The Road Less Traveled (leads to cows) *updated

A small snippet of where I've been....

Several Saturdays ago I made the half-hour drive to the local berry farm. Strawberries were in full swing, but raspberries were still a week or two in coming. I'd called earlier in the day to reserve several quarts of strawberries. When I arrived late in the afternoon, I found that they were the very last berries on the shelves. In hindsight, I regret not giving a quart to the couple who came in after me, anticipating berry goodness. I considered it, but got greedy and hoarded them all to myself. In the end, I didn't even use them all up before some went bad. As I dumped those once perfect, now spoilt, beauties in the trash, I thought of that couple and felt such sadness that I didn't share.

There was a small pen for sheep and one for lambs near the farm parking lot. The little lambs were so busy munching the scrubby grass, like little eating machines.


These little ones took no notice of me or the cars. But the two mama sheep in the next pen were much more interested in me. Well, one of them was. There was black-headed beauty that was all chilled out and relaxed, as if to say, "Yeah, I'm a sheep. No biggie."


But the other one started baa-ing as soon as I approached the fence, as if to say, "Check me out! I'm a sheep! Don't you love my new summer coat? Check me out!" She even put her big schnozzle through the fence opening so I could pet her. As I reached out my hand, I heard my husband's voice in my head, telling me not to pet the animals. And just as I touched the back of my hand to her furry snout, she opened her mouth -- the one she was using to chew grass -- and let out a terrific AHHH-CHOOO!! That sheep sneezed on me!


I was momentarily terrified, thinking she was about to bite me. But as I picked little bits of grass off of my shirt, I started laughing out loud, wishing my husband had been there to see it.

On the ride home, I took a sharp right-turn detour down an unknown country road, hoping to find a farm stand selling peonies. I'd been longing for pale pink peonies and had nearly resorted to stealing them from neighbors' yards. In the end, I didn't find any, but I did come face to face with these lovelies:


I finally got my pale pink peonies this week, after ordering them from a florist. Not as romantic as finding them at a roadside stand or as thrilling as stealing them, but they're lush and decadent all the same. I don't have a good photo of them (*see update below), but this does them more justice than my camera every could.

"Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?" (Mary Oliver, "Peonies")

I'm going to plant my own peonies this fall so I can have armloads of them in summers to come. I'm going to pet the animals, no matter what my husband says. I'll stop my car along narrow country lanes to photograph the locals. And the next time, I'll share my strawberries with strangers.

Updated
I took the peonies outside today just after a sun shower, when the light was gorgeous, and captured these. Lovely, yes. But I still think this is even more so.

What are we waiting for?

image by Diskychick

I don't hesitate to use the good china. Okay, I don't have "good china," but I do have good pottery. I love it, and I use it every day. I'm trying to make this the model for my everyday life.

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I buy pint of organic raspberries. They're like little red jewels, which is an overwrought phrase when it comes to raspberries. But what else can I say? These ruby fruits are my favorite, so I want to make them last. But berries are not meant for waiting. Ripe soon turns to ruin. Eat the juice-full berries. Eat them now, whole bowlfuls if you must.

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A recent Twitter exchange:

Me: What would happpen if I stopped putting my ideas up on a shelf, waiting for more time/confidence/resources? What would happpen?

Me: I'll tell you what would happen: THINGS WOULD START TO HAPPEN!

A friend: BIg FanDAMNtastic shit -- THAT's what would happen. There's something in the air Jenna, LEAP!

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I yell at my husband for things that aren't his fault because I'm stressed about things that aren't his fault. He says nothing. We ride in silence. I practice "I'm sorry" over and over in my head, thinking I'll say it any second now. The words don't come, and then, without me trying, they do. "I'm sorry." All these years and it's still so hard to say. When will I learn? What am I waiting for?

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I fill notebook pages with ideas for stories, articles, books, projects. What am I waiting for?

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Tonight I filled a little apple-green bowl with red-red raspberries. There was no waiting.

Enough, already.

image from Jenna Carver

Things I don't do often enough:

• Blog
• Exercise
• Weed the garden
• Write
• Laundry
• Dishes
• Vacuum
• Floss
• Dust
• Shave my legs

The list goes on, on, on. Does yours do that, too?

Superhero Andrea has a recent blog post about doing enough by choosing what enough is. The idea came to her after reading Chris Guillebeau's 279 Days to Success Overnight manifesto, which I discovered a few weeks ago and love. Andrea sums up some things that have been swirling around in my head for awhile now. She says it beautifully, so I hope you'll read her post.

As a work-at-home freelance writer, I have a lot of time on my hands to play with. By this I mean that I can shape my days in almost any way I choose. This is a huge blessing in my life and I don't want to go back to a traditional work schedule. But the downside is that without a set schedule, writing work and domestic work start to meld together. Any time feels like a perfect time to work on a project or to do chores. As such, I'm constantly fighting off the feeling that I'm not doing what I should -- or could -- be doing. Because I haven't set specific goals (exercise three times a week) or allocated exact times for tasks (work on client projects from 1:00 - 5:00), I rarely feel like I've accomplished the day's goals.

I chafe against order and structure. I tend toward chaos. But in my heart, I know that I need a schedule -- as long as it's one that I have devised. I've been trying to do this for awhile now. I finally have some things in place that will help me create order. I'm intrigued to see if I can finally feel like I've done enough by defining what enough is.

What works for you?

Gradbabies

image from by dno1967

You can also listen to this story here.


I saw my aunt and uncle in the grocery store the day before Easter. We met up at the end of the jam and jelly aisle, in an open area near the meat counter. I waved first, since it seemed inevitable that they'd see me. It had been at least a year since I last saw them, and I wanted to give them plenty of time to recognize me out of context.

