Learning is fun. Still.

Today I was awakened by the sound of the garbage truck rumbling by our new place, and the realization that we didn't put out our can for pickup.

This realization got me all wound up and I could no longer sleep. So I got up - angrily - and showered - angrily - and decided to sit down and write out a better perspective.

My husband, children and I have moved to a new place. At least it's new to us, so it fits the bill that way. We have double the space and about 1/12 the responsibility as before. I won't lie: the new place has problems. But I can't lie: I LOVE IT.

I love the rooms, I love the yard. I enjoy the kitchen, I like my windows. I like the balcony off my bedroom. I love having places to walk, even when my kids have made little messes. I love having my children in separate bedrooms (though it hasn't managed to cut down on the quarrelling). I enjoy the neighborhood. I love having two bathrooms. I love having a washroom. I love all the brushed metal doorknobs. I love having the "Mammoth table" in my own home! I love entertaining people here - and will be doing it more often after this last Sunday's trial run - especially being able to cook upstairs and play games downstairs!! I love being the only one to park in our driveway. I love having tulips. I love the quiet. I can sit in my living room for two hours writing thank you notes and not hear a single noise from outside. Maybe the echo of someone's sprinklers, but that's it!

But I'll tell you the best part: I now only worry about me, my husband, my children and our four bedroom stewardship. When the garbage man came, I wasn't all bent out of shape because some people had left twelve bags of garbage outside the dumpster, and I had to clean up their filth as part of my job; no! I was upset because my very own one garbage can will now attempt to overflow in the coming week. It's an oddly beautiful feeling.

We moved in nearly two weeks ago. And I have had some very good days. Like the day that we moved and we had a miraculous amount of help: and certain people set up living space just as i was about to crack. Or the next day, when my neices came to entertain my children and help me unpack the mountain of boxes in my basement. Or like yesterday when we took a free ride on the FrontRunner train to Salt Lake and back. Or this past sunday when I met my new ward, and my new ward choir! And there was two days ago when we were up at Mountain Road Ranch and my children began with driveway waterfalls, and Rivulet finished the morning knee-deep and up to the elbows in Dreampacker's garden mud. She then took a nap while my son continued to play WELL with his cousin. Then we went to my parents house and I was incredibly helpful in cleaning up the yard and burning the extra wood in a bonfire whose hotness rivals the innards of Mount Doom!

Seriously: I can't think of a single day in the past two weeks that I didn't enjoy.

And now enter the longing spoken of in Captivating. I have a woman's desire for beauty. So I think I'll go take my hair out of it's towel. I'll do the dishes. I'll let natural morning light seep in through my new blinds, vacuum my new carpet and hang my family pictures.

I will accentuate the beauty of my life today with my behavior.

I love it when simply by writing I am able to achieve a brighter perspective. I'm so glad I forgot to put out the garbage can, so that I had a chance to share my overall joy!

I have creative blockage.

It's not as gross as it sounds, but still. While being Zoned by Wildbound on Sunday, this blockage presented itself in my feet. Or rather, in the right side of my brain, and was echoed in the correlating spot on my feet.

When the little devil was first found (painfully, I might add) and Wildbound announced that it was in my brain, I assumed it was in my less used Left Brain. To hear that the blockage was on the creative side of my brain gave me a moment's pause.

And then the Spirit echoed truth to me. Truth I have been told many times before: "Write."

But . . .

Okay, while not considering myself to be the worlds worst author, I have difficulty deciding what I could possibly write that could be worth the price of a book to anyone. Wow. Just voicing the fear that I have harbored inside: I can see how wrong and self-deprecating it is. Am I not marvelous? Sure, my writing has it's flaws. Consistency of tone, for example, and it's still better than many of the books I find in print nowadays.

I have a feeling that right this very moment is the time that I can recognize the falsity of my thinking. I am spiritually encouraged to lay them all out so that I may identify them, purge them and hopefully move forward instead of chasing my proverbial tale (pun intended). This should be fun.

Q: What do I know well enough to write of it?

A: A better question is to ask what I don't know and stay away from that. Or research it until I have a working knowledge. I suddenly recognize that this particular question is rooted in my old behavior. You know the one: mopey, self-analysing, "there-is-more-to-say-for-being-sad," me. Or - more accurately - the teen that didn't realize she was happy, so didn't feel that she could write happiness or romance. Hm. This question, with age, has also become a weak reason for not writing.

Q: What do I write about? What story should I focus on? Which one will get me published?

