainty is that I will savor the good and learn from the bad. I will enjoy every moment and seek out new adventure. My “now” for the next five years (and beyond) will be amazing - whatever they may hold.

Another Italian Remembrance

No pictures please...

All the tours today forbade cameras – so much history and beauty left unfilmed. For someone who can be quite addicted to my camera, I lamented this but only for a moment.

Just as things have been beyond words, so too are there sights beyond photos. There are things that should only exist in actual experience and memory. There are things that require the utter silence or cluttering noise, the smell, or the whole of the place to truly do justice to it. Even a picture would minimize the grandeur of a place or work of art or tomb. It could make you think that history could somehow be contained within a frame. How silly to think such a thing – it could even be said that it borders on blasphemy.

However far one chooses to take that idea may depend on what is being observed. Sometimes taking pictures helps one to focus on the details of the thing, but then the giant nature of it can be diminished. Saint Peter’s Basilica, for instance, is built on such a grand scale that to say I felt tiny would be an understatement. I felt comfortingly insignificant in the face of such history, power, and beauty. Art, statues, and alters fill this vast space enclosed by marble and adorned by gold. There is no way to capture this through a viewfinder.

This place is so full of detail that it seems ridiculous to begin to write about it. So, I will, in fact, refrain from the attempt. I will say however, that I like to think of all those works of art (and, if I am honest extravagance) as works of love and reverence for God. So, how could I ever put love in a frame?

Musing #5

The Danger of Daydreaming...

Why do I do this not thinking-when-it-is-vital thing that I keep reminding myself to do. I get ahead of myself so often, carried away in the possibility of a thing instead of the reality of it. This is not to say that I want to lose that quality I possess to hope for the best, but I do need to keep my hope and expectation on balanced levels.

You see, I have this ongoing script in my head of how situations and conversations need to pan out, and when they don’t, I feel a loss for something that never was. Instead of a level head, I am often left mourning what could have been (or at least what I imagined could have been). It’s ridiculous really because while I waste time lamenting a figment, I could actually be missing out on making real memories.

Is there a balance to be had between my active imagination and practicality? Suggestions are welcome.

Convictions from the Colloseum

It is hard to grasp the ancient quality of such a place. Former history classes reviewing ancient civilizations now swirl in my head while the actual remains surround me. The feeling is one of awe at first and then the actual history of this place begins to flood my mind – so many lives and souls lost: the gladiators and martyrs who shed their blood on the arena floor and the spectators, who reveled in and cheered on their deaths, in turn, shed their humanity in the stands.

Knowing that so many innocent people died for their faith makes me evaluate my own. Do I have their unwavering faith? Do I truly have the knowledge they possessed, knowing that as they faced public and brutal execution, their next breath would be before The King? If I do, why do I allow the everyday trivialities get in the way? Why do I feel I need to be in the lion’s den in order to have extraordinary faith?

Dying in "glory" is one thing and probably unlikely for me in suburban life, so I need to learn (and relearn and relearn) to die to myself daily. I need to learn how to bookend my day with God and fill the spaces in between by putting Him first, by putting others before myself. To truly know God is to love God, and to love God is to love selflessly. I need to live such a life as to be convicted a Christian when the time comes.

A break from Italy

This is a bit of a vulnerable entry, but hey, I did plan on risking a bit of audacity, right? This is from a personal journal...

I am at a loss as to change this state [of being single]. I’ve thought about doing the whole internet dating site thing, but my original misgivings are still there: it’s so forced. I didn’t like the idea before, so why would I like it now? But then again, where else am I supposed to meet someone? There’s work, but no possibilities. And I do not want to meet someone at a bar. I know that I will go to the Harp for the music, so it is plausible that I could meet someone with the same morals and attitude, but I don’t think I will hold my breath.

I am trying to keep my focus however, so as to not forget about all the amazing things God has blessed me with already. I am employed for another year. I have an awesome apartment. I am blessed with good friends. I recently went on an international adventure (woo hoo Italia!). I have actually seen physical improvement with my eating/working out regime. So, you know, good things, good things…and yet,and yet...something is missing.

But once this void is filled, won’t another take it’s place? As I was reminded with a reread of my March entry, when I feel uncreative I pick up a brush or a camera. It satisfies for a moment, but then I feel it again, that void, that reminder that my apartment is my sanctuary because I am the only one who is here. I am alone. I am alone with no end in sight. Humph. So where is my real void then?

