My search for a single Guru comes up empty, for a reason

Just the name Guru offers me a sense of solace. In ancient Sanskrit, a guru is defined as a person with great knowledge, wisdom or authority.

In these days of confusion and uncertainty, just the mere mention of someone who knows more than I and who can offer answers to the unknown is quite appealing indeed.

Without even realizing it, I have searched my whole life for these gurus in some form or fashion - people who knew so much more than I and who could direct me, so I wouldn't make mistakes or at least make them less frequently. At first I sought out gurus for my writing - thinking if I found the perfect Master of Fine Arts program or the most knowledgeable writing coach, I would truly learn what it means to be a decent and productive writer.

Then the search continued in my practice of yoga. I beat every bush and researched every style from Ashtanga to Bikram and Kripalu wanting to find the training and the instructor who could bring me some sort of enlightenment. Someone to show me what I might be missing and how to find it.

Even in homeschooling my son, I wandered about on the Internet and within my community in search of someone to tell me what I was doing right and what I could improve upon when it came to educating a highly intelligent kid.

Each time I thought I had finally found a person to be that perfect Guru, I would be disappointed when I realized this person, or persons, was just that - a human being with frailties of his or her own. Each time I realized I didn't want or really even need to listen to anyone, anyone but myself.

Why does it take so long in life to figure out that there isn't just one person who can lead us toward enlightenment - whether it's spiritually or in the physical every day jobs we do? Why does it take so long to realize that the knowledge is within our own heart, we just have to listen to what it is saying and act upon it.

The only answer I can come up with is that it boils down to confidence in ourselves. Acquiring the confidence that we need to realize we alone can move forward and figure it all out, even if we hit a few pot holes now and again on this pathway of life.

Yes, gurus exist. I think they're all around us. They are not all knowing and all seeing people, though. They are simply other human beings on the same journey who offer up reminders that we're either a) on the right path or b) way off track. They are people like the bagger at the grocery store who tells you that your positive attitude and smile have made an impression on them. Or, the bookstore owner who says she can't believe how widely read your homeschooling son is, let alone how grown up he seems. Or the friend that sends a card for no reason at all, except to tell you she loves you and everything you are.

These are the gurus in my life. They are the daily reminders that I am doing something right, even if it seems all wrong every single day.

I think all we can do is follow our hearts and that will lead us to where we need to be. No one person has all the answers, thank goodness. But maybe, if we listen a little to a lot of people we will find the answers together.

A Magical Moment

No, it wasn't Harry Potter who showed me the magic this weekend when I visited Islands of Adventure in Orlando, it was a wand wielding kid wizard I've known since his grand entrance into this strange and mysterious muggle world almost nine years ago.

This special young man in my life never ceases to amaze me. He's not connected by blood, but the ties to my heart are such it would seem so. He believes with his whole heart and loves that way, too. His ability to cast a spell on others rivals only Harry's, truth be told.

He's a magical creature, this Charlie of mine. How is it this boy child I adore is so able to see life clearer than I? Charlie has the ability to make me stop and take notice of this or that. He ambles through life, never rushing unless it's to his favorite snack or to give someone he loves a hug. He doesn't miss a moment, he's observant of it all and he is a true and honest believer in the magical realm.

There are days I think there is no magic left in the world and I am a fool for ever believing in fairytales or happy endings. Then some magical something happens and reminds me I AM a fool and that's ok. It's the foolish belief in 'the land of make believe' that keeps the child within alive and in awe. It is what fuels my enthusiasm for life. And that's what Charlie and his beautiful older sister did for me this past weekend.

As it just so happens, Charlie was picked from a room of onlookers to take part in a performance at Olivander's (the wand maker in the Harry Potter books and movies) shop. He stood front and center as Universal's version of Olivander sized up his wizarding abilities and searched for a wand that might serve Charlie's gifts well - one with a phoenix feather at its root.

Never did Charlie believe it wasn't real. Olivander had chosen him to give a special wand to. A wand that actually had chosen Charlie (as the wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around, you know).

The moment was magical indeed, but Charlie kept the magic alive. He was careful not to let others touch his wand. He wanted to be a good wizard and use his powers wisely. He marched around the theme park with his wand box tucked tightly under his arm, as proud as Harry Potter when he first received his. He even created a few new 'spells' to try out.

I teared up when the realization hit me. There's magic everywhere we look, if only we choose to see it and embrace such marvels with our hearts - like Charlie does each and every day. But if we ignore it - poof, the magical moment is gone.

This Quitter is Gonna be a Winner

Quitters Never Win. Winners Never Quit.