The only thing in their cart so far was a 10 pound bag of potatoes. Later on I'd see them picking out a ham. Until a few years ago, we all used to gather for Easter and Christmas at another aunt's house. But it looked like everyone would be cooking for their own this year.

"Anything new?" my aunt asked.

I gave the standard, "Not much," and then remembered something new, a growing rarity these days: "I'm going back to school."

"Oh?" my aunt said. "That's interesting."

"When am I gonna be an uncle?" my uncle chimed in.

I knew what he meant. "You're already an uncle," I said, trying to sound good natured. "And you're a grandfather! What more do you want? To be a great-uncle?"

"He's that, too," said my aunt, referring to my other cousins who started babymaking a few years ago.

"That’s right!" I said, keeping up the lighthearted banter just a bit too loudly. "See, you don’t need me at all."

We talked for awhile longer, but the subject of me going back to school never came up again. Nobody wanted to know where or why or how or for what. After that conversation, I wondered how many other people are thinking what my uncle, always the outspoken one, actually said.

Me: I’m going to grad school!

Others: When are you going to have a baby?

At a family visit a few years ago, I stood beside my grandmother while we watched a scene unfold around the clan's newest infant. I'm not overly close with my grandmother, and she's not an overly talkative woman, but I know she loves me. After minutes of silence, she turned to me and said, "Well, your mother wanted to be a grandmother, but I guess that's not going to happen now."

I found this curious for several reasons, the main one being that she is my paternal grandmother: my father's mother. Unless she and her daughter-in-law had developed a strong bond recently, or my mother was much more grief-stricken about my childless state than she's let on, I couldn't imagine this was an actual conversation the two of them would ever have.

I didn't know what to say, so again I played the jester. I gestured to my younger brother and said, "Hey, he could have kids!"

I don't know why my grandmother assumed kids were out of the picture for me. I can't recall ever discussing with her my angst and ambivalence about becoming a mother. And this was just a few years ago, when I was in my late 20s or very early 30s and still spry enough to try for a little spring chicken if I so chose.

All in all, I'm thankful that I don't get much pressure from family or friends about my childlessness. For now, this is what makes sense and works for me and my husband. People generally respect that. But every so often, someone slips, and I wonder how many people are questioning my choices. That happens to everyone, I suppose. At some point, we just need to stop worrying about what family, friends, or society think of the path we choose.

A friend recently told me, "I'm so tired of trying to manage my image with my family." For sure, that can be exhausting work, full of subterfuge and half-truths. Personally, I've never really felt the need to do that, especially outside of my immediate family. Most of them have never really known me, but only because we run in different circles, not because I'm hiding anything.

While I was growing up, my parents, brother, and I often spent Friday nights at my great aunt's house in the country. This was on my mother's side of the family. There was always an elaborate spread of food for an evening meal, well after dinner time. It felt so decadent to eat after dark. Summers were the best because the table was covered in delights from my aunt and uncle's garden: sliced bright-red tomatoes, deep green bell peppers, shapely spring onions.

When I became a teenager, those visits became less fun, as do most things at that age. This was during my mandatory dark and twisty phase, in which I was trying to embrace the writer within. I remember sitting on a wooden stool at the little bar island in the kitchen, apart from the family merriment in the living room, and writing something along the lines of: These people are my relatives, but I do not feel related or relevant. It was my way of realizing that you can't choose your relatives, but you can’t hide from them, either.

Most of the people from those Friday night gatherings are far away or gone now. Unlike my dad's side of the family, which is teeming with new life, my mom's side has only seen two new additions. If anyone should be worried about my procreation habits, it would be them – if there were anyone left to worry.

As I settle into my third decade, I have a growing hunger for family and relative connections. But I'm also not ready to throw my own eggs into the ring just yet. When I am, I guess we'll all have something to talk about.

The Bride Goes to Graduate School: A parable

image by kozumel

Once upon a time
I'd narrowed down my choices to two gowns. Gown A was my favorite. It looked so perfect on its puffy, satin covered hanger. It beckoned me with its loveliness. I tried it on. And...meh. That's how it looked on me: meh. Just okay. It was a beautiful dress, but I didn't really look that beautiful in it.

Then there was Gown B. It was my second favorite. But when I put it on, I sparkled. The dress and I became more than the sum of our parts. It was clear: This was my dress. We were meant for one another. The dress knew it. My mother knew it. I was the only one having a hard time admitting it.

I tried those two dresses on dozens of times each. During the last marathon shopping session, I put on each one in rapid succession, vainly trying to get Gown A to live up to its on-hanger promises. I wore myself out trying to make myself look as wonderful in Gown A as I did in Gown B. Oh, how I wanted to choose Gown A!

Finally, I did the brave thing: I admitted that I was my most beautiful self in Gown B, and I gently let go of the other dress. Eight years later, I'm glad that I chose wisely, not vainly. Yes, I still think longingly of that other gown from time to time, but that's just how I am. In the end, I sparkled, the wedding was lovely, and my marriage has been unimpacted by my fashion choices.

Once upon a more recent time
I've been obsessing over choices lately. This time around the wedding gowns have been replaced by graduate schools. This is the project I've cryptically referred to recently. Over the past few months, I've worked fiendishly to apply to six MFA in writing programs. And then, to my delight and surprise, I found myself accepted to nearly all of them, including my top three choices.

And that's when the real problems started.

I couldn't choose. Each school had a long list of pros, and very few cons. When listmaking failed me, I tried overriding the analytical part of my brain and listening to my intuition. But everything was cloaked in white noise.

