Keeping Fingers and Toes Crossed

Flash Mob Contest

It's been a while since I posted. A long while. I have so many excuses I could toss out, but will choose this one:  just completed my second class working with poet extraordinaire, Barbara Henning. I've been busy creating dozens of tiny fictions and prose poems.
One of my classmates in the flash class offered up a challenge to enter Flash Mob's contest which will celebrate Flash Fiction Day on June 22, 2013.
What is flash fiction, you ask? Tiny stories (with a beginning, middle and end) that strive to be brief. As I tend to write pieces between 400 and 600 words, it's a favorite of mine. This contest is for stories under 300 words and must be posted to your blog. My piece comes in at 286 words. Wish me luck!

Peace to all.
JLG

Here it is:

Jack Sits and Smokes

  

286 words

Jack Kerouac is smoking on the back porch, staring at a broken cement table and three benches in the yard. Well, he’s not really Kerouac, but a look-alike with tousled hair and scruffy shadow on his face. Aviator sunglasses grace his nose even though the sun hasn’t quite risen and he’s leaning against a rotted wooden rail with his khaki pant legs crossed.

The screen door slams shut and a plump young woman pops out of the drab grey house. Her jeans are so tight that a roll of alabaster escapes at her waist. Her lips are painted hussy red and her thick inky hair is a nest of mess.

‘Whatcha gonna do about it? Huh, Jack?’ the plump woman asks, pointing at the pile of rounded rubble in the leaf-covered yard.

‘Sort of reminds me of a miniature stone henge,’ he says, taking another puff. ‘Maybe if we leave it there long enough the pagans will start having rituals here.’

‘Don’t even TRY to be funny,’ she hisses. An orange tabby cries and then leaps from bushy ferns that border the house onto a window air conditioning unit. The rusted unit rattles and sputters, dripping water on the woman’s bare feet.

‘And that’s another thing,’ she says, ‘when are we getting central air and heat? You promised more than all this shit. Huh, Jack?’

When he doesn’t respond, she stomps back inside her drab grey house.  Jack pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his rumpled plaid shirt, lights up another stick and walks over to the pile of cement. He motions to the cat.  ‘Here, kitty, kitty.’

 It’s Sunday morning and fake Jack Kerouac sits on his ass and smokes.

Do I smell a challenge?

I'm always up for a challenge. Frankly, I tend to jump right in if I am dared to do so. Maybe it's the thrill of the unknown. Or, the idea that I don't have time to think about the consequences of the action I am about to undertake. It takes me back to my college days when I constantly jumped from literal and metaphorical cliffs not realizing what lived and breathed beneath the murky waters.

Such is the situation I now find myself in. No, I'm not jumping off any cliffs, but I feel like it. Today begins the month long 2012 Eat Local Challenge. Everyone in North Central Florida is challenged to eat local, seasonal foods every day for the month of May. I've committed myself and my family to this challenge. On the surface, it sounds pretty simple. Hogtownhomegrown.com, a website that promotes eating local, fresh food, has been challenging folks in our area for several years. The reasoning is simple: Not only is local food tasty, the money spent locally helps our local economy and local food travels fewer miles to the plate reducing our carbon footprint.

One of the reasons my husband and I decided to move downtown a month ago from our suburban digs was just that - reducing our carbon footprint and taking a more active part in our community at large. Both alum of UF, we love Gainesville. It's where we met and fell in love. It's where we chose to move back to with our son. We wanted to live more simply. We wanted to walk to work, or ride the bus. We wanted to ride our bikes to market. It's a slow process, but we're doing it one step at a time. I think eating locally this month (at least one item every meal) is a perfect way to punctuate our move to simplicity.

So far today, I've eaten orange blossom honey from Land of Flowers in Alachua at breakfast, organic almonds and dried cherries as a noon day snack from Citizens Co-Op and for dinner, I have brown rice from the Co-Op, along with fresh peppers, carrots and other veggies I bought at the Farmer's Market for a stir fry.