These two phrases have been swimming around in my Beached Mermaid's head over the last few weeks. As Summer has morphed into Fall (even if the Gainesville heat index won't budge), I found I'd FALLEN back into old habits. Ones like: spending way too much time doing anything but WRITING. I was even cleaning the bathroom instead of putting pen to paper. So, as that light dawned on this marble head I did what any intelligent and well adjusted woman would do - I became a quitter.

Now, to say I quit everything I do in my life would be an exaggeration. I didn't quit my volunteer gig that I love with the butterflies. I didn't quit what I call my "real job" - homeschooling my son or anything that needs to be done for survival in the Real World. I did, however, quit a bunch of small gigs I'd accumulated. All of which I enjoyed in some form or fashion, but realized they had become a smoke screen of sorts to excuse my lack of writing.

This epiphany came with a jolt. Actually, to be fair and honest, it came when my husband said, "You'll do anything to avoid writing."

Ok, so maybe it wasn't that harsh. Close enough. He's a very direct man. Lovable, but painfully direct. I contemplated his sharp, yet wise words while alone on the bathroom floor cleaning the tile with a magic eraser (rather than writing). It was at that moment I realized I'd gone too far. (Yes, I was PMS-ing, but still). Just who the hell cares if my grout is sparkling white or not?

I vowed then and there to become a quitter. It's so freeing. Considering I have a hard time saying no, I have a lot of perplexed people in my life right now. They're wondering what I'm doing. What I am up to. Why I don't go so many places or involve myself with lots of people.

Quitting is what I finally had to do to remind myself of what I really want - to write stories that people will enjoy. It's as plain as that. That's my number one goal and if it truly is what I desire I need to give it the time it deserves and that my future readers deserve, for that matter.

I keep wondering, though, can quitters ever win? I hope so. Otherwise, I'm gonna have to quit being a quitter, I guess.

Oh, and for the record, the grout cleaning was a once in a lifetime event. I quit that wretched job first time out as I am not Cinderella, but the Beached Mermaid...

Two women - one wise and one half naked - save the day

I have a new friend. She's propped on my newly acquired desk and she's half naked. She's a pretty little thing wearing a pair of baby sea turtles as a makeshift bikini top and smiling down upon the turtles' mama as if she's saying,

"Listen lady, I lost my seashells a while back and your little ones were kind enough to help me out in a pinch."

If you haven't guessed by now, my new friend is a small, resin, mermaid statue. She reminds me of everything I adore about the sea - the astounding beauty, the sense of freedom I always feel, and the peace of mind that guarantees my swift return to her shores.

I don't usually purchase such nick knacks. Items like this mermaid are mostly gifts. But my dearest friend recently told me I needed to surround myself with things that I love (particularly in my writing workspace). Things that reminded me of who I am and who I want to be. So, I have been busy framing pictures of loved ones and drawings from special people in my life to make my work area happy and inviting.

It's the latest move in my quest for creativity and it seems to be working as I peck out more words and have even uttered an oath to complete the latest of my seemingly endless writing projects.

How did my friend get so smart? Well, she's a talented artist (the one whose watercolor graces this blog) and has always had an innate ability to hone in on what keeps her grounded. She passes her sage advice out so simply, never realizing how wise she truly is. She's an old soul who is not only wise but insanely fun to be around.

I am so lucky to have found her (my friend, not my mermaid). Of course, I think it's serendipitous that I also found Sedna. That's what I am going to call my mermaid who is now beached like myself. I have decided to name her after the Inuit Goddess of the Ocean to remind myself to be strong in the roughest of seas and as playful as any fantastical creature can be.

Sedna and A.G. have helped me find my muse again. Now it's time I help my dear bf find hers among the dozens of boxes that grace her brand new home way too far away from me, the Beached Mermaid.

Navigating the strange new world of high school

I still have ridiculous dreams about high school. Or, maybe they should be considered nightmares (ones that I am sure a psychologist would have a field day with, but that's not the point here).

There's one dream I am in pink fuzzy slippers and told to go home and come back properly dressed. There's another where I can't remember my locker combination and I sit for hours missing every class just so I can open the blasted black metal compartment which in the end has nothing inside except a note from an old boyfriend. (Don't ask me what the note says, it's folded into a tiny, unmanageable triangle). Then there's the silliest dream of all, which is based on an actual student who stole my literature paper. In order to protect the innocent, suffice to say that the culprit ends up with a bunch of colored crepe paper wrapped about her body and mouth and is paraded about the school as punishment for her indiscretions.

One would think being a fairly sane woman, I would get over such pettiness. After all, it's been a quarter of a century since I left the hallowed halls of high school with a diploma in hand, extremely grateful to be moving on to the wonderfully wild college years. But my memories of being the 'queen of the geeks' die hard. And when your kid is now the same age you were when you got pigeon holed as 'Miss Goody Two Shoes' ala Adam Ant's song, it all comes back in a flooded mess.