To make matters worse, I already knew which school I wanted to choose. It was perfect -- until I tried it on. And then I realized it didn't fit nearly as well as another one of the schools. I tried those schools on in rapid succession, just like the wedding dresses. And each time, I knew in my heart that the school I wanted wasn't the best fit for me. It took me many days and much angst to admit this. My husband knew it. I think the other school knew it. I was the only one having a hard time admitting it.

Finally, I did the brave thing: I chose the school that fit me best. And I'm excited to say that I'm enrolled in the MFA in writing program at Vermont College of Fine Arts. Yes, I'll probably still think longingly of that other school from time to time, but that's just how I am. I don't like picking favorites or choosing one thing at the exclusion of another. I hate questions about favorite colors, foods, and books. Why must I choose? Can't I love it all? Can't I experience it all?

In some things, the answer is no. Well, that's the answer if everything goes well. You only wear one wedding dress. You only complete one degree per subject. Any more than that and something has probably gone awry.

Remembering to Act

image by +cripswalk+++++++

Dear me. I keep forgetting to blog. I spend plenty of time online, mind you. I read dozens of other blogs every week. I get sucked into Facebook on a regular basis. And email? Don't talk to me about email. I'm practically swimming in it. So online communication is not exactly on the backburner for me. But blogging -- actually writing my own blog posts -- keeps slipping my mind.

Here's the irony: My word for 2009 is Action. Over the past year or two, I've noticed waves of envy when I hear about other people's creative projects. This has happened even when the projects were being done by friends. Even when I loved the idea but had no desire to that specific thing myself. So it's not the "sour grapes" or "I wish I'd thought of that" jealousy. Like most unpleasant emotions, this one was merely trying to get my attention and tell me something.

I realized that I have tons of ideas for creative projects, but rarely ever get past the idea phase. As a result, I'd begun to feel like I had no ideas. Finally I realized that the ideas were there. The missing piece was Action.

Since college I've been a big advocate of learning To Be and not getting caught up in the shallow busyness of life. I wish I could say that I'm really good at this by now in some Zen-like way. (Insert the voice of this woman telling me that Zen-like is an oxymoron because Zen isn't like anything.) While I do value my downtime and make sure to get plenty of it, I fill way too much of it with fretting over what I'm not doing. So it's the Year of Action.

Maybe I'm forgetting to blog because I'm too busy doing other things? Okay, that's actually partially true. I've been focusing on making my house more of a nest, cooking nourishing meals for my family, taking care of ailing kitties, and strengthening connections with friends. I've even been working on one big project. So I am doing. I am acting.

But I continually have to remind myself to be a participant, not a spectator. I am in the process of understanding that I can be the one doing cool, creative projects. I can take all those ideas trotting around my head and figure out ways to put them out into the world. I just need to remember to act.

In which I fall down and cry like a baby

I'm back from New York City. It was a good trip. An important trip. But I'm not ready to talk about that yet. So for now, here's a story about another trip I took.

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I'm standing at the rocky edge of the land, staring out at the cold Atlantic Ocean, and I'm sobbing. I'm crying like a child: loudly, full-throttled, irrationally. I tell my husband that I'm fine, but that I just need to stand here and cry for awhile. He's known me long enough and well enough to understand, so he stands on a boulder somewhere behind me and lets me go.

There is salt everywhere here: in the tears streaming down my face, in the waves crashing on the rocks below me, in the misty air that dampens everything. Salt is a preservative, and right now my salty tears are preserving my sanity. Nothing horrible has happened in this moment. I simply fell down on a slick part of these New England rocks. But my side hurts, my pants and sweater are shellacked with strips of tar, and I broke the camera. The physical pain is bothersome and I know I'll have a big bruise, but that's not why I cry. I wail about the broken camera. Broken on our first day here! And I mourn for my ruined pants and go on and on about how I'd searched for pants like these for 10 years. It's nearly impossible to find the perfect pair of lightweight khaki pants that are perfect for traveling. Nearly impossible!

Mostly I wail about how stupid I was for stepping on that dark patch of sloping rock. I berate myself for being so stupid. So stupid! I say it over and over again, thinking that if I chastise myself enough I'll work through feeling so bad about it all and start to feel better. But that tired tactic never works; I should know that by now.

What works in moments like these is crying like a child. I'm old enough to know that I'm not really crying about the bruise or the busted camera or my soiled clothing or even my poor decision making. Those things are just surface annoyances that release the pressure valve so I can let the real emotions out.

In the end, I don't think too much about what the real emotions were. I cried and then I felt better. We went to the cry cleaner* and my clothes look brand new. My husband fiddled with the camera and it works. In the end, everything was okay.

*Edited to add this note: As Randi points out in the comments, I did write "cry cleaner" instead of "dry cleaner." I would like to say it was intentional, but it was really just an oh-so-appropriate slip, so I think I'll leave it.

Whiteout

image by Badgurl

Yesterday was bright and wet here. The sun came out, the sky turned blue, and all the snow started to melt. Everything was sloppy and sparkly, a real treat. Usually I hate to see the snow melt because I love the look of a winter wonderland. But it was so pretty outside yesterday that I didn't mind. Today we were back to the grey, grey skies of southwestern Pennsylvania. If you don't live here you may not know this, but we have a lot of overcast days. I think everyone I know has a Vitamin D deficiency.

On Friday, I found myself in the middle of a total whiteout. I've never driven in such strange conditions. The snow was coming down so fast that everything was white: the ground, the air, the sky. The road was covered and there were no visible car tracks. Visibility was so low that I couldn't see a school bus coming toward me in the other lane until it was almost upon me. For part of my trip, I saw no other vehicles. I felt like I was totally alone in the world. It was very strange, like something out of a Sci-Fi movie.