I can't guarantee every meal will be all Gainesville all the time, but my family's going to be more cognizant of where our food is from. Now, it's time to hold my breath and jump into the abyss.

    

A New Year of Speaking my Truth

Every year I make this huge list of things I would like to do and accomplish. It’s daunting, to say the least and by the end of the first week of the year I am exhausted and overwhelmed by the difficult tasks I have ahead of me. Suddenly all I see are obstacles, rather than possibilities. One year I even ditched the entire concept of resolutions, realizing that I couldn’t even come close to keeping any of them.

This year I want it to be different. I spent yesterday evening making a list of what I want for 2012 and shared it with my son and husband. I realized nearly everything I wrote could be categorized under one of three things: my writing, my yoga and my family. I started with 26 goals, if you can believe it. My son turned pale and squirmed as he listened to me ramble on. Then he sheepishly commented he could only come up with two resolutions for the new year. He had a much better grasp of what a new year resolution is, a goal he’d like to attain. Something big, yet achievable if steps are set up. Break it down into bite sized pieces, as someone once told me.

In looking at my list I realized I truly only have three goals for the year and the biggest is living my truth with my yoga, with my writing and with my family. Talking the talk and walking the walk. Being positive when I may not quite feel that way. Waking up every morning as if it was on purpose. Realizing I have a purpose. I am the perfect me if I live my truth each and every day. Of course, under this umbrella of truth I have a few specifics:

1)Truly understanding what being an Indie writer is and taking the steps toward becoming one with my own business plan.

2)Expanding my knowledge of yoga and sharing it through teaching and writing, rather than shyly keeping it hidden for “someday."

3)Not living in the past with relationships which have changed, but embracing each and every person I encounter as if they were already a close, personal friend. It sounds corny, but I’d like to spread kindness one person at a time.

Oh, and there’s one more silly goal I have - learn to sew with a sewing machine. As a young woman I thought only old fashioned southern ladies did such work and I had no patience for the art. But I have found it’s something I now want to explore and pursue as I’d like to create something besides words. (OK, so the list is longer than three, sue me!)

Happy 2012. May all your dreams become your reality.

My beloved and I are birds of a feather

I've been called a lot of things in my life, but a bird isn't one of them. That's a lie. I have indeed been called flighty, but that's a different story for a different time.

Today I am speaking of a young master's degree student from Korea. I met her briefly at a university event in which my beloved and I attended. This student and I only spoke for a few minutes, but her observations astounded me.

"You and he are just the same," she said to me in a voice just above a whisper. I laughed and agreed that my beloved and I both wear glasses these days and after almost 20 years of marriage I could see why she'd think we were beginning to look alike, too.

"No, no, no, " she insisted and pointed to the pair of us. "You are like the birds in my country. They fly together always and are one. Like you."

My eyes filled with tears and I wasn't quite sure how to respond. Her simple observation reached deep into my soul and reminded me how blessed I am to have found such a man to call my beloved.

I have spent the last couple of days wondering what sort of bird she might have been thinking of. I have an affinity toward pictures of peacocks and cranes and I love to watch the bright red cardinals dance around my bird feeder. I obsessively count the flocks of pelicans at the beach, making sure there is an even number since all those birds mate for life. Yes, I can be a silly goose.

And guess what? After some initial research I think the young student was actually talking about wild geese. The wild goose is highly thought of in Korea and is always part of the traditional wedding ceremonies. Apparently a wild goose is given as a gift, even though the bird may only have been hired for the nuptials.

Legend has it that long ago the Korean people noticed that a goose - whose mate was killed - returned to the same spot year after year to mourn her loss. The Wild Goose symbolizes that undying love. During the traditional Korean marriage ceremony there's also a pledge that is given. It says: "Black is the hair that now crowns our heads, yet when it has become as white as the fibres of the onion root, we shall still be found faithful to each other."

That's pretty deep stuff, but I figure it's something I needed to be reminded of the other day. My beloved and I have flown together as a couple for more than two decades and there have been times the journey has made our wings tired. We never give up on each other and I think the reasoning is simple:

There's no other bird I'd rather fly with. Frankly, I think we're both silly geese.

