Dear Meat,

Tonight I rediscovered some writing I did a few years back.  I've decided to share it with you bite by bite.  Bon Appetit!

Dear Meat,

            I have given up meat for Lent and in the spirit of pausing, focusing, making change, and taking action I have decided to pick up the habit of writing with discipline (I have a wooden ruler next to me and I will use it).  This is day three of one and day one of the other.  I have to think it out, be the detective, and crack the case of why I eat meat.  This isn’t a permanent cease fire.  In the spirit of open-mindedness I am taking this meatless adventure as it comes.  Who knew lent could be such a county fair of surprises and tiny thrills!  I’m not making any judgments on the carnivores or herbivores.  I’m being here, right now and right now I am putting off what needs to be done.  I need to say goodbye to meat. 

Tell me about highschool...

Hello Friends,

My last post was the intro to a YA book about a girl who didn't see herself in the literary offerings in the teen section of the public library.  She's not a vampire-wannabe, not suicidal, not gay, not the victim of bullies, so what is she?

I think she is going to experiment.  What did you experiment with when you were in highschool?

Please give my character a little help.  Add your comments and help her negotiate in a world that is not magical.

Bookmark: A New YA Book Project

I used to love spending a rainy afternoon in the library when I was a little kid, so I gave it a try today.  I found the tiny corner reserved for teens, dressed up with a second-hand black sofa and a leopard print beanbag meant to simulate a cool place for kids my age.  I checked out the book display and realized that according to the publishing industry and the librarians I was supposed to be either a vampire-wannabe, gay, or suicidal.  There was one more option--victim of bullying, which I'm guessing, plot-wise is probably a result of the first two and a leading cause of the last.

I opted for the free bookmark on the coffee table that lured me in with mustachioed rubber ducks and then schooled me on the dewey decimal system on the flip-side.  I sunk into the beanbag and turned the book mark from duck to dewey and tried to figure out where I belong if the only thing I can relate to in the YA section is a bookmark.

Becoming a Writer: The Competition is ON!

I became a writer when I was in second grade.  I sat next to Adam in Mrs. Newbern's classroom, and he said he had written two pages of a bunny story and bet me that I couldn't write more.

Second grade was the year the school system convinced me that I was there for more than a social reason.  All of a sudden they wanted me to take spelling tests seriously and there was this new thing called "Reach" that if I tried hard enough they would include me in.

I didn't care about any of it until Adam challenged me on that bunny story.  I forced myself to try harder and write more pages than him.

I liked making up stories and I wrote page upon pre-lined page about that bunny.  I found what was worth competing for.

Isn't that what a career choice comes down to--what you are willing to compete for?

I don't get discouraged when people criticize my writing, because that is what is most important to me. I am always looking to improve.

So somewhere along that bunny trail from second grade to adulthood we find ourselves in the constant quest for improving on that bright little light that deserves our attention.

If you are unhappy in your career, or you have been sidetracked into a career that doesn't make you feel the joy of competition, maybe you need to reflect on second grade or whatever moment struck you in free-form to find that spirit that made you want to compete because it was so worth it.

Get paid for your passion.

Summer Dresses and a Song, Any Song

Today, a four-year-old very sincerely complemented me on my summer dress.  It is easy to dress a little girl because every dress is a magical costume without thought to body image.  I took her compliment and embraced it.  I let every little misgiving I had about wearing a summer dress in my less than perfect form and realized that I was wearing a dress under the glory of the sun and that little action is the stuff that makes a season.

In that vein I gave myself completely to the magic of sunshine.  I let myself dance freely and songs came to join the dance steps that my feet decided were appropriate.  Happiness is there for the taking, just listen when Ellie tells you she likes your dress.

Good Egg, Bad Egg

Easter is over and we still have two eggs at large.  As the temperatures will surely rise the need to discover the missing eggs becomes of greater importance.  As the hunt continues I'm drawn to evaluating the season and it all comes down to good egg, bad egg.

When I was a kid my mom made a behavior chart and posted it on the fridge.  Our holiday plans included a trip to a hotel with an indoor pool.  If my behavior merited enough bad eggs I would lose my swimming privileges.  I loved swimming above all else, but I couldn't curb my bad behavior.  Black eggs started appearing on my chart in lieu of colorful good behavior eggs.  I couldn't help myself.  No matter how much I wanted to swim I also wanted to misbehave.

When the final tally was taken the black eggs outweighed the pastels and it came down to a discussion with Mom, the decision maker.

She was often accused of being soft on us kids, but I like to think she gave a lot of thought to what we were experiencing in the life of children.  I shed many tears, because the idea of being so near water and unable to swim was unbearable, but I also knew I had done wrong.

She did relent and I am still blessed with the memories of a six-year-old's back float looking up at a dome over a pool, snow falling in an apocalyptic Iowa April.

Good Egg, Bad Egg.  It is hard to judge another.

Happy Easter!

Three Squares and a Light Snack

Yesterday I woke up hungry for exercise.  I wanted to hear the sound of my heart pounding in my ears instead of people asking me for things.

I started with a cardio warm-up that tingled my senses like a citrus punch.  I rolled out my mat like strips of bacon in a pan and sizzled into a pilates floor routine.  Finally I was full of happy energy and nothing but positive thoughts, and I hadn't consumed anything but a tall glass of milk.

I sat down in contentment with some yerba mate to plan the rest of my day.  While I sipped from my bombilla I had the crazy notion of taking my exercise like meals--three squares and a light snack.

For lunch I packed a picnic and ran off into the park.  I alternated walking, jogging and sprinting for five miles with a break for a leisurely lunch and commune with a barn cat and some horses.  As I started the jog back home I knew I was doing the right thing.  What a brilliant idea!

For my light snack I took a brisk walk through the neighborhood (about a mile and a half roundtrip) in conjunction with the daily chore of food acquisition.  This was turning out to be the best day ever.

When I arrived back home I started planning the evening meal and my next physical challenge.

At this point you might be assuming that I am in peak physical condition.  I'm sorry to admit to you and myself that this is not the case.  That is probably why at this point the pilates came back to me like indigestion.  I suddenly felt the ache of all I had done and I knew I was full of exercise.

It was a great idea and one I plan on trying again.  Exercise should not be feast or famine, but a steady nutrient-rich staple of daily life.  Lesson learned.

It was still a great day.

From Trees to Leaves and Back Again

Have you ever been lucky enough to find a decaying leaf in the fall and really study it?  Did you see how the tiny flaking fragments fall away and reveal an intricate web?  Did you suddenly understand textiles?

This is one of my silent actions, a ritual that allows me to accept the death of summer.

Summer is dawning in days too soon to come, but tonight, in this early spring, I looked up at the spiny black branches against ambient light of the city streets and found that same pattern.

New buds etching out what will become a full and glorious skirt of green, but for tonight they are patchy pieces of new life.  Just as many gaps as their fellows of fall on a larger scale, allowing my eyes to see through.