With everything in the same shade of white, I started to lose my bearings. At several points I literally didn't know where the road stopped and the abutting hillside began. It was like being in a shaken-up snowglobe. This sensation triggered my claustrophobia. I felt trapped in the big wide open. Maybe that kind of fear all comes down to a loss of control.

The whiteout was a good physical incarnation of how I've been feeling for the past few weeks. I'm in the middle of a large project that I care about very much. I was working furiously to meet deadlines last week. I was immersed. I was in it, you know? I could barely tell which way was up for a few days.

Things aren't quite so frantic now, but the project isn't done yet. I have my bearings now, so if it gets crazy again, I think I'll just pull over for a few minutes and enjoy the beauty of it all until the storm passes.

2008: The Quick & Dirty Review

image by color line

At the start of last year, I posted my retrospective on 2007 and my hopes and plans for 2008. This year I'm taking a less introspective approach and giving you a quick and dirty look back.

I saw this idea on Jena Strong's blog, Bullseye, Baby! Jena apparently stole it from She She, who got it from Magpie Musing. (This internet sure is a tangled web, eh?) Below are the first lines of my first posts for each month of 2008. I'm not sure how well they capture the year as a whole, but I like this kind of word collage. I think it creates a sort of "found" poetry.

(Oh, and if you like it quick and dirty, come back for the next post, which will contain details on an exciting new project that encourages us to be just that in our creative pursuits.)

And now, I give you the first lines of 2008.

I can feel the hopes and goals for 2008 gently swirling around the outskirts of my thoughts.

Ten years ago, when I still lived at home with my parents, and my husband was just my new boyfriend, I inadvertently caused a car accident.

My Dear Body, Oh the times we've had! Do you remember when...

You know what? You're somebody.

There's a springtime snowglobe swirling outside my window.

I gave myself until 2:07am.

Your present question marks are going to succeed.

Thank you to everyone who left a comment on the last post, emailed me, or sent their support via Twitter.

At the beginning of the year, I wrote a retrospective on 2007 and a Mondo Beyondo Prospective for 2008.

I don't usually promote my other writing here, but the other day it occurred to me that perhaps a little link love might not be such a bad thing.

Awhile back, I wrote about my failed attempt to rename myself and the lingering desire to try it again.

What I learned from spending the day with a friend, a toddler, and a newborn:

Meditation: Winter Solstice

image by hdiwan

After weeks of overcast skies, the sun has finally returned on this, the darkest night of the year. Today is the First Day of Winter, the day of the Winter Solstice. Tonight the darkness will last longer than at any other time of the year. Tomorrow, daylight slowly returns to supremacy, with light outlasting the dark.

Sunset is in just under an hour. Right now, the sky is my favorite color blue and offset with perfectly puffy clouds. The grass is actually dappled -- dappled! -- with sunlight. From inside my cozy (read: cluttered) studio, the wind blowing the leaves across the quiet street seems friendly and playful. Being outside is another matter: the current temperature is 27 degrees Fahrenheit, with that frolicsome wind making it feel like 12.

Midwinter in Southwestern Pennsylvania is a doleful affair. Grey grey grey is the order of most days. Sometimes it's the type of moody sky full of gradations of grey and luscious layers of clouds. I like those days. The dark, bare tree branches stand out in sweet relief against slate grey and blue. The world is my favorite palette on such days.

But those days are rare, it seems. More often, the world is a washout of whitish-grey, an opaque cloud of sadness shrouding everything. I don't even mind those days sometimes. A little bit of melancholy is always good for me. But lately, they seem to consume the landscape and last for months on end. In turn, I get anxious, lethargic, unfocused. I think this is getting worse as I age.

My brother moved to Arizona several years ago, but always comes home for a few weeks around Christmas and sometimes for a bit in the summer. He admits to missing the seasons we have here, the smell of tree and grass, so different from the smell of cactus and sand. But he can't move back. He's been christened in the sunshine of the Southwest. He tells us that things are easier there; people are more cheerful and friendly. And apart from two months out of the year when it's too hot to do anything, he says, it's always perfect weather for going and doing something. The Southwest is a continual grand adventure, all thanks to the sun.

But as much as I rejoice at the sight of bright blue days here, I don't think I could live in the land of eternal sunshine. After awhile the strong rays wear me out, jangle my nerves, make me twitchy and insecure. Besides, I like thick winter coats, striped gloves, colorful scarves. I've heard that the sky is perpetually blue in Colorado, even after snowfall. Perhaps Denver has the best of both worlds.

In the time it's taken me to type this, the sun has waned and everything has taken on that soft, lovely hue just before sunset. Twilight is my favorite time of day, when everything is blue, comforting, and mysterious. Try as I might to reset my internal clock, I am an undeniable night owl. The sun sets and I come alive. This is my time to think, create, connect, to be most myself.

Tonight, on the darkest night of the year, I embrace the gifts of the dark and wait for the coming light.

33 Things for Me

image by Michael_Lehet

My birthday was a few days ago (the 13th). I'm 33 this year. I'm very pleased with that number: it has good symmetry. It holds promise. My husband says he thinks this is the year we finally become adults. I prefer to think of it as continuing to come into our own.

James also asked me what I want for Christmas this year. I'd given him a wish list (at his request) but he said that nothing on it was "jumping out" at him and asked me to give it some more thought. There are plenty of things that I like and want and would appreciate receiving. But I realized that so much of what I desire isn't sold in stores and doesn't come in boxes.

