Lessons of the Three Graces

Three naked women have perplexed me for over a week now. They stand strong - arm and arm, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world as they whisper secrets and silly sentiments amongst themselves. They seem to care not what anyone thinks of their nakedness, nor the fact that they are by no means perfect in form nor fashion. They are the Three Graces - three stark white, stark naked statues which grace the entrance to St. Armand's Key in Sarasota.

They are flawlessly beautiful despite their lack of perfection. They seem to nod and speak right to my heart every time I pass by on my way to and from my son's film seminar at Ringling College.

This is the second summer in a row I've witnessed first hand these lovely ladies who represent a few of Zeus' daughters in Greek Mythology. It's so fitting that these lovelies represent Charm, Beauty and Creativity (or joy, depending what publication or historical reference one believes). I say it's fitting as it's these three graces who continue to elude me along my life path. It is Charm who easily sways me and I am hoodwinked and hurt when I find her sentiment false. It is Beauty I tend to easily overlook in my push to complete my daily tasks unencumbered. Ah, but it's Creativity who's the most difficult of all. She's the one I spend my days trying to harness. Yet, when I trap her, or trick her, or simply trip her up, it is Creativity who's a major thorn in my side.

It's so funny to see these ladies together, conspiring. At first I thought they were laughing at me - at the sheer audacity of trying to overpower them all. But, as each day passed I realized they were each giving me a message. Charm told me to be kind no matter how much I feel I have been wronged. Beauty told me to open my eyes every waking moment, or I would miss the simple beauty each possesses. And Creativity, well, she told me to shut the hell up and write. Stop whining and making excuses. She'll come over and visit when she feels I am good and ready.

Never figured I'd find such deep meaning in three bare, naked ladies.

Battle for the backyard birdfeeder

There's this squirrel and he is my nemesis. Actually, to borrow a phrase from my favorite 8-year-old, "He is my mortal enemy and I must defeat him." I know, the words sound quite harsh as I profess to be a tree hugging nature lover (when nature's not making me sneeze and wheeze). But it's true. This little, brown, furry creature who looks all innocent and sweet is the devil. And he hates me. Actually, it's more of a loathing, if I really think about it. And the feeling, I dare say, is mutual.

I know this all sounds rather nutty (and maybe even more than a bit trivial) but it's become an obsession of sorts. This squirrel is the leader of a Gainesville gardening terrorist group who must be taken down. There are eight in all - eight of the most incredibly creative little bandits who have ever taken over a backyard birdfeeder.

Here's the story in a proverbial nutshell: I set up a feeder in my yard so I could commune with nature (even though the construction workers are trying to pound it all away, but that's another blog). For the moment, I live on the edge of wooded bliss where birds of every kind flock to the feeder. They're so pretty. They bring me joy as I go about my day clicking out the words on my computer and keeping my homeschooled kid on task.

We co-habitated in harmony for weeks, if not several months. It was all so poetic. My husband would even come home at the end of the day and jokingly call me the blond-headed Snow White. (Hey, I've got the fair skin, so work with me here). Anyway, at first I thought the squirrels were absolutely adorable, all munching away on the yummy birdseed I purchased, enjoying what their feathered friends discarded onto the ground.

Then the critters got greedy. Actually, it was only one. Let's call him Sergeant Squirrel - Serg for short. So, Serg here decides he wants to get in on the action. He starts shinnying up the wrought iron feeder pole, hanging upside down and tossing out food for all his friends. Then they all get in on it until there's not one crumb of food or bird that will fight them for it.

I start getting defensive of my feathered friends. They can't fight for themselves, so I must fight for them. I buy what is called a "Squirrel be Gone" feeder. It works! I am so proud. Every time the grabby guy sits on the feeder it clamps closed. It doesn't hurt him, I assure you. Just pisses him off. I laugh. It's all so funny. Then Serg gets mad, real mad. He looks me straight in the eye as he hangs upside down bouncing on the feeder so long he springs it. Food flies everywhere. It's as if he's saying, "HA! What else ya got, lady?"

