For me.

Friday the 13th? Bah. Granted, it was coooold here. And Grif and I (unfortunately) had to actually run out in the first really bitter weather we've had this winter, but that was more a case of bad timing than bad luck.

So what did happen today? Oh, not much. We played. We made old-fashioned strawberry pretzel salad (which in light of the good luck that came my way, I indulged in... heavily). We napped (translation, I got Grif to nap, a miracle of good luck in and of itself). And, my illustrious cookbook writer/cohort/friend informed me that we were on Amazon. Us. Our cookbook. Even more stunning, me. My name. Top billing. On Amazon. Right there for the whole world to see. And enjoy and appreciate and celebrate and read.

Now most of you might think this is silly (sort of like googling yourself), but I was struck. Still am, if my staccato writing here is any indication. I've been writing a book for awhile now, on and off (mostly off, in all truthfulness). I even wrote about that book here once, and I always knew (still know) that I would one day finish it, sell it, publish it, and then see it on the shelves of my favorite bookstore, and ultimately... on Amazon. The pinnacle. The ultimate. What I never imagined was that I would get there first as an editor. What I forgot to be specific about was that I wanted to get there at all -- and so seeing my name up there on that familiar Amazon template was akin to having all my dreams come true, even the ones I had forgotten about.

Deep in my heart, upfront in my head, ever-present in my soul, is the utter conviction that this is just the beginning. Both as editor and writer. As editor, another cookbook (dare I say, cookbooks?) with my name (and Kelly's and Court's) will find its way to that (official)(epic)(amazing) book-selling, book-reviewing, book-making site. And as a writer? Well, that too. I'm sure of it.

So thanks, friends. Thanks, Kelly and Courtney. Thanks to all my neighbors and friends and family and hubby and boy who helped me get here. And I'm not just talking about the cookbook on Amazon. I'm talking here, on Friday the 13th, with the biggest, most satisfied, Cheshire-Cat grin on my face. Thanks, universe. This day has been so, so good.

So much.

Last night, as I went to bed, I felt the most amazing sense of accomplishment. Even though I still had a ton of work to do, laundry to sort and wash, and a whole house to clean, I felt good. Really, really contentedly good. Optimistic, satisfied, happy. This was in part due to the fact that I actually finished a good chunk of some writing I had to do, and totally despite the fact that I was waaaay behind in some editing and indexing still needing to be done (which I'm once again putting off for just a few minutes here as we speak -- I'll get to it, next).

Even more amazing, I woke up with the same take-on-the-world attitude. And it even carried me throughout my day, most pointedly through my (as usual) rough writing afternoon. Rough writing, by which I mean that I have a terrible time (frequently) both remembering that I am a (great!) writer, and also actually getting the (great!) writing done. Yes, I know, hard to believe, but I often sit in front of my computer at my (great!) job as a copywriter, totally despondent and dejected because I know that this will be the day when the words just won't come. Or even worse, that this is the day when I really don't feel like finding the words at all, because of the project, the client, my lunch, my lack of sugar snacks, my overindulgence in sugar snacks, my lack of sleep, you see where I'm going here.

But last night and therefore today, something changed. Shifted. Regardless of what I had done and what I had left (yet again) unfinished. I felt like I had done it all -- and even better, done it well. Maybe this is what writing and blogging have been all about, all this time. This continual building of energy and optimism and inspiration and drive. And maybe this is just the start of the rewards, both spiritual and mental, that I have only now begun to reap. Maybe this is what I have been about, all this time. How amazing.

I'm quite sure that this silly bliss will have its down days, or disappear for moments at a time. I'm a realist about that. But for now, I'll take the "high." This morning, minutes after a groggy Grif came wordless into my room, silently begged me to bend down and take him in my arms, I complied. We sat on the floor, we rocked, we cuddled. A little frog tucked entirely into my body, as I hugged him so very tight. Five minutes later, or maybe it was ten, he finally spoke his first words of the day, "Mommy, I love you sooo much." And I can only think now, that maybe this too is what it's all about. Amazing indeed.

I once was

So, I've been quiet here recently. Procrastinating really. The date since my last post grows further and further into the past, and instead of doing something about it (like perhaps write, as a writer should do, does), I've let it simply haunt me and remain unchanged.

