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?

Back on the mat in front of a class

I gave up teaching yoga nearly two years ago. The ego made me do it. Actually, it was a lack of confidence, truth be told. I wondered then just what knowledge I had to share with students. Would it be enough to keep them coming back week after week? Could I communicate my joy for yoga to them simply through my teaching?

As my classes swelled and shrank, I took it personally. On 'big' class days I would rejoice and on 'little' class days I'd question my methods and connection to students and their needs. I stressed myself out so much it made me crazy. The night before class I'd go over each and every pose in my head perfecting each minute of the hour-and-fifteen-minute class. I wanted each student to get the most out of their time with me.

The only class I could teach without such a personal lashing was my kid class. The hour was pure joy. I'd come up with a theme and just wing it most of the time. Sometimes I'd weave a story and other times we'd draw animals and then pose like them. I saw an incredible amount of gratitude in the eyes of these tiny students. No judgement. No expectations (besides to have fun). And they gave me such happiness. More than I ever imagined. I vowed then I would only teach children.

Ah, but the universe can be sneaky. And sometimes what you push away in fear is exactly what you need in order to continue forward on your life path. That's exactly what happened to me.

I've be laying low since moving to Gainesville and away from the yoga studio in which I was trained and taught. I've attended different studios here to get a feel for what students want in this town and what classes are offered. I've seen a few great teachers, some mediocre teachers and a couple that I ran away screaming from. Through it all, though, the teeny weeny voice in my head kept saying -

"You're judging instructors just they way you judged yourself. That's not what yoga's about."

I started thinking about my yoga differently. I practiced at home daily and when I took a class I focused on one thing I gleaned from the teacher no matter if he/she performed a style that rang true for me or not. It was an 'aha' moment for me. I realized once again I had to let go and just be happy with the way things played out. I needed to let go of control even in my yoga!

I knew in my heart it was time to get off the bench and stop being a side liner with my yoga. It was time to face my fear on the mat. Time to get in front of an adult class and share my love of yoga, no matter if I fell flat on my face.

And guess what happened? Out of the blue there was a new class starting locally that had no teacher. I let it slip that I had been teaching a beginner class in my old town. That's all it took. Three days later I was on the mat in front of three students. I was scared to death. I took a deep breath, didn't look at the clock (except once) and felt my way through.

After I finished, a student came up to me and requested a copy of the Chinese proverb I had read at the conclusion of our practice. It read:

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

Ah, the universe is sneaky indeed. I had meant the quotation to be inspiring to those taking the class, but it was more for myself. This student reminded me to get back on the path of my yoga teaching. Take that one step, no matter how scary it may seem.

An Ode to Friendship

There are a few people in our lives who are there for the long haul. They are people with whom we have a shared history (whether we like it or not). Some of these people are familial - brothers or sisters, special aunts or uncles - but there are a select few who can be dubbed Friends for Life.

Some of you may be quite blessed and say you have a huge group of these incredible people surrounding you. A group that has and always will support each and every one of your ups and downs. My husband and I have but a handful of these treasures between us. I am not complaining. I am grateful for each one of these precious gems who've made my life richer. There have been countless friends who've bowed in and out of my life and I've tried to think of them as pieces of a giant puzzle - ones which no matter how jagged - have taught me to love and be a better person.

I am thinking of friendship this morning as my husband and I were lucky enough this week to have one such family grace us with their presence. It's a family with whom we have a shared past, one that brings a smile to my face every time I think of it.

Actually, it's a friendship I am lucky enough to have married into. In a nutshell, my husband befriended another young engineering student while in college here in Gainesville. My beloved's polar opposite, to be honest. Where my spouse is somewhat reserved and introverted, this character was (and is) full of life. A jovial sort who never meets a stranger and when he does he buys him a beer (or a crown and coke, if he really likes him).

When I watch the two of them together I laugh (or cry, thinking I may end up having to bail them both out of jail). They are two sides of the same coin and to me I don't think one could ever survive without the other. They share a bond now more than two decades old. One that was sealed early on when my beloved and I witnessed the birth of his first child the same weekend we were engaged. In a word, this man and his family are special.

That friend's baby is now starting her second year of college and my husband and I love her and her brother as our own. And their mom? Well, let's just say we don't even need words to communicate the love and respect we have. They are FAMILY. They are our heart.

We watched their babies grow up. We tailgated at Gator football games. We celebrated anniversaries and milestones in each other's lives. We even moved to the same town and for a few short months were part of eachother's daily lives. But destiny can be cruel and my husband's college buddy had to move his brood to Nebraska and we were meant to come full circle back to where it all started, in Gainesville.

Our world changed. No more tailgating. No more parties for no reason. We were at a loss. But, that loss reminds us what we have - Friends for Life. And no matter where they are, or where we are, we are one and always will be.