I will not be out done, so I buy ANOTHER Squirrel be Gone. Serg springs that one in less than 24 hours. Blasted bandit. Then, I have this epiphany. I'll grease up the pole. That'll fix Serg. I take my can of Crisco out there to the backyard and lube the feeder pole up good. Tee hee. I have a good laugh watching them slide down the pole like firefighters and my teen aged son shakes his head thinking his mother's lost her mind for good this time.

Serg accepts the challenge. He's going to find a way, I just know it. He has the will of a great warrior. Yesterday Serg even went so far as to waltz up to my backdoor, stare me down and taunt my cat Teddy.

Oh Serg, you're gonna be the death of me.

Good fortune and cookies

A little known fact about myself: I pay really close attention to fortune cookies. You know, the ones you get when you order Chinese take-out. I know, it's ridiculous. It's not like they're made by hand with my life and times in mind. As my Beloved continually tells me, there are only so many fortunes printed out on these tiny little pieces of paper and then they're slipped inside these nasty tasting (mostly stale) cookies while on an assembly line and later packaged up for suckers like me to read and wonder... (The word sucker is mine, not my Beloved's. He calls me gullible).

Still, I think there's something to these tasty treats. Each time I pick mine with care and precision as if there's something I can and will take from it. Like last week:

"Willingness opens the doors to knowledge, direction and achievement." So true. And at this moment in my life I find this fortune cookie quite fitting. I push way too hard. Especially when I decide I want something really badly. I am like a blond headed pit bull with a bone, growling and not letting go when I get a hold good and tight. Needless to say, that makes me UN-willing to see the options right in front of my face. I only see one way and it's the ONLY way.

Yes, I know, this is so very UN-Yoga like of me. As I am told by some great masters (and a couple really good friends) our greatest strength is also our biggest weakness. I spend much of my time being positive and upbeat, telling friends and family that "it's all good" and all they have to do is relax and believe, yet I (the pit bull) keep gnawing on that same damn bone until I am sick to death of it.

So, I say to the universe full of fortune cookies, I am now declaring (on this blog no less) that I am open and willing. Just like the fortune is telling me to be. Whether it's homeschooling my son, seeking more yogic knowledge, or finding outlets for my written musings, I am open to anything good that comes my way.

The pit bull is being put down (metaphorically, of course. I am an animal activist of sorts, you know).

Rules were meant to be broken

I like to think of myself as a rule follower. Don't laugh. I really do. I guess I should re-phrase. I like to follow the rules when I feel they are fair and appropriate. Otherwise, I toss the rules out the window as far as I can and make my own. Of course, the way I see it, most rules are ridiculous and therefore meant to be broken. So why not make my own rules in the first place? That's a fine solution, indeed.

I am contemplating rules today as it seems these pesky, thorny things are constantly getting in my way on the path to publication. And I must continually find a way to either a) get around them or b) just ignore them as if they didn't exist. A lot of the time I choose answer b as I find mostly it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. (I got that bit of sage wisdom from my adoring Mother.)

Today's irksome rule has to do with agents and multiple submissions. Here's the first rule as I see it: First-time writers of fiction length work either a) find a small publishing house interested in your work (which I did with book number one) or b) find an agent to schlep your work all over creation to get it published with a bigger house.

Now, I have been a diligent submitter the last few years, writing perky letters and sending partial manuscripts to potential agents. I've done my homework. There have been a few nibbles, but no all out bites for my fiction written wares.

This leads me to the next rule on multiple submissions. This is a no no to many agents. Many would like what they call 'exclusive' submissions and be given time to look over the work and make a fair decision. Okay, I get that. So, like the good girl that I am I have waited (somewhat) patiently up to eight weeks for ONE agent to tell me whether or not he/she even wants to see more than the query, synopsis and 10-30 pages I have sent.