Sometimes I use time as an excuse, as in, I have no time to do that today (sometimes this is acceptable...most times, well, not really). Most of the time I think it's because I  feel I should have something so prosaic, so profound, so paramount to write about that I can't fulfill my own expectation....and instead choose not to write at all.

Very recently, however, a good friend of me reminded me that this is not what this blog is about (thanks, Sue). Although public and with a small "readership" (one that I would love to expand of course), really this space is all about me -- who I am, who I want to be, and where I'm going. (Yes, I stole that directly from you, Sue. Thanks for that as well.) I start writing "half-blog" entries in my head so often, but then the workday comes and both they and the time fade away before I grab onto them firmly and set them down here. So instead of always feeling like this blog has to be lofty, or perfect, or moving, or targeted, or newsworthy, or readworthy, or even "good" (whatever that means), I'm going to try more to just write. And not judge. And not hesitate. And not over-think. And not procrastinate. Just write.

So this morning I was thinking about when I used be a skydiver. Distinction -- not when I went skydiving, but when I considered myself a skydiver. The short story is that my sister and I did it together -- I gave it to her as a Christmas gift certificate and told her that when she was ready to redeem it, I would go with her. We decided to do it the "real" way -- no, I'm not talking about tandem, nor about static line. We went hard-core all they way -- it's called AFF, Accelerated Freefall. What it means is that after 12 hours of class, one rain delay and another four-hour review, my sister and I went up to 13,000 feet, hung from the wing of the plane, and with ONLY an instructor holding on to our jumpsuits -- a mere handful of fabric, no straps, no safety net, just a hand-hold more to steady us in flight than as any kind of assistance -- we jumped out, freefell, pulled our own cord, and floated down all completely solo. This is one of those points where even years later, words don't really describe it....

But that's not the point of the story. Nor is the point that my sister left her evil monster husband after that first jump day (although it could be, given the point of this post -- she'd been married to him for 20, yes, 20 years, and leaving him after that jump? No coincidence I think). Nor is it that we went back for a second jump and did it all again (only this time we did maneuvers in mid-air). The point is that I thought myself a skydiver. A fearless, jeep-driving, wild woman, cool-girl skydiver. Not just someone who jumped out of planes, but a skydiver. The word had weight. I did things like that back then -- weighty, somewhat crazy things like driving solo across the western half of the country in my jeep (pre-cell days, remember). Hiking the Grand Canyon. Playing rugby. Going rock-climbing for four hours before my shift at a crazy restaurant where I would spend the following 10 hours absolutely running my tail off. Writing poetry. Painting watercolor scenes at the pond by my house. Driving by airports and dreaming of flying...the energy I had, the romantic notions, the ideas...

My memory of that girl I was is jaded -- on the surface, she seems so confident, so daring, so free and fearless. And for the most part, I was (dare I say, still am?). But the truth is that I was also alone way back then. Lonely. Achingly, terribly, horribly so. And although I miss those days somewhat -- truly, who doesn't miss the crazy, carefreeness of their youth? -- I'm no longer that fly-solo-by-the-seat-of-her-pants girl. I have a husband who is my whole heart (and who, ironically, is a pilot -- my oldest of friends find that hilarious), I have a son (a child, a wee boy, the ultimate light of my life, the center of my soul), and a life with them that I love so very much and that I waited so very long for. I have so much. So very, very much.

I want to remember these things for the good that they were. I want Grif to know that I drove a blue jeep for 17 years (still miss ya, Big Blue). That I was the captain of my college rugby team (and we were good), that the only times I've been to the Grand Canyon have been by myself. That I once spent a month crewing a 34-foot sailboat and sailing around the Virgin Islands. That I bought a harmonica determined to spend every day playing it but never did. That I've started two different books, but not yet finished either. That all these things made me the woman, wife, mother, writer I am today. And that I wasn't afraid to do any of them. To try them. Or to leave them in the past where, for now, they belong as good, wonderful, gotta-smile-at-that memories that remind me I'm still beautiful, strong and free. I can't wait to tell him that I wasn't afraid to step out of that plane....and let go. And fall.