Perhaps I am overlooking a brilliant opportunity to write about this. I need to write. I wonder what it is that drives me, writing or the mere thought of being a writer. Am I romanticizing this as I do everything else? Am I keeping it in mind to have something to look forward to or because I really believe it is something that I must do. Isn’t that the true mark of a writer: obsession? I have ideas floating, but nothing too structured or screaming to get out. Hmmm…well, well, it is a quandary.

Musing #4

Staying in a hotel, EcoHotel, outside of the main center of Rome, in a typical neighborhood – busy, loud, a little dirty – in a typical city. I like the city center, but when relaxing, waiting to feel inspired, I find that I prefer (and am currently missing) being in the country. I am currently plugged into my ipod, listening to Ray LaMontagne tell me he could “hold me in his arms forever” – a loud motorbike momentarily drowning out his serenade. The busyness of the city, the rapid movement of business, cars, and life creates a busyness in my head. I am once again worrying about my responsibilities back home: financial shortcomings and what to do about my car…

Of course, as Damien Rice now takes over for Ray and begins his lament about "floating like a cannonball”, I am able to get lost in his melancholy and feel that I will also get lost in the history and surreal beauty that is Rome. I am sure an inspiration separate from Florence will by my muse for a season. Perhaps I’ll think back to Rome and feel the need to create or improve my mind- expand my philosophical and historical knowledge, as I currently fall short.

It may sound weird, but this is a shortcoming that I embrace. How awful it would be to find that I felt I had nothing left to learn or experience, no area in which I am challenged enough to grow. And right now, I need to learn to find inspiration in the middle of a typical neighborhood, in a typical city.

Musing #3

The Sistine Chapel and School of Athens: images I have seen in print, but to stand beneath the originals, the actual masterpieces, is breathtaking. To describe the feeling would fall short - it makes me think of the apostles' inability to describe Heaven with human words. It gives me this incredible sense of expectation: if I am having trouble describing something created by man, how much more incredible Heaven will be. How much beauty and (for lack of a better word) magic must Heaven hold? Heaven, an ineffable creation. Then, to think of the Creator - how beyond imagination, let alone words.

Musings on...Convenience

In Venezia (Venice), on a water bus, we met a misplaced valley girl who recently married an Italian man. Through conversation, she brought up the idea of getting used to the pace of life and the few things that she still finds irritating (even after two years). One of the things was the lack of convenience of store hours – early closing hours and the fact most (in some towns, all) of the stores closed completely on Sundays.

I am mulling this over on a Sunday as we are relaxing at the hotel, partly because we need to and partly because nothing is open – no stores, no museums, not even the laundry mat. We had to make sure we went to the grocery store yesterday (before eight o’clock) so that we would have food to eat today. We were forced to have at “home” family meals, and it was wonderful. It was just a couple meals, but they had purpose.


The picture is of our family meal by chef Josh.

I have heard it said that while the rest of the world works to live, Americans tend to live to work; this seems to be a sad reality. Could the stores make more money if they were open 24 hours, 7 days a week? No doubt there would be early morning Sunday proprietors who would attract early morning patrons and would earn a few more Euros each week. They could increase their profits, but it would come at a very steep price: purpose.

Purpose would have to be sacrificed. I know that I rarely plan ahead because I can jot to the store at almost any hour, seven days a week. If I am actually cooking at home, and I find I am missing an ingredient, no worries, VON’S is just around the corner, ready to sell me what I lack. This type of instant gratification has led to instant entitlement – and how this has seeped into all the nooks and crannies of life.

I wonder, could I start a one woman revolution? Help bring back the simpler ways of living – leave a little convenience behind for a truly better way of life?

I have already made baby steps – painting and reading more instead of owning a cable box – but I need to go beyond this beginning superficiality and make this slower pace a part of who I am. Become deliberate, purposeful in things as simply as dinner and as grand as relationships with friends, family, coworkers, students.

Musing #1

There is a symphony for all the senses: the vibrancy of the blue skies against the lush landscape, the breeze that carries with it the slight fragrance stemming from the lavender bushes, that same breeze swooshing through the trees, rustling the leaves in waves to perfectly complement the choir of birds. Had I been given the opportunity to create such a place, my imagination would have fallen short of this reality.

Reflections outside of Florence

Anyone who sees this place would love our hotel – really it’s a small house – kitchenette and all. The grounds are stunning and so peaceful; I love the constant sounds of birds and insects going about their business – it’s given me a renewed sense of appreciation for the quiet, peaceful ease of the country: a breathing pastoral.