A: As Muad'Dib pointed out while we both read through Frank Herbert's first go at "Duneworld," my first book doesn't have to be my best book. Perhaps I should look at this venture more as "Creative Flushing" rather than "my entire life thrives or dives on the success of my first attempt."

I have many stories. Three in particular. Four if you count the one I told Wildbound I wanted to write and then once I had permission became terrified of doing it wrong, so never got past the character introduction. Wow. Not sure I meant to admit to that.

Well: there it is. So. Moving on.

"Talking" this out makes something apparent to me: My Tobie story is my big work. It is the one that is most important to me. It is my literary baby. I can feel the message of her "life" pumping through my body as pure emotion. I'm not even sure yet what that message is, but I instinctively know that it's big. She's the character I could see having more than one book, more than one adventure, teaching myriads of lessons as we watch her go. And it's quite possible that I get caught up in that storm and instead of mastering the waves, allow myself to be tossed about until I'm seasick with the creative intention! That's quite the image, isn't it.

I know that her story isn't going to be perfect for a long time; like I said, it's big. So it seems to me - and I'm seriously discovering this as I go - that I should not be "keeping myself" for this story alone. I should recognize that I have more stories that can also be written. My body is telling me that I need some Creative Flushing. And all in all, it doesn't matter if it's her stuff or not. I can write other things and not feel guilty for "neglecting" that particular story or character. I don't even have to write in chronological order! I can't piece it back together later. Wow.

All this creative freedom is making me light headed.

Given this licence, I also feel that the other characters I have will need their day too. It wouldn't do me good to let them die off. They have become living beings in my very own Mythago Wood, and I will wrestle them onto paper one day.

Until I become this creative Rulon Gardner, the lesson I was taught many times over the past few years, and finally learned today is this:

Even though I cannot yet capture my creative dragons, I can enjoy my creative fireflies: the light may be smaller and less consuming, but it will purify me just the same.

So . . . Wish me luck! There is about to be an outpouring of creative light courtesy of my previously blocked Right Brain! Thanks for the Zoning, Wildbound!

Five Years ago . . .

Girl with the Heart on her Sleeve

Roles that Anger fills in my repertoire of behavior:
Thug.
Blanket.
Booster Rocket and/or Propeller (think Titanic sized.)
Weapon.
Loud Speaker.
Wall.
Parry.
Fatigue combatant.
and most recently discovered: Mask of the true emotion.

Although I learned this particular concept a while ago, I have only employed WISDOM concerning it over the last three days. So what I've been doing much more of?

Laughing and . . .

Sobbing.

Both. Basically equally. Instead of propelling myself through the day with the adrenaline rush that accompanies anger, I employ my new friend: laughter. Muad'Dib thought I was crazy and or hopped up on some unknown chemical Sunday afternoon. I was simply trying not to be grumpy because I was so freaking tired. I felt I had only one other avenue. After about an hour of it, I felt better and caught that second wind I thought could only be achieved from an anger push.

And then there's the crying/all-out-sobbing. I stick by my previous statement of being "fundamentally happy." I am. My life rocks. I could go on. And I have crying emotions. I try to cover them up because I know how it looks: It looks like I'm not happy.

Well, to hell with how it looks. So I sob loudly into the couch every so often. So I start crying in the middle of a Sunday School lesson. So I can't make it through a Lysol commercial without tearing up. So what? Does it mean that I'm not loving my life? No.

I'm not sure what it means, but I know it's not that.

Really. I don't know what it means. For the past three days, whenever I feel the delicious rush of anger, I take half a breath and ask myself, "What am I really feeling?" If I can laugh it away, I do. If I have to release it, I cry.

So far, it's working out great. Except for the not being able to understand what's beneath the need to cry. It's as if I started and now I can't stop. Don't get me wrong: it feels good to let myself cry. Of course, then I'm left to wonder: "Did I really need to do that?" Perhaps in another few days I'll find different tool that works better. Today I only have the two: Laughter and tears. Though in the words of Olympia Dukakis: "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion!" So it isn't all bad.

In fact I remember one occasion not too long ago when I was playing Catch Phrase with my sister, my brother and a friend. It was my turn. The little white and blue beeping disc was passed into my hands. I think the word was "Luxor." While trying to get my siblings to guess, my brother said something. I began to laugh. I laughed so hard that the sobs elbowed their way out, until I was simply bawling into the couch while my friend and family looked on with no little amount of astonishment.

But hey: that's me. Girl with the Heart on her Sleeve.