Breaking the Silence

It's interesting to me how I have a love/hate relationship with my professional job (dare I say, career?). Outside of the fact that I truly love the work I do (I've often said that I'm a good editor because I love doing it, but the reverse is just as true), I love it that I often can steal away a few minutes or a half hour to write a little something here (steal being the operative word). It's when I'm at work that I have the most contact with a computer and the Internet -- I find it hard to motivate myself to sit back down at the computer at home after I've been pounding away at one all day at work (hence another reason why "the book" remains unfinished). So naturally I love it when my job allows me just a few minutes of downtime to put down some of the words that so often circle in my head. I love it when I can actually see the words churning out and know -- just know -- that I'm a good writer.

Yet I hate it (absurdly) when the events of the past few weeks -- the um, well, work -- have kept me so busy that I've been silent here. So although this will be quick (perhaps not short, but quick nonetheless), I was overwhelmed by the absolute need to break the silence and get something current out here.

I love my job for the past few writing projects I've done. Who knew that I could actually grow as a writer when writing copy for a client? I should clarify by saying that the most recent client was, in fact, ourselves, and that I've been writing (or rewriting as the case may be) the majority of the narrative that appears on our soon-to-be-launched new company website. I've loved taking on the ultra-creative, super-hip, highbrow and intelligent nature of this. I love it that the higher-ups trusted me to do this -- and even more, that they showered me with praise upon its completion. I love doing the background work to find out what's really cool with other companies like ours -- that kind of research is what made me love the ad business all those years ago in college, when I used to cut out magazine ads that I felt -- knew -- were particularly brilliant, whether due to the layout or the copy, more often than not both. I love it now that I can recognize that same quality in my own work here.

Yet I hate my job because the incentives to stay here have just been dramatically increased -- a nice pat on the back, both in the actual, real singing of my praises from the "bosses" along with a good bump in pay -- it's been fun here. Good. Satisfying. Fulfilling. And that, of course, is the very reason why the "hate" part of the job relationship is so poignant right now. I hate it when I realize how much I love my job, and the people I work with, and even more, the actual work I'm doing. I hate it because my job is still 100% full-time, in-office, and that makes looking for something else so difficult. Which I'm doing. And I still want. Terribly. I hate it when they make me love it here...and that's said with a genuine smile on my face, but more than a grain of sad truth.

Because I'm still missing days with the boy. My precious, sweet, growing, crazy long-legged boy. He's running and climbing everywhere and everything. He's fearless. Not yet talking (in real words that I can understand, I should say, since he's definitely speaking, just in his own language) but that day is fast approaching. And with it comes the realization this bright window of his future is being thrown open -- these special years where he can go to the zoo for the first time, slide down a park's slide over and over, laugh out loud at the joy of getting pushed on a swing...and it's now more than ever that I want to spend as much time -- as many days -- as I can with him.

This see saw of emotions has been very much on my mind of late. I'm so thankful that my job is getting better, I'm overjoyed that I actually like it again. And I'm saddened to think that I'll have to leave it in order to gain the time I so desperately desire with the boy in these years before he starts school. But leave it I will, if it means even one more day I'll get with Grif. And when that day comes -- when -- I'll happily and thankfully take with me the memories of these good days here.

So this life coach says...

I went to a Ladies Night Out last week at my favorite new pilates studio. Drinks and appetizers, jewelry for sale, 15-minute massages, salsa dancing...and a life coach. Before I go much further, you must first imagine how I just said that word, life coach, with a slight moue on my face. I know a life coach -- a real, sincere, good life coach -- my dearest, dearest, soul mate of a sister/best friend/maid of honor/godmother to my child, and I'm here to tell you, that my friend was made to do this -- she's been doing it for me on some level since we met when I was 16 and she 14...but this lady, let's call her Jane, exuded this vibe that was altogether too easy to role my eyes at. "I'm a life coach," she breathes in her cheery, determined voice...