I've done this 'one at a time' thing for more years than I can count. Let me put it this way, I've been chatting up agents since my teenager was a toddler. That's a lot of wasted time (or shall I say contemplative time?) But, as I said, I am a rule follower and I want to do the right thing.

Lately, though, the answer c keeps popping up in my head. You know, NONE OF THE ABOVE. Maybe I don't want a small publisher. Maybe I don't need an agent (shhhhh, my perfect one might be listening). Maybe I can do this thing called publishing all by myself with no rules or regs.

My wonderfully supportive spouse sent me an article from the Wall Street Journal recently which discussed such a thing. Rule breakers from all over the country are flocking to places like amazon.com to upload their stories for all to read. Gadgets like the Kindle and the iPad are making it possible to bypass publishers and agents all together.

So, what is a rule follower to do? Do I continue on my present path to publication? No. I think it's time for some soul searching and good old fashioned research. I'm gonna get my work out there one way or another - even if it is one download at a time.

Hard to just believe

I started this blog as a way to publish my weekly musings and then the nasty critic in my head stopped me mid sentence. That bratty little voice (which sounds like my very first real life editor) told me I was somehow being ego maniacal thinking that throngs of readers would flock to my musings. (She's a real meanie, that Naysayer in my mind).

But that's not what this is about. That's not the point of writing this blog. What I was/am trying to do is somehow put into words how I feel each and every day - as a writer, a homeschooling mom and struggling yogini. I have a lot of questions about life in general as I am sure everyone else around me does. WHY, WHY, WHY, has always been the essence of my questioning soul. It's just easier to toss the words out there into the cyber universe, rather than having them roll around in my head like some sort of lucky dice waiting to be rolled in my game of life.

This morning's cup-o-joe lead me back to my Beached Mermaid blog. Actually, it was reading an email called "The Daily OM." It's an inspirational message that usually brings a smile to my face, or at least an understanding nod. Today's focused on the fact that we can manifest whatever it is we want in life. The key is to believe we already have everything we need, not wanting desperately something that we have convinced ourselves is somehow unattainable. In other words, just believing that everything is ok can make it so.

Now, blind faith has never been my strong suit. I'm a "seeing is believing" kind of girl most of the time, despite my usual sunny disposition. But as I ponder this thought it seems spot on. Every time I feel desperate about something, such as "Why can't an editor pick up my work and want to publish it?" I realize I am putting a negative spin on the things that are the most important to me. I need to believe that the perfect editor and agent are out there. And when it's time they will jump for joy that they found me. Same thing goes for my yoga. I keep tossing negatives out there like, "I will never be able to afford additional yoga teacher training. It's just too expensive." Of course, with that frame of mind why would the universe provide me with anything else?

My job is to keep believing all the good that's possible even on the days that it seems too remote to do so. It's a simple word, yet so hard to execute. BELIEVE and it will happen. Maybe not today, but with some hard work and positive vibes it will when it's meant to.

Take that, you nasty Naysayer critic in my head!

The end is only the beginning

I'm better at hello. It's the goodbyes that lodge like a piece of moussaka (as in Disney's Hercules) in my throat leaving me voiceless. Or worse yet, teary-eyed as well as tongue tied.

Oh, those beginnings. They are but a dream. A time of joy and excitement when nearly anything is possible. And then, the bottom falls out and it is no longer the blossoming beginning, but somewhere in the murky middle sucking the life out of me with every wheezing breath taken.

I am speaking of writing, yet it is quite fitting for many facets of my life. Endings have always been difficult. But aren't they for everyone? Anyone who knows me can see a pattern here, though. Instead of goodbye, I've been known to walk away without a word, mute and unable to cope, rather than experience the pain and torture that go into actually letting go. Which leads me to my current status - ending a relationship with my latest manuscript.