I think I am going to show my students pictures of the lake when we review Emerson and Thoreau. This must be the type of setting that encouraged these great thinkers’ attempts at putting the beauty of nature in verse. Their desire to step back from the bustling world and absorb all that God has created– truly, “transcendental” is an apt description. This place, this feeling, truly transcends anticipation, defies accurate explanation – I am encouraged not to try to explain or capture (though I obviously am), instead I feel encouraged to simply be.

I am enjoying letting my thoughts wonder, not over-analyzing anything, simply drifting from one idea to another, from appreciation of my surroundings to meditating on a few lines of poetry from “George Grey”: “Put meaning in one’s life and it may end in madness, but life without meaning is the torture of restlessness and vague desire.”



To think, I could have missed all this if I had let the idea of bills and financial responsibilities get in the way of this adventure: meaning is found in experience, not a savings account. To have bypassed this experience, this life adventure, would have been the truly regrettable, even irresponsible thing to do. How often the idea of checking off boxes on my “to do” lists outweigh the desire to sit, reflect, and enjoy the beauty that surrounds me, waiting to inspire those that will let it. How often I have blurred the distinction between productivity and true accomplishment.

I heart Monterosso!

The Cinque Terre is magic! L'amore! The old streets, crammed houses, laundry lines outside windows and across streets - straight out of a story this town, Monterosso, breathes. The street cafes, gelato shops (oh the gelato shops), all are even more alive during the World Cup - especially last night while Italy played Ghana. And even though Italy (sadly) lost 2-3, the interest in the cup has not wavered in the least. Kids were running through town, soccer ball passing between each yelling boy, nearly missing the man who gave a disapproving look, a look that didn't faze a single boy.

This town has an energy that fascinates and invites me. Perhaps part of this feeling comes from its remote location that can be reached by a long, narrow, windy road, by train, or boat. I am so use to the openness of Southern California beach cities like Huntington that can be seen from the very wide and busy PCH. Getting from one Cinque Terre city to another is almost the same, except for the trail that can be walked from the first to the last with pit stops at each along the way.

We ended up hiking to three other Terre cities, a hike that was not to be rushed. It was too beautiful and too difficult to do so. Walkways and steep stone stairs led us from Monterosso to Vernazza (my favorite stretch of the hike). The trail contained great views that defy description or picture (though I took plenty) - flowers and lush greens, occasional peeks to the city we left and the deep blue ocean, finally opening up just enough to see Vernazza tucked away in a cove filled with boats and sun bathers. For something so inspiring, I am at a loss for words...

Vernazza is said to be the prettiest of the five cities, but, lovely though it is, my favorite is Monterosso - the eclectic houses with painted details and old town charm simply won my heart. And the people we came across in Monterosso were no small part of the town's beauty.

Our waiter that night, a perfect example of the spirit of Monterosso, was so warm - he proudly told us about the Basil leaves that are grown two hills over that are essential to "the best pesto in Italy. In the world". Apparently these basil plants have "smaller leaves but they are smelly." I have to say, coupled with spinach ravioli, it was indeed wonderful pesto, this pesto made with tradition and pride, so reflective of this small Italian town.

Amidst the hustling tourists and taxis tearing through the city, the slower pace of many of the locals becomes a welcome contrast. Settings are placed on tables, patios are swept of last night's dinner, dogs are walked: things are done, not hurried. A lesson I hope to take home with me - especially when I have guests. I realize how contagious an attitude can be, either relaxed or stressed. I am, therefore, determined to have an attitude that allows those around me to feel relaxed and free to leave anxieties behind.

Palpable Existence

Whilst skimming through AOL headlines (yes, I still use AOL, thank you), I came across an article to "finally get rid of all those old photos lying around". It was more of an advertisement really, but AOL likes to make those look like legitimate articles to fool us dumb folk. With a new, state of the art scanner you too can get rid of all those tangible memories you have stored around the house and condense years (perhaps even decades) into a file on your hard drive. Of course, once you get it there you'll realize that it takes up too much space and you will then be motivated, perhaps by another "article", to save that file to an external hard drive or flash drive.

This idea of being bothered by the physicality of life is beginning to weigh on me (ironically, it's a metaphoric weight, not a palpable one). The question that keeps coming to mind is: what is so wrong with concrete, tactile life? What is this insatiable need to digitize all aspects of life from memories to music to friendships? We click to view Grandma's 90th birthday like we click to view the latest status update. I am not anti-technology (obviously because I am typing my thoughts to post online), but I am opposed to technology as type of prison. I am opposed to my entire life being on laptop. I am opposed to managing friendships like I manage my banking. I am opposed to virtual tours replacing actual experiences.