Anyway, Jane set me on edge from the start...to get things rolling, she asked the ladies within earshot, "Are you ready to make a change?" Complete with her book in the background and worksheets in hand, I got an immediate used-car-sales vibe from her from the get-go. Good lord. Now again, I believe in life coaching, for creativity, for inner peace, for goal-setting, for learning better how to live your life. Jane seemed to have an agenda -- a business agenda -- and her job was to take us through this (very long, repetitive, staged) talk that would explain what a life coach does and the (long, repetitive, staged) process that she uses to accomplish her clients' goals. She mostly focused on health and exercise -- and how to change your daily behaviors and expectations in order to meet these body and diet goals. And she does much of her coaching over the phone apparently. Which just made me cringe even more. On the phone? Come on, lady.

At some point during her shtick, she finally posed a question to the group (imagine a dozen glassy-eyed women sitting somewhat morosely on exercise balls casually bouncing up and down to stay awake), "Who here has a goal they want to achieve -- and wouldn't mind sharing with the group?" As she stared intently (bright-eyed, expectant) at us, someone piped up with, "I want to finish my book." What the...? Did that just come out of my mouth? Crap. How did that happen? Where did that come from? Me, apparently. "Ooooooh, that's a good one," Jane exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight and focusing entirely on me now. Fantastic.

What followed was a series of questions -- showing the group the type of questions she would ask me if I were (eek) her client and she my (gasp) life coach:

Do you have a title? (I did, but it had been so long since I worked on it that in that moment, I actually forgot what it was.)
How long have you been working on it? (Forever. Actually writing it since...and I paused....2001.)
What's it about? (My mother. And her first husband. Who was killed in the Vietnam war. And hence is the whole reason I am here.)

Jane started to coo again, practically rubbing her hands together in some sort of life-coachy delight. But here's where she got interesting:

Why do you want to write it? (Because I'm a writer. Because it's a good story.)
Who are you writing it for? (Uhhhh. Good question. Myself? My mother? I wasn't sure. I'm still not.)
What's stopping you from completing it? (Everything. Time. The fact that I'm a mother of an 18-month-old, working full-time, with a husband who's a pilot and is gone for days at a time effectively leaving me a single mother and it's all I can do to set aside an hour to workout or find a babysitter so I can come to events like this...this came out in one breathless rush).

She asked me some other questions, about finances (yeah I have to work full-time right now) and my husband's support (yes he supports me greatly, can't wait til I finish the NYT bestseller so we can both quit working), challenging me with intentions (a writer writes every day) and things I was doing to further my goal (blogging) and what I was going to do in the very near future to accomplish this (um, well, set aside some time to write, review what I've already written and get back to it). And that's where she got me.

As insane and over-the-top and salesman-y as this too happy and intense woman was, she had me there. Set aside some time next week to write. Get back to it. Just write for god's sake. Write. The. Book. Already.

And for as much as I disdained her, judged her, scoffed at her, dismissed her, she got to me. I guess, she did her job. Although I don't need a life coach (yet), I've been thinking about her simple questions and the 15 minutes she spent firing them at me. And no, I haven't written any more of my book just yet (It Was A Very Good Year -- that's the title by the way, just like the Frank song). But I'm getting there. I'm thinking about it. I'm passionate about it again. No longer on the back burner, but burning brightly in my forward consciousness. I want to bring it back and finish it NOW. I want to see how it turns out -- where it takes me -- how it ends. I owe it to my mother, her first husband, most importantly, I owe to me -- the writer I am -- to complete this thing I began so long ago.

I'm off to yoga right now. And then home to see the boys and make dinner and hopefully relax a bit after this day. And maybe, just maybe, I'll write tonight. And if not, I'll have at least written this much about it. And that is a start that I can be happy with.

Early Morning Mama

Last night, Grif woke up at 4 a.m., whimpering, not really crying, but in some sort of (mild) distress. He hasn't been feeling too well lately, so coming fully awake from a deep, dreamy (Tylenol-nighttime-cold-induced) sleep was immediate and easy. A little water, some quick cuddling and a pacifier later, I came back to my own bed. Ready once again for sleep. Both of us. But the whole 15-minute experience got me thinking...