As of Sept. 1, my Sam is technically a ninth grader. He's a high schooler in every sense of the word. He rolls his eyes when I ask for a hug. He pretends not to hear me when I call his name (until the third time when his name becomes a screechy -SAAAAAAMUUUUUEL!) He's not quite to the point where he thinks he knows more than I, but we're ONLY beginning high school.

And I use the plural WE because Sam and I are embarking on this thing called high school together. (No, I am not enrolling myself. That would be ANOTHER nightmare). We are homeschooling the high school years through an eclectic use of virtual school, other online courses and some really good books. I know what you're thinking, those dreams about high school have clouded my judgement. And maybe they have. But when your kid asks you point blank if he can stay home and focus on his studies for the next four years the choice to me is pretty evident.

What I love about my kid is he doesn't give a darn what other people think. (He's like his Daddy in that way). He wears what he wants (no stripes, logos or bright colors for him). He listens to the music he wants (1970s disco music ala KC and the Sunshine Band). He runs around the house like a banshee acting out his latest and greatest movie screenplay. He is his own man (if I dare say that).

His decision to stay home for high school has been a tough pill to swallow for all those involved. Friends and family have questioned the motives. Even my husband and I have wondered if it will stand the test of time, concerned we've let our child railroad us into what could end up regret.

As he sits across the room from me working on an economics course geared toward juniors and seniors in high school, I realize we're doing the right thing. We're letting him become the man he wants to be. The man he's meant to be.

And yes, he will have nightmares in the future of his high school years. They will probably entail his mother throwing a fit because he hasn't finished his geometry or left his 10-page paper on the intricacies of the supply/demand curve to the last minute.

Right now, though, I am smiling. I am thinking of this time together a gift. Watching him navigate his way into adulthood, choosing the courses, making a portfolio for his dream film school and giving him the time to do what he wants to try is intriguing.

It's going to be a bumpy path, as this is uncharted territory. It's a strange new world, this thing called high school. In the end, though, I know it will be quite an adventure. And this time around maybe I will actually enjoy the ride.

The last tree standing

The good news: I didn't get arrested. The bad news: I nearly got myself plowed down along with the lot of trees next to my home.

I am not particularly proud of my antics the last 48 hours, but I couldn't just twiddle my thumbs and watch helplessly as every tree, bush and weed were casually mowed over to make room for mankind's latest and greatest residential monstrosity.

It's a nauseating mess, the street I call home these days. From dawn to dusk, the floorboards of my Gainesville domicile shake and the windows shimmy. It's for the greater good, I am told. People want to build new homes and make a life for themselves as my own dear family wants to do. And I understand, really I do.

But when I'm trying to teach my teen aged homeschooler the importance of respecting Mother Earth and the gifts she has to offer, the wretched wailing of an old chainsaw and simultaneous revving of a bulldozer sets me off on a tear (as in I want to tear someone apart) and that's not good when you're a practicing yogini.

"I've got to say something," I told my son through gritted teeth (and forgetting all the patience I have learned through my daily yoga practice). He sat stoically in the front seat of the car hoping (no, probably praying) I would, for once, keep my big mouth shut. I do this a lot these days - embarrass him. I really don't mean to. I am just a passionate person and well, sometimes the passion gets the best of me.

And that is what happened day before yesterday. I threw the car in park and told my son to stay put. My flip flopped self nearly toppled face first into the dirt as I flagged down one of two gentleman mowing down the lot next to my house. The first worker (we'll call him Tractor Man), was kind and gentle and called me "ma'am." He said he wasn't working with the other guy. The grouchy looking guy on the bulldozer, that is. A guy I've seen many times before and one who sometimes likes to play a strange game of bulldozer 'chicken' with me when I'm coming or going in my own vehicle.

As soon as Bulldozer Man saw me he jumped from his machine in one giant leap. Kind of like hopping off a strange yellow, metal horse. This modern day cowboy stood at my side within seconds and scowled.

"I know you're just doing your job," I said, trying not to blurt out something mean in my anger. "But please, there are a couple of Live Oaks straddling the property line of my house...Are you taking those out? Or can they be spared?"

He wouldn't make eye contact. Bulldozer Man just pointed toward my backyard. "Them, there? I'll leave a bit and THEY'LL decide what THEY want."

I nodded and thanked him for whatever he could do. I hoped Bulldozer Man could find some kindness in his heart like the other guy. The one on the tractor. And I made a silent wish that whoever THEY were, THEY liked shade trees, too. I turned and left.

As soon as I buckled myself back in the car I started to sniffle. I felt like such an idiot. I knew nothing would be left when I returned home. I'd read the building permits and checked the codes. These people followed the rules and did their job as best they could. Still, I secretly crossed my fingers in hopes that my plea was heard.