I like rummaging through my old photo albums. Shoe boxes full of friends and family smiling and laughing and posing and living: this I love. I love the fact that these things take up space in my closet, on my bookshelves, and on my walls. I love the fact that these sentimentalities and memories have a physical demand of space, a reminder that I need to make emotional space in my life for the things that are truly important.

We have multiple senses, shouldn't we enlist as many as possible to enjoy the precious, irreplaceable things in life? Am I the only one that longs for stacks of photos, CD's, books (don't even get me started on electronic books), and handwritten cards?

Road Blocks

I teach about authors that have transcended their own time with voices that speak more to human nature than current fads. I teach about style and text and subtext and universal themes and relatable characterization. I teach about truth through words. I teach about learning from these amazing (albeit often troubled) voices that line the shelves of a bookstore. I teach about the importance of making your voice heard, taking a stand, creating new perspective. I teach about these things passionately and yet I have failed to truly learn these lessons myself.

I have a friend who tends to despise blogs and writes them off as "emotional vomit" and I cannot say that I totally disagree with her. And yet (again) I find myself here with my well intentioned hullabaloo with the intention of finding a voice. A voice that is mine. A voice as unique as the ones I try to help my students find.

Perhaps that is a part of my problem. I should cease to be afraid of producing emotional vomit. I need to take Ann Lamont's advice and simply get through my crappy first draft in order to get to one workable line. I need to stop being such a gold star kid with my need to master a task before I ever think about sharing with anyone. I need to realize that some of that confidence I have in my students needs to be reserved for me too. I need to get off my over analyzing, under disciplined butt and get to work.

I teach about finding a voice that adds to the world. I am learning how to follow this advice one crappy first draft at a time...please bear with me as I also learn to bear with myself.

Another Oldie

Graceful Killer

Your moves, your walk, even
your countenance may change,
but your stripes, they never do.
Your fierceness leaves
your prey in a vulnerable admiration
-a kind of supernatural awe.
Your eyes can look through me,
past my strong appearance -
into my trembling insecurities.
I know I should run, but
your beauty is enticing.
Mesmerizing.
I know how dangerous you are;
Your strength draws me in.
You have the ability to tear my
Heart out with your graceful charms.

Defenseless to save myself, exposed,
You, the hunter, make your way closer.

A bit of a cheat really...

Okay, my double dog dare me buddy not only matched my blog, but he one upped it by already having two posts. Both fun and entertaining. Dang it. So, as is my nature, I am forced to post again. However, my confession is this: I am pulling from something that I have previously written. It is a poem in prose (untitled) that I wrote quite a few years ago, but few have actually seen it. Of course, since I have two followers (hello), few will still see it. Huh, comforting. Well here it goes:

I remember the day in a hazy arrangement of specific detailed emotions, those of confusion and sadness. A sunny, slightly breezy, spring Sunday, my dad and his friend were filling the back fo a strange pick up truck with chairs and clothes and furniture that wasn't suppose to be moved - my dad's work desk and his computer, the one we could never touch. When no more could fit in the truck, my dad kissed my forehead and walked away; I looked to my mother, but instead of her usual smile, she turned her tear stained face towards the house and walked away.

One more to litter the blogoshphere

Ruth Brown sirens as I finish my Boudin bread bowl all the while convincing myself that I will, in fact, work out today. So begins my blogging experience...

While at Barnes and Noble today, I picked up The Writer's Idea Book by Jack Heffron; this thing is filled with so many prompts that I am at a loss for an excuse not to write. The book is to get me motivated. The blog, however, is because I am still a child and respond with force to a "I'll do it if you do" type of proposition. I suppose it's a bit of my competitive-I-can-do-anything-you-can-do attitude lovingly developed by two older brothers.

You see I have this friend who is also trying to be motivated to write and so we became writing buddies - you know the kind that sends each other things we've written for feedback and for accountablity. The problem is that we've both failed. Epically. After one exchange, neither of us have been very productive, so he came up with the idea of blogging. It was a sign, I'm sure of it. Almost. I have been toying around with the idea for a while and the friendly challenge was apparentley what I needed.

As of right now, I do not have an organized,systematic plan of attack. I have a book of prompts and am simply in need of an avenue for words, my words, such as they are.

So here they are, out in the aether, for any and all to see. It's very Julie and Julia (without the aroma of French Cuisine).