About mothers. And the fact that I am, in fact, one myself. Ahh, Motherhood. How it has changed absolutely every detail every emotion every goal every feeling every dream every daily action in my life. My dreams for the future no longer (solely) include finishing the book I've been working on (dreaming about) for years. Now my "dreaming" energy is focused much more (daily) on finding a job that will let me work a shorter work week -- so I can have an extra day (or two!) with Grif and my hubby pilot. My budget no longer includes a car payment, instead I have a daycare payment. My living room is no longer the home of my reading sanctuary -- now it shares equal space with Grif's main play area and toy storage. In order to workout, I no longer have to just sacrifice leisure time, now I often have to miss a few Grif hours (hardest when I come home from work first to squeeze in a half-hour before going back out -- a mistake I'm loathe to repeat since the boy breaks my heart every time with his immediate tears and wailing when I leave again). My weekends are no longer marked by the luxury of sleeping in, but blessed by the quiet of three-hour afternoon naps. My whole view of my life, being present in it -- in words and action -- means now being present and central and aware for this amazing small child of mine as well.

Most importantly, my life encompasses more than just the pilot and me together. Now, we are three. Three we are -- a family. And the wonder of this -- amazement, thankfulness, sometimes still sheer disbelief -- strikes me speechless every day. I'm no longer just a daughter, sister and wife. But a mother. Of a bright, beautiful, glorious child. Who loves running outside. And who's already eaten dirt out of one of my plants. Who spins in circles while dancing (usually clockwise). Who looks at me with his big blue eyes and smiles right at me. A small boy who runs to me -- his mama -- when I open the door at daycare and peek around the corner. Who is most amazing to watch when Jim sits him on his lap at the drum set -- how Grif plays, sticks flying. My own little child who can summon me from the depths of sleep to comfort him, his warm body cradled with mine and his head resting on my shoulder. Whose laughter is simply the most joyous thing I've ever heard (and Jim is the best at getting Grif to really laugh -- laugh to tears -- my favorite thing to watch).

I found a new blog this week -- another boho mama type -- but I read a post of hers on motherhood, and fell in love with her writing and her voice immediately:

To be a mother means to kneel a hundred times a day; to kiss a damp and tousled head after a nap, or to rub away some sticky mark upon an upturned cheek (and to wonder, was that oatmeal, or something worse?). It means pressing my knees into the floor, so I can look into the wide eyes of a small person who knows how to press all of my buttons and also how to unlock inexplicable emotions in heart...

Her words have stayed with me all week. And apparently, though the night as well....it was these words that kept me half awake last night (this morning). Waiting to hear if the boy was returning to sleep. Waiting to return there myself. And dreaming/smiling/reveling in motherhood.

Three For One

I'm full -- so very full -- of spring and spring fever and a bounce in my step. Joy abounds today and it's because of so many things -- a cool new song that I can't stop tapping my feet to, the gorgeous weather (I love not having to wear a jacket let alone a coat!), and the fact that it's such a lovely thing to realize (remember) that I am, in fact, a writer -- a good writer at that. I know, a bit full of myself there, but today, it just makes me smile ever wider. I feel good, ya know? How truly marvelous.

So let's start the beginning -- I've heard this song a few times on my favorite local radio station and Sirius, and it suits my whole mood for the week. I even sang part of it to Grif last night before bedtime (instead of my usual Van Morrison Sweet Thing)...there's something about the whistling....the chorus....the tune. It screams happiness and joy and lightheartedness (all perfect for lulling Grif to sleep). And it stands the test for late afternoon pick-me-ups. One might even say it kills it for afternoon pick-me-ups. It's sweet and lovely and good. And it hits both marks -- good music and good lyrics. Take a listen here....I dare you not to bop along with it.

Next up? Spring. I love winter (yes, I know, but I truly do -- it's my passion for snow skiing that does it, snow and winter mean steep, snow-covered hills, moguls and fresh powder, and attacking the hill with the perfect tune on my iPod). I love winter, but spring is the herald for so many things -- stomping in mud puddles with Grif, afternoon family walks to the park, hanging outside on the deck with a beer and my pilot after the boy is in bed (and while it's still light out), grill outs, pool days, basking in the sun during my lunch hour, Fountain Square Farmer's Market, beach and lake vacations...I love it all. And it's tangible today -- the cold, snowy days are over and everything is about to bloom. I can feel it in my bones, can't you?

