Lighter Fluid and Bucket Lists

Robin Williams committed suicide this week. It has bothered me more than any other celebrity death I can recall.  I dont know why that is.  Yes, he was a genius in so many ways, and kind and funny and so very talented.  Truly a unique soul, and I have watched him since his first appearance in television so many years ago. It is absolutely tragic in so many ways. Lines from Hook, where he played the grown Peter Pan keep coming to mind.  I will truly miss him.  But, I think there is more bothering me than that.

I have also been following the blog of a friend of mine with breast cancer.  She is close to my age with four young children.   She writes so honestly about it with such an amazing sense of humor that I bust out laughing as she is describing not-so-funny things, like her recent double mastectomy, and her now bony torso and how her kids fared at a special camp for children of parents with cancer.  Her words are raw, her descriptions candid and her wit is unrestrained.

I have another wonderful friend who passed away a couple of years ago of breast cancer.  She left four kids behind.  She had an amazingly generous spirit and positive attitude about life.  She passed away in peace, I feel, mostly because she knew.  She knew she had tried her best.  She knew she didnt take days for granted.  She was a kind, generous, humble soul.  She was an incredible athlete and even at fifty could run a sub six minute mile.  She still holds two college records where she went to school in the early 80's.  

Then there is my friend who died of cancer a few years ago, leaving five children behind.  Boy, did she fight hard.  It was a strange, aggressive form of cancer that kept reacting in opposite and weird ways to the treatments.  No rhyme or reason.  I remember she posted something on Facebook a few months before she passed.  She said she had been praying to be spared so she could raise her young children, when she had a powerful impression.  She suddenly thought about all the mothers and fathers who had offered up that same prayer over the years, and the answer had been no.  She was humbled by the thought of it and realized that it had nothing to do with being better or worse than someone else.  Sometimes, thats just what happens, and we all have to deal with the outcome, for good or for bad.

I've been going through some serious self-reflection lately, and I'm hoping it will lead to some serious changes. I mean,  I dont have a big problem like depression or cancer, and I'm not going through some big life-changing event like a divorce or death of a family member.  But in some ways, that's my point. Its my general lack of self-discipline.  It affects every goal I set for myself, from getting back in shape, to submitting my writing to pursuing my art as a career.  I could go on about childhood things that still affect me, or self-esteem issues or the cycles of the moon, but I'm 43 and it's time to put those things in their proper place and move on.  And that requires plain ol' self-discipline. It requires making and, more importantly implementing some kind of a plan.  

I think about my friends, about Robin Williams.  I think about what these friends (yes, in my mind, Robin Williams and I are friends....) might wish for.....more time with their kids, a healthy, strong body, happiness, a great home life, mental stability, freedom to choose what you will do that day---the beach, the zoo, the park....choices that aren't inhibited by chemo or quarantines or fear.  I realize that I have every single one of those things they might be wishing for.....EVERY SINGLE ONE.  How many do you have?  Isn't it time?

My friend with breast cancer recently quoted the Dylan Thomas poem on her blog that says "Rage against the dying of the light." I have always loved that poem and it made me think,  it's not just about death.  It's also about life. And rage isn't just about anger.  It's about fighting....about not giving up or giving in.  There are lots of ways we let light die, and often, those ways are passive.  Some people are backed into a corner and make a decision to fight.  Some of us just sit and watch our dreams and goals slow burn into nothing.  I don't want to wait for something to happen.  I want to stop staring at the embers.  I want to grab some kindling or maybe a log, or maybe some lighter fluid and rage.

All of this made me wonder, what's on your bucket list?  What have you been putting off that you really want to do? Please share!  Let's make some plans!

Semper Tri. Or Semper Survive.

Me (right) and my crazy girlfriends!  Love this photo. (cred. Deb Hellman)

I scanned through the Semper Tri Triathlon results, disgusted at how many of the older people smoked me in the swim or bike or run portion of the race....or all three.  I know comparing myself to everyone else is pointless, and I should just be proud of myself for doing a triathlon at all, but alas, old habits die really, really, really hard.  That said, I am proud of myself for doing it, for finishing it, and even for just setting the goal and believing that I could.  And frankly, I didn't train that hard for it, so what was I expecting??