So to celebrate growing up, coming into our own, and appreciating that we have more than we need, here's my wish list of 33 things I'd like to do, have, or be.

1. 1. Learn all the words to "Carol of the Bells."
2. 2. Have a surprise birthday party.
3. 3. Get an MFA in writing.
4. 4. Write a book. Get it published. Repeat.
5. 5. Make perfect Yorkshire puddings.
6. 6. Build (or buy) the cottage of my dreams.
7. 7. Spend some time on the West Coast, specifically in Big Sur, Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia.
8. 8. Act in another play.
9. 9. Go snow skiing.
10. 10. Sip espresso in an Italian cafe.
11. 11. See elves in Iceland.
12. 12. Go back to England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales to visit my old haunts and see the places I missed the first time around, like Cornwall, Devon, and the Isles of Iona, Skye, and Mull.
13. 13. Develop the patience to learn how to take better photographs.
14. 14. Keep my house clean, tidy, and beautiful more often than it's not.
15. 15. Attend TUBACHRISTMAS.
16. 16. Remember to plant spring bulbs in the fall.
17. 17. Drive a car with a manual transmission without fearing hills.
18. 18. Be bilingual.
19. 19. Achieve and maintain a healthy weight and strong body.
20. 20. Visit New York City during the holiday magic of December.
21. 21. Spend a week with my tribe gathered together in one beautiful place.
22. 22. Live near the sea.
23. 23. Go on a zero gravity flight.
24. 24. Stay out of debt.
25. 25. Write poetry again.
26. 26. Skinny dip under a full moon in a warm pool of water.
27. 27. See the Northern Lights.
28. 28. Compost.
29. 29. Make art on a regular basis.
30. 30. Write everyday. (And not feel guilty if I don't.)
31. 31. Get a pair of cat-eye glasses.
32. 32. Live in a lovely small town with big city amenities.
33. 33. Add 67 more things to this list.

Yesterday's Lessons

image by Badgurl

What I learned from spending the day with a friend, a toddler, and a newborn:

• I'm woefully out of shape. My muscles are screaming today after hoisting around a 35-pound kid yesterday and getting down on the floor to play with him.
• Kids never stop. Ever.
• Losing a few pounds is definitely a good idea. The waitress asked me how old my newborn was. When I pointed to my friend and explained that he was her six-week-old, the waitress exclaimed, "That's your baby? You look amazing!"
• I'm still not ready to commit to having my own offspring.
• When and if I am ready, I think one will be plenty.
  
• Those minivans with the automatic doors are AWESOME.
• I inherently know how to use THE LOOK and THE VOICE when a kid acts up.
  
• Toddler poop is a serious mess.
  
• Swaddling is a lifesaver.
  
• Babies"R"Us is full of tempting consumer ploys to make me chuck my birth control pills in the garbage. (Tempting, but not convincing.)
  
• Sometimes it's easier to just pick up the toddler than to hold his hand and let him walk.
• Two-year-olds talk. A lot. And I understand very little of it.
  
• Hearing a toddler shout "Lello!" when he spots his favorite color is just about the most joyous thing ever.

Self Reflection

image by James Jordan

The man behind me in line at the post office smells bad, like a combination of body odor, motor oil, and stale cigarettes. I try to stand as far away from him as possible without creeping out the guy in front of me. But suddenly the man behind me starts to talk, apparently to me. He makes some comments on having to wait in line and trying to have fun regardless. I smile vaguely and mumble an agreement. But of course he isn't done.

He launches into a seemingly random and convoluted story about how he had to lecture someone -- his son, I think -- on acting like a man. Being a man isn't something that happens right away, not even after you've been in the military, he tells me. But his daughter, she had a four-point-grade-average. And why? Because she worked hard. You gotta study and work hard. And learn to be a man. I'm not gonna do it for you.

The line moves forward, and I'm next. Someone else is talking loudly about a local ski resort, and suddenly the man behind me switches subjects and launches into a treatise on the place. They have free skiing this time of year, he says, to get you hooked so you'll come back and pay later. He says he worked there for five years. I ask him if he skis. He says no, and seems to see the humor in this. I can't help thinking he's making the whole thing up. But when I look online later, I find out that the resort is indeed running a free ski ticket special.

The conversation is confusing and makes me feel embarrassed, but now I'm too invested in it to just turn around and ignore the man. I tell myself that he's probably lonely, possibly homeless, and perhaps delusional. Maybe he doesn't even have a son or daughter. Or maybe he does, and they don't want anything to do with him.

I don't want to talk to him, but I tell myself that he's a person who deserves respect. And what harm can a bit of conversation do? But even as I'm trying to be magnanimous, I notice myself glancing at the faces of the people in line behind him, wondering if they think I'm there with him, or if they pity me for being the sucker who got roped into talking to him. Or even worse, maybe they're thinking how kind I am for taking pity on him. I catch myself caring what these strangers think of me, and I feel ashamed.

The mail clerk calls "Next!" and I walk away from the one-sided conversation, pausing just long enough to let the man finish his sentence. I get swept up in the details of my mail and lose all track of the man. I have no idea what kind of transaction he does or whether he leaves the post office before me.

I leave, thinking about how I tried my best to see this outcast as a real person. But I also know that I did it halfheartedly, with reservation, and a secret sense of accomplishment at being the sort of person who will pay attention to a dirty, rambling man. And then I feel shame at such watery pride. My attempt to be openhearted is a thin gruel that amounts to nothing more than self-righteousness. It's sour and unfulfilling.

I feel even worse a few minutes later during a phone call with a friend when I complain about the wait in the post office and the chatty, smelly man behind me. I treated him like half a man to his face and then scorned him in private.