How many unfinished masterpieces do I have in a drawer which have the first 50-100 pages done? So bright and full of life. The characters seem to leap off the page. Oh how I love them. They are strong and virile and beautiful and unique. They are the loves of my life. All of them. But that's before the saggy, flawed, angry, middle rears its head. The part that doesn't even seem to have any heart, much less soul. This is the scary part. The part that separates the short timers from the distance runners.

I read an essay the other day from Amy Tan called 'Angst and the Second Book' in which she said she started six books after the success of The Joy Luck Club. Nearly 1,000 pages churned out and tossed all because she was worried how people would react to her SECOND book. Now, I do not have a bestseller I am trying to say goodbye to, but I am trying to improve my craft with this next endeavor. So I enter into each day over analyzing each word that's placed on the page. Yet, somehow I'm plowing through, slowly but surely.

So, here I am with the words THE END looming yet I can't seem to take the leap and just be done with it. There's tweaking that still needs to be done. There's the life that I still need to breathe into my main character.

Walking away is never easy. Just one more draft and it might be the perfect piece of literary genius. HA!

Goodbyes are certainly not my forte. But to move on, I must...

What goes around comes around

What goes around comes around. This is and always has been my Mother's mantra. Actually, even at this moment I hear her voice in my head saying these five words. Only she's laughing this time, gleeful that I am finally dealing with what she had to decades ago during my youth.

What goes around comes around. It was a phrase my Mom used particularly when my sister and I were being difficult teenagers. At the time I thought she meant it as some sort of hopeful prayer to keep her sanity. Now I know it was more of a hex, one that would someday stick.

I do not deny I was periodically problematic during those awkward teen years. Not verbally defiant (that was my sister's department). Mine came in the form of being the Queen of NO. Not coming out and actually saying I hated something, but not willing to try it or give reasons why. And I admit shopping excursions were a mite tense. Especially those involving the purchase of specific types of under garments. Ok, bra shopping.

But you have to understand, that was a long time ago. I didn't like the colors that were offered. Some were too tight, too loose, too constricting, too whatever. It was frustrating for me. But I wasn't to blame. Really. Still, it got to the point where neither my sister nor my mother would shop with me, deeming me "difficult."

I never saw it that way, though. Discerning. That's it. I have discerning tastes. But, I have found, rarely do we see those 'special' traits that annoy our beloved familia. That is, until our own children toss it back in our faces and it's hard to miss. When our own children act as a mirror image to our youth.

What goes around comes around. And here we arrive in the present day and I offer up a slice of department store discussion (or lack there of) with my son:

Me: "You said you needed a few new golf shirts. Is that right?"

Teenage son: "Yuh huh."

Me: "What color would you like? There's a ton here."

Teenage son: "I dunno."

Me: "How about this?" I hold up a striped shirt.

Teenage son: "No."

Me: "Ok. How about this one? It would look nice with your eyes."

Teenage son: "Uh, no."

Me: "Ooooh. How about this one? It's really soft and..."

Teenage son: No comment, just a pursing of the lips and shaking of the head.

Me (getting really angry): "How about I just buy three white ones and call it done?"

Teenage son: "Can we do that?"

Me: "No! Can't you just tell me what you want? What you like?"

Teenage son: "I dunno."

What goes around comes around. And so goes the vicious cycle that has become shopping with my own beloved child. It's painful. Poking your eyes out painful. Still, I hopped back on that roller coaster ride of non-committal again because we had to buy a nice pair of slacks and shirt for the First Communion of a family friend.

I prepared for the worst. Ready for the 'no' train. But this time he was a different person. My teenager listened to the salesman and smiled when he offered ideas. The child of my loins pointed to which shirts he liked with which pants. He even trotted to the dressing room without snarling one little bit.

I think my chin almost hit the ground in surprise. Who was this kid and what did he do with my "I dunno" guy?

Then I realized. What goes around comes around. That's it! He coming around! Or is it going around? Damn. I think I'll just call and ask my mom.