I certainly don't want my readers to think of me as being a guest in my old melancholy mood. I'm emoting. Not brooding. I have no self hate. My self-analysis is done in wonder. Like a scientist searching the realms of possibility for the cure to some disease he doesn't entirely understand: I am looking within myself. I know the problem and the solution are found both inside and outside of me. They are both within my reach. Or it's like a child looking from a night sky to the firefly wondering what the difference is. I am energized by my learning

While at the same time I am tired. Not tired of myself, but tired of the limitations I have carefully placed on myself since I was born. Tired of pulling them off. I do love the freedom when they are gone, though.

I was going to ask if this made any sense. But it doesn't matter. If it mattered, I would have written my feelings first in a Word document, then saved it. Carefully edited it later, then saved it. And then three weeks from now, I would have opened it again, edited it again and thought about posting it, completely removed from the emotion. Feeling safe that it has lost all it's original impact behind my carefully crafted words. But: (and I choose to use "but" here for the very reason Wildman doesn't like it used) I don't care if it makes sense to anyone but me. It seems that my most special times as a writer are when I don't censor myself. Though this cannot be said of my comments on other's blogs, where it is best that I do not react with emotion.

But this is my playground. This here is my turf. Here I am the master of all thought. The dandelion fairy, if you will, as I once was on the playground in my very real, very past childhood. I give dandelions. If you don't find them as pretty as I do, then you will not accept my gift with joy. But for those who see the dandelion for it's beauty (and it must have some if it has it's very own fairy) our friendship is forged.

Stream of consciousness. That's what this is called. I did this once in High School, where I tried to write exactly what I was thinking as I was thinking it. It was harder then, as I was employing a pencil, whereas now I have only to think the thoughts. Did you know that I put myself to sleep by mentally typing out my thoughts? That's why I am able to type so quickly though I have never taken a class or anything.

I feel as though I am shaking inside. For once I cannot tell the difference between friend or foe in the feeling. Anxiety or Inspiration. Though, the soaring heart should tell me something. Feeling light and romantic. Feeling like me. Crying pries me loose from my binding. Though normally, even in dreams, I need at least a towel to fly. Like a magic carpet meant for one. Does that mean I will always need help?

If so: what a marvelous life that I have so many who are willing to do the helping! So many who are willing to do the holding while I have these bouts of seemingly senseless tears. So many to share with.

And now I look over the rolling ocean of my mind, and feel sleepy. I feel delightfully weary. Like I could finally wink out the lights of my brain and rest in my sanctuary. (note previous post. I'm not suicidal!) It's during these goodbye moments of thought that I send out a call for someone to hold me, to play with my hair or to make me feel safe. I have no great desire to omit that request simply because people may read it this time, where other cries have stayed mute and unobserved in my many volumes of journal. I can recognize that this is different. I am unashamed. And I have faith that if I meant it, I could count beyond my fingers and toes the number of people who would fill the need. And today, I'm happy to report: Knowing that is enough!

And now, I part with the silly words of Stephen Sondheim:
"I feel pretty. Oh so pretty. I feel pretty. And witty. And bright! And I pity any girl who isn't me tonight. I feel pretty. Oh! So pretty! The city should give me its key. And a committee should be organized to honour me. I feel dizzy. I feel sunny. I feel fizzy. And funny. And fine."

That quote is funnier if you don't hear the music to it in your head while reading. The words are also truer if you just say them out loud with the punctuation I inserted.

Hm. I sigh in silly contentedness. Is that a word? Apparently. I just did the spell check and it raised no red flags. So I guess I'm not so like Shakespeare after all.

Well, at least, not today.

SANCTUARY!!

Say it with me: "Ahhh . . ."

I sort of hate to ask it, but

Do you have a basket? These are "Heart Shaped Honey Rolls." They are as delicious as they look. And not as sweet as they sound. Very good with Coldwater Canyon Elderberry jelly. And here is what my kitchen looked like after the whirlwind called "Baking" came and destroyed it's otherwise peaceful exterior.

And still: it was worth it!!!

Baking/Cooking is one of my new therapys. So if anyone is hungry, come on over: 99.9% of the time, I am up for cooking and feel better after doing so!

Forget your troubles. C'mon, write happy!!!

Summer is swift approaching. Before it sets up shop, however, I will be living through spring with it's many lion-and-lamb like ups and downs. April rains. May blooms. You get the picture.

