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.

Looks can be deceiving

There's a piece of my heart that belongs to a sandy seashore along the Florida Panhandle. It's nothing overtly special, this plot of beach just west of Panama City and east of Destin. Yes, it's sugary white. Yes, the water is an emerald shade only captured by the finest of semi precious stones. But, it's not infamous, like Miami's South Beach, or a playground for the rich and famous, like the French Riviera. In fact, there are many who spitefully claim this slice of heaven is 'The Redneck Riviera.'

To me, labels do not matter. This sacred spot, where the sea meets the sand, is where I found myself. My true self. The one who was battered and bruised after years of slaving in a professional fog, at a loss of what to do and where to go next. It's the shoreline I paced many early mornings with my beloved father at my side discussing the future and what great things I would write, what fine projects I would complete.

It's been more than five years since my dearest Daddy passed on, and this slice of shoreline is all I have left - besides memories of an incredibly centered man in a floppy straw hat with a quick, easy smile.

My sacred space by the sea had supposedly be 'spared' thus far of the wrath of BP's Deepwater Horizon oil spill. Despite the excessively positive news updates cajoling visitors to pristine beaches, I prepared myself for the worst when I visited my mom last week.

At first, all seemed normal. Visitors dotted the beach with colorful umbrellas, sailed freely along the shoreline and even took to the crystal clear sky by parasail. But something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. Every few minutes a helicopter would buzz the beach, or a jeep took to the sand, rushing this way and that. Then there were the men in mirrored sunglasses donning blue plastic gloves and picking up tiny objects off the shoreline, carefully placing them in ziploc baggies. But it was the couple of cammo clad military men that made me shiver, though. It felt like a war zone, plain and simple.

My son wouldn't swim. Not one time. He stood on the shore with his hands on his hips surveying the damage. What damage? There were no balls of oil. No dead sealife to prove what we've done to the Gulf. It was eerily devoid of damage.

In some ways it was worse, the not knowing what's out there. The not knowing when we will pay the price here in the Panhandle for our sins to Mother Nature.

My mom's been waiting since April for heaven to fall. For the Gulf she so loves to be swallowed up by darkness. And she'll wait some more. We know what's ahead as we watch the black muck run its course via satellite tv.

My beloved Gulf will continue to suffer, but I will return to her sacred shores. For she has saved me more than once in my life and it will be my turn to do for her the same.

Laughter (+ Phil Collins) Cures What Ails

There are days I am bone dry creatively. It's an emptiness I can't explain. One where I just walk around in a daze from one task to another as if doing the mundane will somehow spark something extraordinary.

Yes, I complain about it. Wondering when the feeling will pass (as it always does). I sigh a lot during these times as if doing some sort of yogic breathing will free my body of the lethargy (it does help, I swear).

Then something happens. Someone does something or says something absolutely crazy and I lose it. I laugh so hard the tears stream down my cheeks. It's a release for me and then I am FREE. Free to be creatively crazy and silly and ready to try anything new and exciting.

Most of the time the source of the hilarity is either my spouse or my son. Both have unparalleled senses of humor, an oddball combination of slapstick and the Sahara dry.

The latest incident culminated yesterday. My teen aged, home schooled son had locked himself in his bedroom - of his own accord - for days (he did come out to eat, of course). At first I thought my less than stellar frame of mind had him running to the sanctuary of his boudoir. He was in there hours and hours and all I could hear was the crash of Legos being poured from their containers and angry mutterings about the cat eating yet another mini fig (Lego man/figure for those of you non-Lego people).

Finally, said son re-appeared with a huge grin on his face. (Again, for those of you without teenagers, this in itself is an unusual incident). No, he wasn't making a bomb, he had been working on his latest film - a stop motion masterpiece. He wants to be the next Alfred Hitchcock, but that's yet another blog...

Four hundred and twenty photos later here's what he came up with - a silly Lego music video of Genesis' classic Misunderstanding. The kid's a freak for 1970-80s music, with Phil Collins in the top five of all time. So, without further adieu, I will present his final cut of Lego Misunderstanding. It's crazy and weird with Legos dying and dropping like flies. But I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. Hope it will make you smile, too.
PS- Phil's the bald one and Peter Gabriel is ID'd as he had hair then...

Do what brings you joy

"When I turned 50 I decided not to do anything I didn't want to do."
This is the mantra my mother and dearest auntie live by. I'll be honest, when these two ladies - whom I adore more than anything - first announced this personal plan it took me aback. Frankly, it sounded selfish and self centered. How could anyone actually proclaim such a thing?

At the time of their pronouncement I spent my life running around like an idiot carting a kid 30 minutes north to school, turning around and spending another hour driving south to my work at the local newspaper. I was up at 5:30 a.m. and not in bed before 11 p.m. Sound familiar? Anyway, the mere audacity of saying I would not do ANYTHING I didn't want to do seemed silly at best. Nothing in my life would get done if I thought so simply. And the finely tuned machine of my life (ha ha) would com bust.

Ah, but sometimes it's the simplicity that makes an idea so intriguing. I started to think about the words and how they applied to myself. I started shedding events and commitments from my life that didn't work. I made a promise to myself to make room for the things I love to do at the top of the list and the things I hated pushed down to the bottom. Suddenly, my days were happier. I had a less clean house and a few disgruntled employers, committees and groups, but I started to feel more in control of my destiny.

It's amazing how my life started to change when I told the universe what I wanted at the top of my 'to do' list. Ah, but lessons are hard learned, aren't they? And unless one stands one's ground on a continuous basis, it all unravels again. Such was my life last week when a dear friend of mine put it a different way, "Only commit to those things that bring you joy."

It was the same mantra my mother and aunt use. Only it had a different spin. It was a gentle reminder. No matter if it's the business of my writing, homeschooling my kid, volunteering at a local museum, working at a yoga studio - I need to be doing it because I WANT to, not because I feel I HAVE to. There are many ways to make a buck and live a life. There are always choices to make.

So, do what brings you joy. Keep it simple. Not that you don't have to clean the potty anymore or take the trash out, or attend a stupid meeting with stupid people. You have a choice in how to do it. If it's really that bad, skip it. Do something fun. Take a walk. Or, attend a yoga or tai chi class. The crap will be waiting when you return.

Or, maybe it won't.

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.