Semantics~

I have been remiss in writing for awhile. Mea Culpa. I believe that most of my thoughts regarding this were simply that I was too busy with life and living to take time out to write. This thought pattern has caused me to think upon what exactly I see the role of writing as playing in my life.

I remember when I was at University, I saw myself as writing to live. Writing was my sanity in times of distress, my companion in lonely hours, and my saving grace when all else failed me. On those days when all seemed to overwhelming to process, I could sit down at my desk--delve into my thoughts, pen my frustrations, and trudge my way through the murky waters of life armed with what I saw as my only appropriate ammo--*bring out the Bic guns...* I realize many would say that this is a frightening position to find oneself in--being so dependent upon writing as a source of solace and stability. I would agree.

Knowing this, I always believed then, that the ultimate goal would be to convert the pattern of “writing to live” into “living to write”. I would have peers who seemed to eat, sleep and breathe writing. They voraciously read books, and intelligence, wit, and candor seemed to ooze out of their every pore. I loathed them (okay, maybe they just really, really irked me…) These peers could be overheard on a daily basis waxing eloquent about their next literary masterpiece, or how many pages they had written in their upcoming manuscript. And, to be sure, when all was finished, and the fruit of their labor was unveiled…it was almost always sheer genius and superbly divine. Yes, those that lived to write…as if it was inextricably tied to their very essence of their being…were indeed talented….yet I was not one of them. I *still* am not one of them…although I have often tried to be. I find that, although I enjoy the creative process of writing (and the literary, evolutional journey of reading as well)—I do not crave these things with an insatiable appetite. Although I, too, am able to pen semi-coherent and (albeit sporadically) thought-provoking workmanship, I have no illusions that Alfred Nobel will be knocking down my door any day soon. No, I do not live to write...

Today, in the wee hours of yet another crisp, Hawaiian morning….I am outside watching the sun rise over the jagged cerulean waves. I am waking--writing this small entry--musing, seeking, hoping, wondering---*being*. I think I am one that will just live AND write. I will not master either most likely, to the point that it embodies all that is within me…neither will probably overtake the other due to its sheer genius or notoriety—or even stellar quality. But, this morning, I am starting to see small glimmers—beginning to believe—awakening to a new awareness, that sometimes having a little of both (in so many areas) is best. “Just” living and writing can be more than enough—and this "place" is where I find myself...and make my home today.

So much can be said with one pair of scissors...one tube of goo~

Change.

Forward Motion.

Wandering Feet.

The sense that something--ANYTHING--is not stagnating in life..

These are the things that I was thinking of as I brought out the scissors today. (And the red red RED dye). For some reason (no, this will not surprise those of you who know me well!) during times of change or otherwise emotional/ milestone seasons/ chapters in my life, I change my hair. Yes, you heard me...my HAIR.

Sometimes I have gone softer...a brown--gentle and unassuming--gently grazing my shoulders. It was a season of steady practicality...the university years of study and diligence...the LU code among many others was strictly adhered to...brown seemed fitting...neautral...earthy.

Then there was the brazen blonde phase....hello Los Angeles...bring it on! Bright and shining; a new chapter filled with possibilities, and why the heck not go for a brilliant and bold change?Ante up, awaken to new possibilities and broader horizons--lighten up (quite literally)...and, yes, we are still (sort of) talking about hair...

So, the long locks of childhood...those sweet, sturdy braids...were soon shorn for the sake of style...something more grown up...sophisticated...sleek. It was necessary (of course). Then, once the separation from childhood seemed sufficiently solidified...the lustrous locks were reinstated; once again given free reign. A restoration of sorts....for a time...only to then be whacked off in a lop of liberation...a claiming of my freedom to choose...*yes, about my hair*

Short signified simple. Long lent itself to a portrait of femininity and grace. Yet there were exceptions in my mind (there always are, aren't there?) Short has also meant strong and independent. Long also harkening to times of healing and wholeness after a shorn winter--although the shorn winter stood for freedom from the old dead locks of summer that had grown heavy and cumbersome--too difficult to manage. (Hair...yes?)

So much can be said with one pair of scissors...one tube of goo.