What kind of a person does that make me?

It makes me the kind of person I dislike. I once lambasted a friend of my parents' who complained about the homeless people panhandling outside of his office. If they really wanted a job, he claimed, they could get one. I was baffled and hurt when my dad agreed with his friend. I reminded him of how many jobs he'd personally lost due to lay-offs and plant closings. There but for the grace of God, I said. I lectured my elders on how good people end up down-and-out due to circumstances that that they couldn't foresee and that we don't know.

These were the same lectures I gave myself ten years ago as a volunteer coordinator for a mobile soup kitchen. The program fed dozens of people each night on the streets of east London. I was fresh out of college, alone in a new country, and floundering in a role that lacked adequate management and supervision. I spent most of my time hiding out in the office, ordering supplies, creating newsletters, and making the monthly volunteer schedules. I went out on the van just a few times during my year with the program. I was afraid to interact with the homeless men and women, afraid to be on the streets at night, afraid that I would look afraid. I let that fear guide me, even though the interactions themselves were never very frightening. But I made myself the wizard behind the curtain, keeping both the volunteers and the clients at arm's length.

I'm uncomfortable around the homeless, the elderly, the disabled, the infirm, the incoherent. This makes me uncomfortable with myself. To make up for it, I acknowledge misfits in the post office. I always try to look homeless people in the eye. When they ask for money, I either give a little something or say, "Sorry, not today." I try to give them a small piece of the respect I've lost for myself, and in that way, try to regain it.

Christmas in November

image by jetheriot

James: Is this the earliest you've ever voted?
Me: This is the earliest I've ever done anything.

A few winters ago, I became keenly aware of my status as an adult when I complained about the snow. Up until then, I'd been more concerned with the magic and beauty a snowfall brings. Suddenly, I was a grown up bemoaning the other things that snow brings: shoveling, cleaning off cars, navigating icy streets. A small piece of my innocence and childhood was gone with that moment.

Today marks another adult milestone. I was more excited this election morning than I have been on a Christmas morning in years. Although to make the analogy more accurate, I suppose this morning was like going to sit on Santa's lap to tell him what I'd like for being a good responsible citizen all year. The equivalent of opening my present will come tonight (or possibly tomorrow) when the new president is announced. I'd just better not end up with a lump of coal in my stocking and a dud in the Whitehouse.

I was so excited to vote that I got up e-a-r-l-y and was at the polls before they opened at 7:00am. My husband had to go to work early, so we went together. If you look at the time stamp on my last blog post, you'll see that I didn't get much sleep. Well, actually, that time is misleading. I started the post around 11:00pm, but didn't publish it until after 1:00am and didn't go to bed until nearly 2:00. This is a normal night for me. Getting up before first light is not a normal morning. I felt like the little boy in that Disney commercial who says, "We're too excited to sleep!"

Now there's a very long day of w-a-i-t-i-n-g ahead of me. And as soon as this vanilla latte wears off, I may need a nap.

Hello, my name is:

Fingerprints by kevindooley

Awhile back, I wrote about my failed attempt to rename myself and the lingering desire to try it again. To sum up the original story: During my freshman year of college, I tried to add a vowel to the end of my name in hopes that it would make me stand out from the sea of Jenn's in my generation. Due to a friend's honest question and my timidity, it didn't stick.

But over the past year, I've realized that the name Jenna calls to me, beyond my desire to be different . There's something about it that appeals to me. I wondered if it could feel like home, but I wasn't sure I was ready to rename myself. In June, I wrote, "Names get into our being. They're part of the story we tell to ourselves and about ourselves. I don't know if I can cast aside Jenn or Jennifer for Jenna."

Three months after writing that, I decided to take Jenna out for a test run. I've always been fascinated with the idea of going to a place where nobody knows me and creating a new persona for myself; not because I'm ashamed of who I am in my "real" life, but because so often I get bogged down in who I'm expected to be. Or more accurately, who I'm accustomed to being, which, despite my best attempts to live authentically, does not always line up with who I really am or want to be.

So in September, I traveled to the woods of New Hampshire to meet more than 100 strangers at the Squam Art Workshops. I "knew" a few of the women there through blogging, but had met none of them in person and had never spoken with any of them on the phone. The extent of our interaction had been reading and commenting on each others' blogs and sharing an occasional email. It was as good a place as any for my name experiment.

Two months earlier, I trotted out my new name a few times while at BlogHer in San Francisco, but I had a hard time being consistent with it because I'd already met several of the people there. I wasn't completely ready to commit to that extra letter.

But for five days in New England, I said, "Hi, my name is Jenna." For five days, I heard people say, "Hey, Jenna...." and then realized they were talking to me. If I'm being completely honest, I felt like I was lying about my identity. It was just one tiny extra syllable on top of "Jenn," but I may as well have introduced myself as Mathilda. My own name sounded foreign to me.

And yet, I stuck with it during the whole retreat. I resisted the urge to abandon my experiment and fall back on the familiar. So now a whole group of people know me as Jenna. I told one of my closest and oldest friends about this experiment, and she admitted that she could never think of me as a Jenna. I understand that. The verdict is still out on whether or not I can.

Then today I read something that Karen Maezen Miller wrote on her blog:

Our mind is so swiftly conditioned to an acquired understanding of names and labels. Like all forms of delusion, we attach and identify erroneously with names when they are just tools. Identifying yourself with a certain name is like mistaking the fork for the food.

It reminds me of Popeye's famously jaunty song: I yam what I yam, and that's all that I yam.