And last, well, the writer thing. I'm on the blog "team" here at work (yes, I'm at work now, ha!), and in the last five months, I've made the effort to blog twice. Twice! Yes, I've been insanely busy, but I can admit that even that seems a bit ridiculous. So I finally made a contribution this week (on, yes of course, wait for it....grammar -- when it's posted, I'll link to it here). I reread it this morn (cuz again of course, I'm truly obsessive compulsive in ensuring there are NO mistakes, even for something silly like a marketing blog). I read it again, and paused. It was good. Really good. And it made me smile -- call it trifecta, hat trick, whatever, but this last bit of realized happiness/joy/satisfaction/inner-smiling-ness seemed to demand a bit of acknowledgment in one crazy, all-inclusive tribute.

And so here it is. Welcome back, Spring. I didn't realize how much I'd missed you.

For Kris -or- A post within a post

I'm a writer. I've always been a writer. It was that statement exactly, on the night I met my husband and after a bit of small talk about what we "did," he actually said to me: "But you've always been a writer, right?" I truly think it was that innocent (but oh so very insightful) statement that made me turn and look -- really look -- at him. And think, "hmmm...now that's interesting, how did he know that?" It could even have been what made me start to fall in love with him...

I digress. Blogging. And Kris. That is what this one was about. And the fact that for so very long, even though I knew about blogs and blogging (which have been around since '95!), I had ignored them -- and their function, their power for one such as a writer. Perhaps even deliberately (earlier this year, a friend of mine had asked me with a touch of scorn in his voice, "you're not going to start one of those mommy blogs now, are you?" I scoffed, and answered with complementary, condescending scorn, "Pfffbbb, no, of course not!").

My friend Kris changed that. Completely, suddenly, after one innocent (and yet again oh so very insightful) statement. I had written her a quick note about a picture of her lovely grandmother, who had recently passed away. Her one-line (dare I say life-changing?) response was, "Girl, if you're not writing for someone besides [your employer] -- at least a blog! -- you should be." And I sat back in my chair after reading it -- totally struck still -- and knew she was right. So this one's for her. And here's what sparked it all....

I saw a picture of my husband's grandparents a few years ago. It has lived in my memory ever since -- it's so provocative, almost the very essence of the word. And it was this picture that I thought of when I saw a very similar shot of Kris' grandmother....and here's what I told her:

There’s something to be said for seeing pics of our parents and grans with they were young -- especially folks of a certain age who grew up with those black and white/sepia-toned shots, and a certain style of clothes, a certain mindset about life -- shots like these blow me away.  I think it's because we are so accustomed to only seeing our rents/grans as “old,” and it always floors me to really see how truly beautiful or handsome they were when they were young -- ESPECIALLY during those times between the 40s & 50s…they all look like James Dean or Rita Hayworth -- and they make it look real, convincing, and somehow totally unattainable for you and me. It makes me love them even more somehow….

When I first saw this photo of Jim's grands, I honestly could not stop looking at it. Look at them -- she's got the model walk, her hat, holding her hand just so...he's got that star-struck look on his face as he gazes at her, hand fashionably in his pocket, like he just stepped out of a spread in GQ. The beauty, the undeniable glamor of this photo, the unconscious grace -- these are things that the people of our generation can never duplicate. Not totally. That art has been lost somewhere as the world grew up. And this shot wasn't posed -- they were just caught on the street. On film. What luck for us...

So, Kris. Thank you. Thank you for making me think of this photo. For making me remember that I was a writer. For helping me expel my prejudice against blogs in general. Thank you for giving me the (needed) literal kick in the bum to start being a writer again. Thanks for reminding me to write. This one's for you.

For my mother, and her fallen soldier

This one is easy. It's Veteran's Day, and first and foremost, I always think of Pete, my mother's first husband. Her first love. Her first heartbreak. He was a Marine who died in the Vietnam war.

I wrote this poem years ago (for a poetry class my last semester in college -- yes, that many years ago), and even then, I knew it was some of the most original, most amazing work that I had ever put to paper (and the only poem of mine my teacher liked)...in the library, with a spiral notebook, assignment in mind (to write a poem about a memory). I remember looking down to begin writing...and then nothing else until I looked up. And it was complete. And good. I remember nothing of composing each line. It had just appeared. Like it had been there all along...