Tonight the mirror reflects a radiant, redheaded wanderer. Short and touseled...quite messy in fact...the image staring back seems jarring at first. The dead ends have been cut out...the length is lessened...weight has been lifted. Simplicity reigns...yet not without cost...for she will miss the beautiful braids, the cascade of curls tumbling down her back. Stark, blunt, razored edges abruptly end...refusing to caress her shoulders. They demand to stand alone, independent and free. The almost violent vibrancy of the red...is shocking enough....bold enough...to keep her awake-- and make her feel alive...and life, to her, is more important than anything else...( yes, even hair)~

Fluidity~

A conversation with a friend of mine last night sparked so many things in my heart and mind. We were talking about life and choices. Forks in the road—and atlases hard to decipher (some that are quite possibly meant to be so). My friend was quick to remind me of the perspective that, when adopted in life—causes one to see these things as negative, positive, or merely as “being.” This perspective, as he kept describing it, I recognized as what I now call “the fluidity of life.”

For so long I lived in the future…in “what if’s” and “maybe I shouldn’t s.” I was so concerned over the consequences of my choices. Every little detail of my life needed to be laid out before me…to be figured out in intricate detail. The finality with which I saw facing each decision I ever made is heartbreaking. This year especially, I have come to learn that life is about making many, many choices. Some will be spectacular, and cause such a flow of life and joy and “rightness” to flow fast on their heels. Some will just be recognized as the fitting one. But not all of them will be great—many will be downright idiotic, reckless and yes, even foolhardy (in the light of hindsight, of course). Yet (oh how I love that one small word!)…YET…these decisions will be actively made…issuing forth signs and evidence of investment in myself and the journey…of engaging in life and its ebb and flow…of being a willing and viable participant in the process of pursuit.

There is fluidity to life. I see that now. The world is open. God is available….He gives me choice…He opens doors (plural) and allows me to venture….to journey…to embark. I was scared before…of making a mistake. Now I see fluidity. I will make decisions. I will make them boldly. I will go all out (For the win!)…and I will walk in those decisions, and the light offered by them. I will recognize those that bear fruit--beautiful fragrant sources of sustenance and satiety. And I will see those that are barren…and then I will reassess. And I will live~

Nostalgia (and a bit of insomnia)~

Everyday I think of Some Really Random Things I want to bring back and rock out old school style.

Just to name a few:

1) Hi Fives...if something is good, you have to give it its due (Up Top!) *And none of that halfway mess...no way---I am talking all out, fully committed, arm entirely extended, make that sweet slap sound...with enthusiasm....and if, by chance, there is a jump involved, that is okay too (the more lift and air obtained, the better)*

2) Glitter *and lots of it!* (See my earlier post 'All That Glitters' for more reasons to don the dazzle)~

3) And speaking of dazzle... ANYTHING "bedazzled"....*Place, Push and Pop!* (I wanna be known as the "Bedazzler Queen")..... https://www.mybedazzler.com/

4)Crimped Hair. After all, who wouldn't want their hair to look like it just came out of a waffle fry maker?

4) Banana Seat Bikes....oh, the memories I have of riding around with my friends together *the more the merrier, people* Bring 'em back!

5) Slap Bracelets. These were oh so cool and stylin' (And who doesn't want to admit the times when you were able to "slap" a bracelet on a "frenemy" with complete, passive-aggressive satisfaction (albeit applied with a little more force and gusto than possibly necessary?)...

6) MC Hammer "pants"... *oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh-whoa-whoa....it's hammer time* (again)

7) Really Big Hair--like the Texas big--(maybe this particular one is simply b/c of my recent biking mishaps...it is so hot to wear a helmet here...and I think this could quite possibly provide a two-for-one deal of sorts--form and function...class and cushion....style and *oh who am I kidding?*.....

8) Saved By The Bell...One last hurrah....beat the dead horse...why not!?!?! *The Golden Years?* Bayside Retirement Resort...Beach Bingo with Belding, anyone?

9)The Robot, The Percolator, The Roger Rabbit, The Hammer dance (and any other random steps that make the dancer appear *to the untrained eye* as if they are having a seizure, or simply needing to make a pit-stop by the nearest loo)~

10) And, finally....to round out my list of ten (there are so many more, but this is a good representation of my recent random musings).... Naptime...just like when we were in Kindergarten...complete with our own neon orange foamy, cushy mats, and lullaby or WeeSing music piping in the background.....*And, yes, I'd like a juicebox too, please*...

Struggle not denied..

I received an email from a friend of mine who I thank God for everyday. He was challenging me to give voice to the struggles in life that I (and that we ALL) face. I do believe that this blog would not be complete or balanced unless it brought to light (honestly and openly) struggles...plain and simple.

For what it is worth, this is my picture. As always, I welcome your own portraits, paintings (finger-paintings I am partial to, of course).

-------

Nestled in this nook,

Tucked away from prying eyes

This feathered bird prays:

Awaiting hope’s birth,

Sweet child of emblazoned sky

“Dispel this darkness.”