Number One Uncle Teaches Lessons on Love

I have an uncle I deemed as my favorite during childhood. He is the husband of my mother's only sister and he is and always has been the one to go to for fun (or, as he, the Cajun boy would say, 'to pass a good time').

He's the one who taught me to play poker at the ripe old age of 10. He's the one who let my sister, cousin and me ride in the flat bed of his pick up when our mothers said 'NO WAY.' And he's the one who gave us a humongous jar of loose change he'd collected over the years and said we could keep it all if we rolled it.(We spent hours doing just that and ended up with enough cash to buy three tickets to a theme park). He's also the upstanding uncle who stood in line for several gruelling hours along with my sister, cousin and myself as we anxiously awaited the arrival of The Empire Strikes Back at our local movie theatre.

I spent much of my childhood discussing the finer aspects of the Muppet Show with this dear uncle and what new jokes he'd learned. He's also the uncle who introduced my own child to the likes of Sponge Bob Square Pants and the importance of rooting on his favorite football team, the New Orleans Saints. He is, in a word, irreplaceable.

All of these memories have flooded my heart over the last week as I stood at my favorite uncle's hospital bedside and watched helplessly as his life force seemed to slowly slip away from his body. Blood clots had invaded his system and his breath was jagged. He coughed when he laughed and his infectious smile had dimmed. He is the only father I have left and I am not ready nor willing to let him go.

Doctors said they couldn't believe he was still alive. They don't know my uncle. He's the one who survived tours of duty in Vietnam, slayed personal demons as well as the fantastical ones that my sister, cousin and I created.

He is an amazing soul and it's not time for him to go. He has more Sponge Bob to share and more Saints games to cheer on. I will never be able to repay him for the memories he's given me, nor the love. All I can say is I adore this precious man and I promise to remind him for the rest of his days he is an incredibly special Who Dat!

New Light is Burning Bright

I've been waiting for Divine intervention. That's not my usual M.O. Most of the time I wait for nothing. I leap head first into the abyss and then when I realize that it's a scary and dark place, I freak out and much of the time swim away screaming, wondering why I would ever jump without thinking.

Such has been the case along my perilous path of teaching Yoga. I participated in a beginning teacher training program nearly five years ago. At the time I was determined I would change the world of stressed out people one Yoga class at a time. What I didn't realize is that standing in front of a class of eager students scared the hell out of me. So much so that I would become physically ill before each and every class I taught. Needless to say, my world changing days petered out quickly. I figured I didn't have what it took in yogic knowledge or demeanor to share and/or make a difference.

It was a kind and generous teacher who reminded me time and time again that I did have something to give. He said we all can have a positive effect on life. It is about living the teachings of Yoga. It's about finding the light that is flowing within me and passing it along, paying forward if you will.

Two weeks ago today I graduated from a 200-hour yoga Chakra teacher training with Ayurveda Health Retreat's Inspiration Yoga Institute. Lead by the Masla family, it was one of the hardest, yet most incredibly rewarding experiences of my yogic life. I made connections which will last lifetimes (see above picture of my beautiful yogi brothers and sisters) and a realization that I AM a teacher - even if it scares me every single day.

The light inside of me is burning like a warm campfire flame and I can't wait to share that warmth with others.

Maybe I'm not really waiting for Divine intervention after all. It's been within all the time, I just had to recognize it.
Om Shanti.

Embracing technology tough for this dinosaur

I have an aversion to technology. Not the thought of technology, the actual implementation there of. Even the thought of the constant upgrading now required to live a normal and somewhat satisfying life is enough to give me hives.

Gone are the days of handwritten notes (one of my faves), pocket calendars you actually WRITE in and phones that ring with a ding-aling, rather than a pop song. Now I am sounding ancient. I guess it all boils down to the old adage 'We fear what we do not understand.' And there are many times I truly don't get it.