I haven't changed a word since. This one is for my mother, and the soldier she lost all those years ago. I celebrate them both.

A Sketch for Mother

I'd come without an umbrella. I think
there was a moment when I realized why I'd come at all --
not for me --
for Mother. She'd never been -- never really even told Dad she'd wanted to.
That was something they didn't discuss.
And the rain that day was so cold.
The wool of my blue pea coat chafed my damp goose-pimpled skin
and I'd felt like my grandmother as I used my scarf to cover my hair and ears.
It was the rain, I knew, but it seemed as though something else
had forced me -- and all the other gray people -- to 
walk with bowed heads and downcast eyes.
White stone statues, cement blocks -- even the grass -- turned gray and dirty under the cloud light.
And yet I remember the marble still shined. Cold and hard, almost vindictive.
Water ran down the face in rivulets. Like some great stone creature at weep -- I remember thinking.
Deep deep black that could somehow still reflect people against the 
hazy sky -- people that stood in front of it
as if only looking at their own faces.
I don't remember the walk -- or how I even found it -- but suddenly
I was right in front of it -- looking at his name.
And I'd felt out of place and clumsy because I'd come empty-handed.
PEDRO LEON, JR.
Carved neatly in a line of a section of a wall on a lawn.
Lined up neatly amongst a thousand other names -- all faceless, all gone.
Military to the last. 
And I remember running my fingers in the groove -- in the groove carved by the letters of his name.
       Who were you? What did you look like? 
       Why did you leave?
       How did you die?
       (And most clearly, most troubling)
       I would not be here if you were alive. 
      You died. I was born.
A soggy piece of paper in the depths of my pocket -- found it and placed it
over his name -- covering it -- burying it -- pencil shaded over it.
PEDRO LEON, JR.
was now on the paper.
I'd had to look up to see his name -- and the rain had soaked my upturned face.
I'd never known him. Wouldn't. Couldn't.
My God, My Country, My Family -- his Code of Life remained only as an etch in a wall that marked
his death.
And suddenly the enormity of what he'd done -- what he'd given -- penetrated the chill and left me
even colder
and the water on my face was no longer just rain.

I gave my mother that paper with the smeared scribbled stencil on it.
I often wonder where she put it away.
And if she ever takes it out to run her fingers over the letters like I did.
And if she ever bows her head unconsciously like I did.
And if she ever cries tears for a lost man friend lover husband soldier. 
Like I did.

1989, W.E. Henley, Morgan Freeman and Me

As is my new habit when I use our lovely new Mac laptop, I am wont to pull up the Internet and (compelled beyond my control to) watch whatever cool new movie trailer comes up on the Apple/Safari site. I love doing this. Grif and I often do this together (although the Jake-turns-wolf thing from New Moon made him cry). But this is about the trailer I watched recently -- the one that almost blew me out of my chair...all the way back to 1989.

I used to keep a book of quotes. Rather, I keep it still, but I haven't entered an unforgettable, un-losable, all-consuming quote for quite some time (the last was February 2004). For the entire decade of my 20s, I was never without this book -- traveled with it, wrote in it constantly, kept it at my bedside table or in my backpack of the moment. It's a simple cloth-covered blank journal. Blue. Given to me by a friend I no longer keep in touch with (although the miracle of Facebook lets me sneak peeks at her profile picture). I don't recall what made me instantly bestow the "quote book" label on the blank book, but I distinctly remember wanting to mark the date when it was full -- feeling at the time that it would be only a matter of months before it was covered front to back, page after page with thoughts, quotes and poems (yes, some of my own, tragically) that moved me, inspired me, resonated with me, and ultimately shaped me into so much of the woman I am today. The first entries are dated November 25, 1989. Almost exactly 20 years ago. Strange coincidence? I don't believe in those...

I flip through it quickly now and am almost struck to tears at some of the entries -- great words from movies, poets, songs, artists. I have a feeling that many of these will surely show up in later blogs now that the quote book has been rescued from its dusty position on my neglected desk....

The book is nearly full, surprisingly. Not all the way -- no ending date yet recorded. Not surprisingly, some of the earliest entries are still my favorites, the ones given the careful attention to penmanship that supports their importance. Of these (still strikingly) there are two that live alone on one single page, embodying a unique position of particular importance duplicated no where else within. The two best. The ones most important to remember. To feel. Believe in. Live by. Recorded sometime in November of '89.