What did I learn from it? Lots.

I learned that:

-I still have a terrible procrastination problem.
-I shouldn't underestimate the 60+ year old woman carrying 30 extra pounds and wearing a leg brace....She must have smoked me in the swim because I didn't see her again until half way through the run when I finally passed her...finally....
-I need to actually train if I want to do better than 75% of the women in the 60-69 age bracket (I'm 43...you do the math....)
-good girlfriends will always jump in and do something crazy with you.  THESE are the Real Housewives of Pacific Beach, baby!
-friendship is everything.
-I can do way more than I give myself credit for.
-a drill sergeant yelling at you to sprint the last part of the race when think you are giving it all you got, actually works, and I did push a little harder.
-my bucket list seems to be getting longer, not shorter.
-I am an athlete.  If I pushed myself, I could do really well.
-I want to be more disciplined.
-you can run even when your legs feel like noodles.

Nothing like having to write your age on your leg!

-it was important for me for my husband to be there, even though I said it was no big deal if he didn't come.  I lied.  It was a big deal, and he made the effort and it meant a lot to me.
-swimming is hard and an open ocean swim is freaking harder!  But the best part about doing one in a triathlon is that there are lots of other juicy options out there for the sharks when you aren't the only one swimming.  Unless you swim too slowly and get left behind.....
-I have an amazing life.  I have a healthy, strong body, even if it isn't in the best shape right now.  I live in a beautiful place and I have wonderful people around me every day to support me and walk these crazy roads together.

Half marathon, you're next!  Who's with me??

(This was a sprint triathlon on Camp Pendleton: 500 yard ocean swim; 18 mile bike ride, 5K run)

Am I Pained Enough to be an Artist?

Two things have kept me from pursuing my writing and art for two decades.

First, I never thought I had enough angst to be a real artist.  It's true.  Most of my artist friends are in a constant state of upheaval.  They have relationship issues, self-esteem issues, family conflicts and they always dress so that there is no question that they are artsy in some me way.  I don't think I'm troubled enough.  When I met the Charge Scenic Artist I was to train under in our theatre department years ago, he looked at me, paused and then said "you're going to be my normal one."  I didn't get it at first, but I did soon after.  I look like a normal American girl.  Nothing fancy.  Nothing that's going to make anyone take notice.  The times I've done more, it felt awkward.  It wasn't me.

Second, I never thought I had anything to say.  Scenic artists are really reproduction artists.  We take someone else's design and turn it in to a much bigger version.  Yes, we add our own techniques and style, but mainly we are reproducing someone else's vision.  And I'm pretty good at it.  But, It is not MY  voice.  And even when I felt like I did have something to say, as an artist or a writer, I didn't think it was just so fascinating that I needed to throw it out there onto the World Wide Web.  I figured people would wonder why I ever thought it was worth making public.

I know there is so much more to being a writer or an artist than the way you look, or whether or not someone else will find what you do interesting,  I suppose to make money at it, someone has to find it interesting.  But artists create art.  Writers write.  Irregardless of who may or may not want to see it.  Even if nobody ever sees anything you do. To think differently would be like asking the color red to look a little more blue because you like blue better.  Red is just red.  If it were more blue, then it wouldn't be red.  Writers write.  It's who we are.  It's who I am.  And, I finally think I have my own voice.

Story Ideas From My Exciting Stay-At-Home Mom Morning

My day so far:

1:30 a.m. Awakened by Seth crying.  Waited a couple of minutes and he was back out.  Checked Twitter, email and Facebook.  Went back to sleep.

5:45 a.m. Awakened by Seth crying.  Fed him a bottle.  Checked Twitter, email and Facebook.  

6:15 a.m. Walked down to an open house I worked on Saturday near my house to drop off stuff that should have been dropped off last night.  Called my mom on the way and chatted about the kids, Texas weather, cicadas and whatnot.