For example, when the iPhone came out, my engineer/techie minded spouse was one of the first in line to be part of the 'now.' Now he has all these 'Aps' that save him time and money and it's so very hip and cool. He hands it to me in the car so I can be a part of this wonderful future and locate a restaurant on mapquest and I can't even scroll down the darned thing without getting mad and tossing it back in his face.

Then there's Facebook. Yeah, I get it. Got it, actually. I enjoyed finding and re-connecting with old friends and sharing pictures of my last meal. Then a virus found my page and spread sickness to all my cyber friends. Embarrassed and red faced I made a quick exit and retreated to my life as a techno-dinosaur where I now reside in self exile.

As a writer I am told this self exile is somewhat suicidal. How can anyone find me if I am nowhere to be found (except punching away on my laptop's keyboard on this blog or published on an online magazine)? I agree. It's just so hard.

Last night I decided, this is it. The best way to conquer fear is to embrace it all. I am setting up a Web page, a twitter account and getting back on the Facebook horse. I figure with all this technology, something's gotta stick, right?

Did I tell you I just finished reading my first book on my Nook? Only took me two months to figure out. (My sister is so proud and my husband's rolling his eyes).

Giving up Hope Works Wonders

I gave up hope for Lent.

Not really. I am an eternal optimist. I usually think things are going to turn out well in the end. I have hope for a better tomorrow. But when it comes to my fiction writing and publishing what I have written, hope has waned of late.

Actually, as the Lenten season began I had truly given up all hope that my work would be read by anyone except my closest loved ones. And you know what happened? Three of my stories were accepted for publication and one of those actually won first runner up in a contest.

(Check www.flashquake.org on page 56 of the spring issue and find my name and click at amaranthinemuses.wordpress.com. The third story runs on www.6tales.com in June.)

It's a bizarre turn of events, being that I have struggled with publishing since leaving my day job as a newspaper journalist quite a few years back. I thought I'd come to terms with it, but as I've been doing a lot of reading and thinking about my yogic path I realized I had not accepted anything at all. I was always hoping for more or at least a different outcome.

It was this self study, known as Svadhyaya, the fourth Niyama (personal observances) of the eight-limbed path of Yoga, which made me realize I needed to accept and even welcome my limitations. Quite hard for a perfectionist like myself, let me tell you.

Well, all this self study has put me in a different mind set. Instead of feeling desperate to be noticed with my writing I actually came to terms with the fact that if I'm not "discovered" it's ok. More than ok. It's what's meant to be.

Of course, in giving up hope, I didn't give up trying. I still sent out my work and did so with love and care. Only, this time I told myself "I'm good enough no matter what happens."

That's when the news started coming in that some flash fiction stories were being published and a young adult novel I've written was requested by a publisher. It made me nervous at first, thinking this is it. This is my only time. I need to enjoy the moment.

Hogwash. Giving up hope for certain outcomes has worked wonders. From now on I am going to wish for the best, wherever that wish is meant to take me.

Stumbling Along the Eight Limbed Path

I'm a sprinter, not a distance runner. I learned that during high school when I decided the Cross Country team would be a neat idea. It wasn't the usual geeky club thing I gravitated toward - like Honor Society, Spanish Honor Society or helping run the school newspaper. It was a sport, a real sport in which you tested your physical endurance and ability to go the distance each and every day.

Going the distance has always been difficult for me. I am constantly distracted by shiny things along the path and veer away from the task at hand when it becomes a little uncomfortable or downright scary. I can be pit bull-like when I want to be, but mostly I flit along in my own little world until I realize I've gotten way off track.

Needless to say, when I first heard Yoga described as the Eight Limbed Path to enlightenment, I got a little nervous. Eight limbs would give me quite a bit of wiggle room to get side tracked and I needed no help in that department.

Fast forward almost six years and one could argue I've gotten so off course no map could possibly locate me. But, I think that happens to us all. We get lost in the every day and that's ok as long as we're living in the moment and not drowning in it.

In an effort to understand my own choices and my path I decided to re-read Yogi Rolf Gates' inspiring book (from 2002), Meditations from the Mat: Daily Reflections on the Path of Yoga.