I am Jennifer/Jennie/Jenn/Jenna Ann McGuiggan. Call me what you will, I'm still me. And that's all that I yam.

Where I was last week

On Being Good Enough and Getting Better

image by mandj98

A new friend recently wrote about the fear of not being good enough. She'd entered a plein air competition and then felt sheepish when she saw her paintings next to the others. She writes:

and then friday came, the night of the exhibit opening, and my inner gremlins attacked. as i walked through the exhibit all i wanted to do was rip my paintings off the wall and run away. i didn't even want to go and ask the gallery director how long he would be keeping my paintings. i was embarrassed and frustrated. my paintings stuck out, they didn't match the style or execution of any of the others. and i had priced mine several hundred dollars higher than the others. despite how good i had felt about my accomplishments before, my confidence was washed down the toilet during those few moments stuck inside the poorly lit gallery.

. . .

on the drive home i mustered a question to my hubs through trembling lips, "i'm really not that good am i?" his reply was sweet and honest, "you are good, i think you just need to enter contests that showcase more work like yours." i know that he's right, but for a girl who doesn't even know what my style is for sure... it's hard to know which direction to go in.

I'm really not that good, am I?

Isn't that the question we all ask? Isn't that the little voice whispering in our ears all the time? Nudging us right before we fall asleep, when we try something new, when we share our heart's passion with others? Sometimes we can silence that voice: when we're deep in the throes of joyous creation or having ridiculous amounts of fun. But then we come back down from our high and that voice, that question, is right there waiting for us. How many times have I asked myself that question in a small, scared voice?

I'm really not that good, am I?

And then, when we're fortunate, our husband, our friend, our dentist, our sister, our teacher, a stranger, answers with kindness. They tell us the only truth that matters. They say, "Find your place."

We don't want to be told to find "our place." To put someone "in their place" is to humble them, to humiliate them, to show them where they belong, which is clearly not as high as they had hoped.

And yet, aren't we all searching for our place? The space in which we feel seen, heard, understood, loved?

Maybe nothing in life is about being good or bad, better or worse. Maybe it's all about finding our place: the place that feels right for us and fits our current style, our current needs.

In many ways, I'm not a competitive person. The very premise of a contest chafes against the magnanimous part of me that believes in equality, freedom of expression, beauty of individual choice. Some things have clear demarcations: The fastest runner wins the race. Some things do not: How do we judge who paints the better painting, who writes the better book?

And yet, relativism is a house built on shifting sand. If everything is good, how do we get better? I'm not a competitive person until I'm competing with myself.

I recently submitted an article and was told that my opening "wasn't going to cut it." I was embarrassed, but realized that the editor was right. 

I wailed about this humiliation to my husband, who is always my rock in this sandy desert. I was upset that my article wasn't good enough. On top of that, I was upset about being so upset.

"Why am I so fragile about things like this?" I asked, mostly rhetorically.

"Why wouldn't you be?" he replied, almost rhetorically.

"I should be a better writer by now!" I lamented.

"Why?" he challenged me. "How much better do you have to be before you're as good as you think you should be?"

"Just a little better," I said with a slight smile. I was thinking of this line, often attributed to the very wealthy Andrew Carnegie:

"How much money is enough?"
"Just a little more."

After I got over myself, I reworked the article. And the full irony of the situation dawned on me: By worrying about the pain of not being good enough, I was missing out on the experience of getting better.

There is a big difference between the voice that asks, "I'm really not that good, am I?" and the one that says, "I want to be better."

Squam Interview on BlogHer

me, as seen by beth from more doors

I was tickled pink when Jen Lemen asked to interview me about my experience at Squam Art Workshops for her Art & Design column on BlogHer. You can read it here.

I'm concerned that my last post about Squam makes it seem like I had a lousy time there. That's not true. As usual, the truth is multifaceted. The truth is, I did feel socially awkward and like I didn't get the experience I'd hoped for. The truth also is that I met some wonderful people, made some exciting new friends, and learned a lot about art and myself. It's all the truth. The truth is messy. And I'm (learning to be) okay with that.

So if you're feeling like a social misfit and want someone to commiserate with, read my last post. But if you're wondering what it was like for a word-loving writer to be thrust into the woods with more than 100 image-making artists, read the interview.

Only Connect: The truth I SAW

me, as seen by Melissa Piccola

I want to tell you the magical tale of 120 women (and a few men) in the woods of New Hampshire, gathered together for art making and soul digging. I want to write about the lovefest that was Squam Art Workshops: how we were inspired, our artful souls lifted high above the trees that grow so straight and true around Squam Lake; how deep, soulful bonds were formed and first time meetings felt more like reunions of old friends; how we surprised ourselves with our own abilities, our similarities to one another, and our capacity to connect.

I've read so many blog posts from SAW attendees that touch on or delve into these very things. I want to tell you that magical tale, but it's not my story. I wish it was. But mine is messier, less cheery. I'm still deciding if it's less magical.

I wish I'd spent five days feeling elated and connected and rooted and artful. Instead, I spent a lot of that time feeling disconnected, tentative, needy, and bothersome.

Epiphany in the Woods

One afternoon at SAW, I found myself walking to the dining hall alone, feeling sorry for myself. I tried to take in the beauty all around me, but felt completely separate from it. I silently berated myself for being a killjoy, for being awkward, for being alone at that very moment when surely everyone else was deep in the throes of exhilarating conversation with their new found soul sisters. Then I had a small epiphany: "Oh. This always happens to me when I go away."

I remembered how a similar feeling of disconnect and discontent followed me around like a palpable presence in San Francisco at BlogHer this year; how even after the conference, while sightseeing with friends, I couldn't shake this specter of sadness. The same thing happened the year before at BlogHer in Chicago, even though I'd fulfilled my wishlist of "BlogHer deliverables."