A chill in the air,

I reach out for my sweater,

Feathers not enough

October is gray

And winter has come too soon

I was not ready

Knitting, not preening

I make haste in a panic

Clothing nakedness

Slowly haste gives way

Surrendering sheer fatigue,

A delicate fade

Captive tears once trapped,

Angrily assault my gates

They are free to go

Succumbing at length,

I have become that last leaf,

And loosen my grip

Choosing to let go,

I dance and swirl to the ground,

Winter has not won~

the Who

The more I read of Anne Lamott's book (overtly about how to write)...I am struck with the awareness that this book (for me) is more about how to LIVE. Listen to Lamott's description about plot and see if you do not agree:

"Plot is the main story of your book or short story..[...]...Plot grows out of character. If you focus on who the people in your story are, if you sit and write about two people you know and are getting to know better day by day, something is bound to happen.

Characters should not, conversely, serve as pawns for some plot you've dreamed up. Any plot you impose on your characters will be onomatopoetic: PLOT. I say don't worry about plot. Worry about the characters. " (Bird by Bird)~

As I read this, I was shocked to have a mirror held up to my own face. So many times in my own life, I worry about plot--my plot. I want to, like the writers (who are the majority I might add) that Anne Lamott warns against, sit down at my desk of life and pen my plot narration. I already know the background...to be sure, there are a few spots that I would gloss over and "tidy up" for the reading audience for starters. I then want to know the ending first...I want to know exactly what is going to happen so that I can plan for my story's timing and progression to "make sense." In my mind, if I know the ending, I can make everything in between fit perfectly...the rising action, the arc of the climax, the falling action, and the resolution...my plot (my life) all arriving at my (the author's) boxed conclusion and appointed destination (immaculately wrapped, and all tied up in a pretty pink bow, of course.)

Lamott is the first to open my eyes to the fact that I have it all wrong in these moments. The times that I am so preoccupied with what is going to happen in my life, coupled with my paralyzing preoccupation with the future and how it will unfold, many times causes me (just like many writers) to prematurely push my plot--leaving all actions feeling forced, ill-timed, and unauthentic--calculated, contrived and not to mention a huge amount of exhaustive work. These actions become the misguided byproducts of wasted energy-- of soul leeching toil and labor.

I am struck with the continued theme of patience that winds itself like a golden thread throughout Lamott's counsel regarding writing (and life (?))-- Patience with oneself (as the author and observer). Patience with the plot (as it unfolds in its own time). Patience with the characters (as WHO they are slowly (painfully even, at times) emerges, giving way to WHAT they will do/ accomplish). Patience with the process.

This last commitment of intentional patience is the one which strikes me the most. Patience with the process. Ponopeople--Our plots will be messy. They will most assuredly never turn out the way we had outlined in our first (or second, or even third!) drafts. The endings may have to be re-written. There will be times when we will have to backtrack, or press the pause button on the plot...go back and edit and fix some things before we can move forward towards the next chapter. All of this will seem to be a painfully slow and tedious process most of the time. But, to be sure, we will arrive with a complete book....a brilliant work of non-fiction--a poignant portrait of life and truth--of beauty, and the ugliness that often leads to it~ We will have round characters--characters made of flesh--characters who drive the plot, because of WHO they are...because of who WE are.

Write on, my friends...

'Effin Messy (A Tribute to Finger Painting, Flaws and Freedom)

I am in the middle of reading the book Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott (extremely good, by the way) and I came across this passage regarding perfectionism. She is directly referencing the process of writing, yet I have complete faith that a lesson about life is fast on its heels... Such wisdom and awareness could not go undocumented here:

"Perfectionism means that you try desperately not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived. Clutter is wonderfully fertile ground--you can still discover new treasures under all those piles, clean things up, edit things out, fix things, get a grip. Tidiness suggests that something is as good as it's going to get. Tidiness makes me think of held breath, of suspended animation, while writing (LIFE??) needs to breathe and move."

For some reason, as I read this passage (the whole chapter, really) I could not get the image of children finger painting out of my head. Kids--- ten-tentacled--caked to the core with a rainbow pallet of bright blues, radiant reds, and glittering greens--they "stroke". Swirling and twirling--swinging wide-- joyously launching globs and blobs of pigment with reckless abandon. Hues hurtle heedlessly towards the canvas--splashing; spreading; saturating every inch of naked space--clothing it with color. A spirit of frenzied freedom breathes life into the previous pallor.

Children are no respecters of lines...this is evident as one surveys the carnage of a canvas that was once so tidy and neat. Yes, I say, carnage....for the children have feasted upon their freedom of flaws...having satisfied themselves upon the sweet surrender of sterility. And it was good~