When I first read it I was a bit lost and wanted to take a day by day look at this path I'd chosen to follow - not as a writer, a daughter, a sister, a mother or a wife, but as a woman searching for her true self.

It's amazing what a few years will do. I am now getting an entirely different message from the essays Gates weaved together which number 365. I read one per day (I'm on day 59) and notice how insightful this man truly is. He understands that yoga is not about what poses you can pretzel yourself into, it's about showing up on the mat every single day. Showing up for life and being present.

I should've done this re-reading sooner, but I realize that was part of my path - to pick this book up a few years later and try it on for size again. It's a way for me to see how far I've come and the distance I still have to go.

Oh, and about that Cross Country team...I caught Mono and never did finish a season. But, my sister did. She stuck to it four years, improved each year and even lettered.

She's always been an inspiration to me, just as Gates' book is. I keep stumbling on this yogic path, but I am committed to follow the path wherever it finishes. Maybe I will share my insights as I make my way through.

To Submit or Not to Submit? That is the question.

I am a writer because I write. It's a simple statement that took me years to work up the courage to say out loud concerning my fiction writing.

During my 15-year-career in newspapers/magazines I always referred to myself as a "journalist," or a "reporter," or an "editor" depending on my job or the person asking me the question. Never once did I respond that I was a writer. In my mind, that job description was reserved for those who got paid to write fiction, or at least had their fiction published.

After my first short story was published I felt I had earned the right to call myself a writer - a real writer. But, the fiction publishing world is a fickle friend at times and, well, she hasn't been too sweet on me for quite a while. Yes, I have written three romantic suspenses, a middle grade novel, a YA and more flash fiction than I care to admit. Very little has reached the hands of readers, other than my sister and some very close friends.

So, when I was asked (several times in one week) how I could be writing for so long and have so little published I got that nervous non-publishing twitch I get.

The question was: "Are you submitting regularly?"

It's a fair question, yet I didn't know how to respond. I am a writer - I WRITE. Do you count the dozens of queries to agents and small publishing houses over the years whose rejections could wallpaper my bathroom? But, I thought about it a little more. My submissions are spotty. I submit here and there after loads of research. I don't saturate any markets. And a few dozen down I toss the manuscript or story in a drawer and move on.

Mostly it's ok with me. I write because I have to. I have no other choice. It's who I am. But if I truly want to be a regularly PUBLISHED writer I need to regularly submit. Here's my promise. I will spend one day a week submitting my work to no less than five appropriate outlets.

I need to be committed to more than writing as a writer. I need to find some readers!

There's no running from the Gator Nation

Like Coach Urban Meyer, I've run away from the Gator Nation before. When I graduated the University of Florida with a Journalism degree in December of 1989 I jumped in my VW bug and zoomed as fast as I could south on I-75 away from Gainesville. I told myself I needed a break from the insanity that revolved around the college town - the broken hearts and dreams of my well-intentioned, yet naive youth. The years of working hard, yet being torn down creatively.

Of course, I wasn't the focus of intense pride or anger (or being paid $4 million), like football Coach Meyer, but the chaos that revolved around being part of the Blue and Orange brigade became overwhelming, to put it mildly.

Like Urban, though, my first abandonment of the Gator Nation was short lived. Coach returned after a brief hiatus involving his health and so did I. I had created a newspaper career, yet I made periodic visits to see my then boyfriend who was finishing up a nuclear engineering degree. When my beloved graduated, I vowed that would be it. We would make our way away from the Swamp and create a life of our own sans Albert and Alberta.

"We'll be back someday," my new husband claimed. "Maybe I'll even work there." The thought to me was humorous at best as my beloved had chosen a career in nuclear power. The nearest plant to Gainesville was Crystal River, FL. Destiny can be tricky, indeed and we ended up back in Gainesville two years ago for a job here at the University of Florida.

So, what does this have to do with Urban's latest abandonment as head coach? He says he needs time with family and to pursue other interests. This all sounds terribly rehearsed and not at all the real reason. As human beings we're always searching and striving for balance in our lives, yet not quitting on the things we love. But his reasons are his business, not mine.