7:00 a.m.  Seth woke up, checked on him and then going down the hallway in the morning sunlight, I could now see the giant maggot parade stretching from our front door to the back door where we take out the trash.  Have no idea how long the festivities had been going on.  Seth stubbed his toe.

7:02 a.m. Swept up participants in the maggot parade, and cleaned trail of blood off the floor from Seths stubbed toe.

7:15 a.m. Put a bandaid on toe and disinfected parade route.

7:20 a.m. Stood up during disinfecting process and whacked my head on the corner of the cabinet door I had left open when I got toe bandaid out.

7:21 a.m.  Immediately crouched back down, rubbing head and beginning to cry (this was th capper to a stressful weekend....)

7:30 a.m. Regained consciousness and composure enough to fold laundry and put in a load of towels.

8:00 a.m.  Stopped crying,  Made hot cocoa for my and my son, got dressed to run errands, made to-do-list for errands.  Took Tylenol for throbbing head from cabinet doors

8:35 a.m.  Drove to bank.  Checked Twitter, email and Facebook. (John is off work so I had the luxury of going by myself and having a quiet moment by alone)

8:45 a.m. On the way to the bank I heard a call-in contest to win Tom Petty concert tickets.  Dialed the wrong number.  Couldn't remember the right one.  Blew my chances.

8:50 a.m.  Tom Petty's "Free Falling" comes on to rub in the fact that I didn't get tickets,  put the top down on the car and sang along. Loudly. Because I know every word.

9:00 a.m.  Bank.  Fairly uneventful.

9:20 a.m. Michaels.  Had fun picking out butterfly stuff for a girl's birthday D was going to today.

10:05 a.m.  Stopped picking out butterfly stuff, finally, and hit the grocery store for milk and bread.

10:20 a.m.  Stopped by the house to pick up D and Seth for the party.  D was too busy watching Curious George to be distracted by a birthday party.  I put the hammer down, because parties are important.

10:30 a.m. Went to the party with butterfly gifts.  Had lots of fun--scavenger hunt, swings, sifting through sand  for treasures, painting, opening homemade geodes with treasures inside, popping balloons with treasures inside....you get the picture.

11:30 a.m.  Ate Mexican Food and donuts at the party.

Noon  Left the party to drop D off at Ninja Camp.  That's right....Ninja Camp.  We are cool like that.

12:05 p.m. Seth fell asleep in the car on the way home from dropping off at Ninja Camp.  Perfect.

12:15 p.m. Reheat my cocoa from this morning,  Lay down for a little bit because of throbbing cabinet door knot on my head.  

12:30 p.m. Really need sleep, but wrote this entry instead. Checked Twitter, email and Facebook.

And the day is not even half over yet.  There has to be a least a few story ideas in they're somewhere....Tha Maggot Parade....hmmm...D would love it.

In Submission....

Oh, that title can go so many ways.  Working on my first submissions as an author, and it's a little overwhelming.  But, I have put off this pursuit far too long, so here I go.  I have a children's poem I wrote a few years ago that I have adjusted and put in book form.  It is hard not to feel too personal about your work, especially when it was written about your child.  I have included the picture that inspired this poem.  It is Dylan running on the beach when he was no more than two years-old, thick, wavy black hair blowing in the wind, short legs at full speed.  He is such a spirited little guy.  He is five now, and this poem is just as true as it ever was.  The poem compares him and his spirit to that of the ocean.  It begins:

"Little child, you are to me, so much like the living sea.
Full of life, so strong and deep, in constant motion, vast and free."

It goes on for ten more lines and draws on the imagery of the incredible moving, changing, crashing, rolling ocean.  I have always loved the lines.  They fit so perfectly with the kind of child he is.  I know there are many who can relate.  I have begun submitting it for publication, so I will keep you posted!  In the meantime, with a second little boy who is just as adventurous, I will continue to enjoy their crazy spirits "crashing on the sandy shore, then off to search and to explore."  It is the stuff of my dreams.  It is the stuff of my reality.  And probably the stuff of my next story, too.

The Art of Brevity

Pacific Beach locals don't need a caption.