The first is part of Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (and the quote I nearly always leave within wedding or congratulations cards...a blog for another day)....the second is the finishing lines from Henley's Invictus:

It matters not how straight the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

The same poem's opening lines live on the page's exact opposite (among quotes from Dead Poet's Society of course), and if you don't know them, or the whole poem itself, it's worth a look.

Which (finally) brings me back to the movie trailer. The one that I watched, tears in my eyes, jaw dropped, completely moved by the story of the movie and the story of my own life that came charging so forcefully back with the trailer's opening recitation of one simple poem...this poem. My Henley poem. The Henley poem I could picture with perfectly clarity written in my old quote book. The one that was so very important/striking/moving/perfect to me all those years ago. All from a trailer of a movie that also carries its title...Invictus. I couldn't embed the video, but if you want, take a minute to watch it. I want to see this movie -- I think, now, I must.

This is a hard time in my life. I want so much, to do so much (as a wife, a mother, a woman) and I think I'm at the stage where it's easy to forget the girl I was in 1989 (and the years following) who was confident, invincible, unstoppable, passionate, romantic and ready to take on anything -- change the world (my world) armed only with a poem or that one perfectly inspiring quote. I played rugby too -- for four years. I was the captain of our team (another movie coincidence? You know what I'll say).

I'm always astonished when the universe listens to my prayers, my pleas. I think, now more than ever, I needed a reminder of that girl I was then. Of the writer I was, and wanted to be. A reminder of the way I thought nothing could stop me, or interfere in fulfilling any of my dreams. Of the way I looked at the world, of the things I was moved by, engaged in, driven by. A reminder of that little blue cloth-covered quote book where I poured so much of myself into and had utterly, completely forgotten about. A reminder so that I could bring part of that back to my life now and remember (know) that I have the strength and will to not only achieve happiness, but do so with grace and thanks and above all, hope.

I mean, come on -- a movie introduced (and surrounded) by THAT Henley poem? A movie about hope -- and accomplishment -- and change? With rugby? At this time in my life? Not coincidence at all. I'm listening, universe. Wide awake and listening -- and full of thanks for the reminder.

Eighteen Minutes

I have 18 minutes before I have to leave to pick up the boy from daycare...oops, now 17. And instead of reading other people's blogs, or wasting time, or wasting ANYthing more, I am challenging myself to use this time. Use it, thank you, Jack London.

Blogging is difficult for me. I fear I want all my posts to have soooo much meaning. To be masterpieces. To carry a message. To affect another soul, move someone, make a difference. I start getting ideas about things I should blog about -- the woman I saw today with a young girl (Does she have a chance? Mom was on the phone, smoking a cigarette, wee girl was flitting around her like a lost satellite -- too scared to take that final step away, too young to do it alone, too fragile to be ignored. Hmmm...perhaps that's a post for another day.) -- the talks I had with two of my friends today, encouraging them separately to breathe, follow their dreams and do something daring, scary and different -- the delight of fall and the possibility of change and hope for what the future brings -- the fabulous ice cream that I had to celebrate the afternoon -- the Elizabeth Gilbert talk I listened to on the Painted Path....

It's crazy all the "blog" thoughts I've had since I officially began my life as (not just another) blogger. Down to 11 minutes now....as a writer, I've always felt the pressure of "a writer writes every day." I want to be a better writer. I am a writer. A published writer (ah the days of book reviews!). An accomplished and not quite prolific writer (but I'm working on that). Writing for my job is very different than this creative, organic work that I'm putting down here in print. And one that I think I've let narrow my creative thinking as opposed to expand it...writing copy for a client or his or her website or ad...well, let's just say it's not what I want to do forever. Writing like that (copywriting, that is) demands that you write with your head first, and just like in the movie Finding Forrester, I believe more in writing "your first draft with your heart..the first key to writing is... to write, not to think!" And I think that's the problem -- too much thinking, not enough real writing.

And so with one minute left, I won't reread, I won't re-edit, I won't rethink. I'll just write. And be proud that I did.