My point is, no matter how much you quit the Gators one can never really leave the Gator Nation fold if you love it with your whole heart. Gators suck you back in with pride and an ability to cajole (just as my husband did oh so many years ago). The old ball coach, Steve Spurrier, said it right when he coined the phrase, "The Swamp -where only Gators come out alive."

We're all a little battered and bruised, but that's what being a REAL Gator is about. It's not easy. It's damn hard. If Coach Meyer is gone for good this time, well, that just shows he never truly bled orange and blue.

My broken commitment to NaNoWriMo

It's only day nine of National Novel Writing Month and I am ready to throw in the towel. Truth be told I didn't even make it out of the gate. On day one I had a false start and wrote a mere 600 words. I lied to myself and said it was because I was sick and didn't feel inspired. Then I spent the next few days staring at a cold, blank computer screen wondering just where the hell my story had disappeared to and how I could find it and fast.

Oh, I've written words every day for the last nine in long hand - short stories and journaling and grocery and to do lists. There've been thousands of words jotted down, just nothing concrete that actually counted for this blasted contest I committed myself to for a freakin' month of my life. A month I will never get back!

It's laughable how much time I spent outlining and doing character sketches in preparation for this month. I'd determined this year would be my year of overcoming my phobia of commitment to one specific project. This time I'd see one great project to completion. I would fish and not cut bait. HA.

Then yesterday I spent the good part of an hour on the phone with a wonderful editor who'd been kind enough to read and evaluate a manuscript of mine. A manuscript, oddly enough, that I had initially penned a few years ago for NaNoWriMo.

We discussed the fact that it was probably my sixth attempt at a manuscript and that this one was still an early draft at best.

"You have a lot of imagination," my editor told me. "You can't teach imagination....There's a lot of good work here, but..."

Ah, the dreaded BUT. This but had to do with a need for revision. I had wanted to call the project done, yet it's still a long way from THE END.

Creation doesn't seem to be my problem. It's the follow through. It's a commitment to my craft. To create the best stories I can and then move on. Most of my stories are abandoned before they even really have the chance to see the light of day.

So, what to do? NaNoWriMo is a month for novels. So, why can't it be my National Novel Revision Month - NaNoReMo? I can make a commitment to craft at least for the next few weeks. Can't I?

Time to Fish or Cut Bait

"It's time to fish or cut bait."

This was one of my wonderfully wise father's favorite phrases. The great fisherman, he used this line on my sister and I more times than I care to remember. From boyfriends to career changes, he said it simply to grab our attention. I never really enjoyed the words when they escaped his lips as the simplicity of them reels one in. Then, when one realizes they are indeed snagged by them, it's all a bit disconcerting.

But, I guess, that was the point. Life shouldn't be so difficult. You either want to do something, or you don't. You either fish, or cut bait. I miss his simple - yet oh too true - philosophies and the ease with which he sauntered through his own life. I tend to think too much about where I am going, what I am doing and why I am doing it, rather than just doing it because it's fun.

Such is the matter of my writing these days. I spend way too much time wondering which type of writing I should be creating, what avenues I should explore, rather than just doing it. Which leads me here at the end of October with only a few days left before I buckle down to be part of November's NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month.

It's one month to get my crap together. To write only one thing and see if I can eek 50,000 words from it. Three years ago I came close with a young adult manuscript which I am just now putting the final touches on. The last couple years I've crashed and burned about half way through. Why? Because I thought about it too much, rather than just doing it. I cut bait and fast.

Not this time. I am fishing for the big one. There's this historical fiction piece I have wanted to claim as my own for nearly three years. The characters are all in my head. I have researched and researched and even have a cork board covered in the myriad of faces of my main character. She stares at me daily from the confines of my laundry room, waiting for me to make my move.

The stare has turned to a glare these days - "Fish or cut bait," she's saying. And it's true. She deserves to have her story told and I can tell it. Time to get the old cane pole and dough balls out. The big one is within reach.

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?