Two hours later they were gone. The trees, that is. All, but one. My favorite. The great Oak under which my husband and I set up a blow-up baby pool mere weeks ago, in order to escape the stifling heat of summer, stood unscathed.

I'd like to believe Bulldozer Man heard my plea and respected my words. Maybe he realized we need to stop playing 'chicken' and remember we're all in this game called 'Life' together. Maybe he figured we each have personal battles and demons to face every day. And maybe he even thought that sometimes we need to make concessions for crazy women in flip flops who plead for the lives of trees. Or maybe the tree really is just on our lot.

As an eternal optimist, I am going to choose to believe Bulldozer Man and I made a peaceful pact and that maybe, just maybe, our mutual respect made a difference in each other's lives (even for a brief moment).

Goldilocks Gets a Desk

My Muse has been dying a slow death. Yes, I am dramatic. I feel like a little girl having a temper tantrum. But, months of trying to poke and prod my Muse into producing something coherent have proven futile. I've bought books and subscribed to emails and blogs, but nothing and no one can get Muse to come out for more than a minute or more before she goes back into hiding and leaving me alone and idea-less.

Yes, it's like the book "The Art of War for Writers" says, I am bloodied on the battlefield. But I must soldier on, if I am to conquer my Muse and make her mind me. So, on Saturday, I attended a three-hour writer gig in Orlando, hoping to spur on my Muse and jump start my next writing project (since my latest has crashed and burned several times). The event, "Show, Don't Tell" revolved around a discussion on how to make writing come alive.

The poet who facilitated the event, Emily Carr, was (and is) an incredibly centered writer. Just receiving her doctorate in her field of expertise, she seemed to instinctively know exactly what direction she was going with her writing, even if she wasn't sure where she would land. A refreshingly positive sort who made me wonder where my own 'playfulness' with my writing had up and disappeared to.

During the program, Emily had us writers do an exercise where each shared a tidbit of curious information. Then the simple question of "Where do you write?" came about. I nonchalantly mentioned that I had been in flux. That I had a big, wooden table set up in a front room next to my piano, but I didn't have a chair that fit. I didn't say much more, only that it would be changing soon...In time....When the Muse struck. Emily jumped on my comment like the jet black kitty cat of hers that leaped from place to place in the room we writers had converged upon.

"You need a space of your own."

The writing space comment gnawed at me all through the event and the entire car ride from Orlando, back to Gainesville. I became obsessed. I needed a chair, as simple as that. That would arouse my Muse. So, my dear husband (in an attempt to make his crazy, non-creative feeling wife happy) escorted me around Gainesville in search of the perfect writing chair.

Poor guy. He really had no idea what he'd signed up for. I felt like Goldilocks - "This one is too soft....This one is too hard..." But, of course, none were "Just right." My beloved simply nodded and moved on.

Then I saw a desk. A piece of crap - made of cheapo particle board - desk. It struck me hard, like a two-by-four to the forehead. I wanted a desk with drawers to stash all my stuff. A neat-o writing place just for me. One just like all the awesome grownup authors have. Instead of becoming exasperated (which I would not blame him for being), my husband shrugged his shoulders.

"Why don't you check Craig's List and local second hand stores?" (Did I mention that my husband is brilliant? And good looking, too? But, I digress....)

I practically ran all the way home and did exactly what my spouse suggested. (Shhhh. Don't tell. He'll get a big head realizing I am listening to him... Or, anyone else for that matter.)

I started pecking away at Craig's List and whittled away at the possibilities. In a college town, finding a desk is easy. Discovering one that's got all its digits is another thing entirely. The supposed "teak" desk was hideous, in a word. The "move out curb special" should've stayed at the curb, awaiting the garbage man; and the word "vintage" took on a whole new meaning.

Then I found it. A beautiful cherry stained antique desk with braided edges. A little battered and bruised, but it had character. It was "just right" for this Goldilocks. Of course, the desk was an hour away in Keystone Heights at a second hand store. Plus, it was Sunday and the store didn't open until Tuesday.

Less than 48 hours later I walked through the doors at Our Timeless Treasures and the small but tasteful desk spoke to me. I ignored the voice. Two 1920 leatherbound volumes of Kipling sat on the edge of the desk mocking me. "You know you want to take me home," it seemed to say. And I did (after 40 minutes of trying to talk myself out of it).

It's a miniature sort of piece and sitting behind it makes me feel like a kid playing grown up. What my sister, cousin and I used to spend hours doing when we were little girls wanting to be big, important people.

This is my first piece of writing at my sweet, little girl's desk. I am hoping it makes me childlike and free, like the days I played at being a grown up with my sister and favorite cousin. A time when I thought we three would always be the Trios Club and anything was possible.

Oh, yes. Goldilocks feels "just right" now. Are you listening, Muse?