I realize now that this feeling is achingly familiar. I felt it as a teenager in a very small high school; as a college student with a diverse group of friends; as a young volunteer in a foreign country; in various jobs that quietly killed my spirit. All my life, I've battled the feeling that I'm on the fringe of things.

Why do I always feel like an outsider, even when I'm somewhere I want to be, doing something I want to do, with people I want to be with? Feeling this way unnerves me, confuses me, saddens me. It flies in the face of all that I hold most dear.

At My Core

During Andrea Scher's Superhero Life session at SAW, we did a life coaching exercise to uncover our core values: the ideals that act as our guiding principles; our highest hopes and expectations; the traits we most cherish and respect. I was sweetly surprised when the exercise led me straight to the things I already knew I loved.

My first core value is Joy & Wonder. For me, this means living with my eyes and heart wide open, loading up my life with things big and small that bring me joy and fill me with wonder. It means seeing magic and beauty all around me, much like Anne of Green Gables and so many of the bloggers I love.

I wrote about Joy & Wonder in my 2007 Retrospective:

For the first time that I can remember, I had days when I was just happy to be alive. Each day suddenly held beauty and joy and meaning. I was shocked to realize that I was excited about the coming day; that I looked forward to the possibility of getting up tomorrow and seeing what would happen. This new sense of euphoria left me breathless. For so long I've wanted to live a life of joy and wonder. And for so long, it escaped me. I finally realized that I had to create such a life if it would not just come to me. Of course, the more I sought to create it, the more it came to me.

My second core value is Connection. The fullness of this word for me is complex, but part of it means that I need to connect with people to be happy. I savor time alone, but I need big doses of deep conversation and riotous laughter with kindred spirits. I need this connection in order to feel whole. Without enough of it, it's hard to live with Joy & Wonder.

Come Away With Me

I don't know why I have this fringe problem. How much of it is insecurity clouding my judgement of how people view me? How much of it are those nasty internal gremlins preventing me from connecting? During The Superhero Life, Andrea said that the gremlins' job is to keep us safe. When they whisper that we aren't capable of something, we're tempted not to try. And if we don't try, the gremlins protect us from the pain of potential failure. Perhaps mine tell me that I can't connect in order to protect my heart from the pitfalls that come with living so wide open.

I want to tell you the magical tale of 120 women in the woods of New Hampshire, but for now I can only tell you the story of me. My art retreat experience did not go how I'd hoped. But it's opened my eyes to some important truths about how I experience the world, including how I experience myself and other people.

I came away from SAW feeling sad and a little bruised. But I think this has little to do with the event and the people, and much to do with me.

It's All Happening: Mondo Beyondo Update

heart in Union Square, San Francisco

At the beginning of the year, I wrote a retrospective on 2007 and a Mondo Beyondo Prospective for 2008. (Find out more about the Mondo Beyondo concept.) I named 2008 my year of Opportunity, Abundance, Prosperity, Plenty, and Creation, and made a list of intentions for how I want to live and what I want to do. I also named and claimed some Mondo Beyondo dreams for this year and beyond. I'm amazed and joyful and humbled and pleased to see several of them coming to fruition.

I wanted: "to start creating mixed media art and find my own path as a visual artist." Next week, I'll go to my very first art retreat, where I'll take a painting and mixed media class. I'm also taking a travel journaling class and attending the Superhero Life workshop. I'm particularly excited about this last one, as it's being taught by the Super Duper Andrea Scher of Superhero Designs. I met Andrea very briefly at the BlogHer Swap Meet this summer and can't wait to learn from her. Plus? Her lovely assistant will be Jen Gray, who I "know" through blogging and a few emails. (It's hard to know if the word "know" is really the right verb in these cases, isn't it?)

And as if that weren't enough, Jonatha Brooke will be providing camp fire music, Boho Girl Denise will be running around taking artist portraits, and Kelly Rae Roberts, one of my favorite artists, will be hosting a discussion about living the creative life.

But wait! There's more! I was serendipitously connected with Kelly Barton of Camp Indigo Soul to share a rental car between the airport and the camp. After connecting with her, I realized that she is the woman behind one of my favorite Etsy shops. And speaking of serendipity, I'll also get to meet the inspiring Liz Elayne Lamoreux of Be Present, Be Here and The Little Room Etsy shop. (Remind me to tell you the funny little story about how we "met" online.) I'm also looking forward to meeting Kirsten Michelle from In the Land of the Lovelies.

I have a feeling that once I get back from New Hampshire, I'll be gushing about all of these women and more, as well as the whole Squam experience. (fair warning!)

I wanted: "to uncover and be at peace with my decision about having a child." Although I haven't reached a decision or a place of total peace yet, I have had a major epiphany in this realm, which has helped me to understand the swirl of emotions surrounding this issue for me. I'm not ready to tell that part of my story yet, but the plot is definitely taking a few twists and turns.

I wanted: "to spend a week at a writers' retreat somewhere beautiful, comfortable, and nurturing." Earlier this year I reconnected with a writer friend from college (hi, Jamye!). Several months ago, she asked if I would be interested in joining her and some other women on a writing retreat. The details are still unfolding, but it looks like this little dream will come true the first week of November.

At least one other Mondo Beyondo dream is in the works and looks like it will become a reality. And that's just what I can see. What if all the others are unfurling in their own way and time? I don't know where my dream cottage is yet, but I'm sure it's out there.

There is more of the year behind us than in front of us, but there's always time for dreaming and scheming. What are you up to lately?