In my art work and graphic design, I pride myself on my ability to capture some thought or emotion through a clean, simple image.  It comes natural to me.  It is how I think.  The watercolor to the right is a good example.  Locals love it.  They know where it is and that, even though it's a street sign, it represents a particular beach spot.  They know I frequent that spot.  They know it's a simple representation of a place, a love for that place, and it means I'm a local, too.  I get brevity in my art.

But, when I write, I want to explain everything.  I want to make sure everyone understands exactly what I mean.  And, unfortunately, that can mean I am not giving the reader enough credit to draw his or her own conclusions.

I was reminded of this and of the need for brevity this week as I have been polishing two short works, with the help of my friend of 25+ years, Christa, who is a wonderful writer with far more experience than I have (http://www.christalestelasserre.com).  She responded to my two projects with great advice about brevity and getting to the heart of the story, and it allowed me to see what I needed to do to make some key changes.   Perhaps even complete overhauls.

One of my projects is a 500 word short story submission, and the other is a twelve line children's poem I intend to illustrate into a book.  It's close to midnight, and I am finally pretty happy with my work.  But, it has taken more hours over the last several days than 500 words should.  In a story that short, each word, each phrase has to be carefully thought out and placed for maximum impact.  Each image, like a biblical parable, must be relied on to teach more about the story than the few words used to describe it.  The beauty of simple imagery is that it can hold different meaning for different people, and all interpretations can be correct.  As I begin to edit the larger manuscript from which this short story was taken, I am now asking myself how many of those words I need to keep.  How many are absolutely necessary?  I fear I have a lot more editing in store than I originally imagined.  That said, I am looking forward to paring down to the heart of the story.  It is my story--my memoir, and I don't want it muddled with distracting thoughts that serve as smoke and mirrors to lure the reader away from what he or she should be analyzing.  It is a tactic I have often used in my own life so others don't see what is really there.  And that goes against the whole purpose of this memoir.  It is not to conceal.  It is to capture the essence of these memories so I can lay them to rest and move on.  And I don't want to string that out any longer than is absolutely necessary.

"Like the fear that grabs ahold ya, let it go"

I went surfing tonight.  Well, surfing is probably a strong word,  I did a lot of floating on my board, as the waves were just about non-existent, and I am definitely a beginner and am not one that can just catch any little wave that rolls by.  But, it wasn't just the size of the waves that was keeping me from surfing more than I did.  I don't know how many times I said out loud the phrase "oh, that would have been a good one" as I missed the few waves that were the right size. I missed them for different reasons.  A few times I was just daydreaming, but mostly I would just wait until it was too late. I would decide as it was passing me by that I should have realized that was a good one.  As I sat there rising and falling with the swells, it occurred to me that it was very symbolic of my life.

Like many of you, I have some form of a bucket list.  And, I feel I have been fairly realistic in the things I want to accomplish.  There are a few long shots that will require a lot of luck, but mostly things that are doable with some extra work.  One of them is the memoir I am finally writing. This memoir has been in the making for about ten years.  I have been thinking about it for a very long time but every time I sit to write, I chicken out.  So many reasons, but if I could pick out the main one, it is fear.  Fear of failure or fear of success, or fear of how others will react, or all three. Either way, I have let opportunities pass me by time after time thinking I would just catch the next one. But, opportunities aren't like airplanes landing every five minutes.  I have been careless.  And it's time for that to stop.

One of my favorite songs is by The Zac Brown Band and is entitled "Let it Go".  It captures why I'm writing this memoir.  There is a part that says:

"But you only get once chance at life to leave your mark upon it

And when a pony he comes riding by you better set your sweet ass on it"

I'm a Texas girl and straight-forward thinking is the way I like it.   Leave the sugar-coating for someone more fragile, becauseI don't have time for it.  Especially now.  I've wasted too much time as it is.

"Like a sweet sunset in Georgia, Let it go. Like the fear that grabs ahold ya, Let it go."

I would write more, but it have to get back to editing my memoir.  But, check out the song.  They are killer musicians.