In the yellow-y blue of a spring early morning, I find myself turning on the computer (the hum of electronics massaging my ears like the lullaby of an old friend), and doing three things:

1. I Check my email. There is rarely more than precious little of notice or consequence, but I do it anyway. I constantly hope against hope that there is some personal note therein, meant only for me. Then again, if I don't send those sort of notes, who am I to desire some? I'm not here to moan. On to number two:

2. Check the comments on my blog. I like to think that if I write well, or comment well or put up cute pictures that people will be driven to comment. I'm not sure when the number of comments became my creative measuring stick. Hm. Then I continue with one of two things.

3a. Check everyone elses blog. or (most often most recently)

3b. Re-read my July posts. At first I began this practice because it had the most posts. It also has the pictures from my family reunion in Star Valley and the majority of pictures from Secret Garden. The reason now has become different as I have noticed something:

I have changed. *YAY!*

The thought patterns that I was repeating and re-repeating in July (like Slimer ruling the 12th floor) are no longer a part of my life cycle. Seriously. And I have identified the strongest contributor in my mental freedom. I will now share it with all of you. For I know you are on the edges of your seats, wondering how you can be more like me. Though perhaps you are simply curious as to what I'm talking about at all. Some of you have been around me so little, that you may have hardly noticed a change. Re read those blogs, then you'll start to see it.

About three months ago, someone told me that I was a good writer, but that I never write "happy." I quickly spouted my well rehearsed answer (one I developed as an emotional teen; you know, the one that writes moody sub-par poetry instead of reading "Huckleberry Finn"):

"Well, there are only so many ways to say "happy." But there are infinite ways to express despair."

He wisely pointed out, that what I thought about WAS. He challenged me to not post again until I could post something happy. And then to post (or write) only happy things. He made this challenge sometime Mid-November. Notice that the next two months, I only put up three posts. It was as if I was struggling to find only happy things to say. The truth of the matter was not that I had a shortage of material, it was simply that I didn't know how. And I could believe that I was interesting if I was happy.

My very first blog post was something I had written almost a year before, and I changed it for the purpose of blogging. Guess what it was before it was personal praise for my wonderfulness? That's right - a beautiful blotch of self-deprecating prose.

Then in February, I was wise enough to recognize and then remark on the fact that "I am fundamentally happy." but what followed that? "and have every right to be mopey from time to time." *Boo Hiss*
This was a pattern that began emerging. The idea that I was entitled to bring my negativity to everyone around me because I was such a good girl on the other days.

How selfish.

Not anymore, baby!

Okay, I'm still self-interested, but not all selfish. Or, at least I strive not to be.

One of the biggest boosters for this change was in fact the challenge itself. Once I began to "write happy," along with putting the other fantastic advice I was given to work, I got better. I healed. And now it's not even easier to have "those sort of days" and write out my sadness. I have instead, when I'm mopey, picked a happy memory and written it. These are mostly short, one page things. But I sure feel better when I'm done.

Like yesterday. I was mad that my neck hurt and upset that Lemur was yelling at me and constantly contradicting anything I had to say. So I went to my room, to my computer and wrote this:

"I was in the bathtub: a goddess reigning over an icy world! The bubbles rose like monolithic icebergs towering over me with their soft and swooping curves. I parted the bubbles to see the water below. It had a greenish tint, as one always sees under real iceberg on the Discovery Channel. How much more potent was this world of pretend after that view! The delicious power of it all went to my head (or perhaps it was the heat of the bath) and I watched leisurely as my hand took the shape and manner of a humpback whale: first breaking the water, soaring up above the surface before turning so slightly and plunging back into the depths. When did my hand become so graceful, like that behemoth of a water mammal, that it would be able to imitate those glorious movements so well?

For twenty minutes or more I played in my bath. Parting the bergs, shaping the landscape with great waves and small sprinkling storms, made by the wet shaking of my fingers over a decided peak until it was reduced to a valley. And though I played, splashing about in my very warm frozen world, the bubbles never truly diminished. I could see that although they lost height and fill, there was just as much. It was merely softer . . . more like foam.

Then suddenly I was a selkie, waking in the foamy brine as my human form emerged from it’s former seal-skin. Hoping both that a man would see and love me and also that I would not be discovered. I would lay there, caught in a groove of a large stone - shaped oddly like a bathtub! - as the foam swirled and pulsed around me echoing the heartbeat of the ocean from which I was momentarily escaping.

I closed my eyes, and reached up to take down my hair, which - had I been standing - would reach to the small of my back in coppery brown waves. But they were instead caught by the waves of my imaginary ocean. I rocked my hips from side to side beneath the surface, being both the heart and the blood to make my hair rise and fall. The gentle pulling as the water receded was intoxicating. I could feel my worries disappearing. No doubt this is how a selkie would appear: calm and completely unconnected with the world she was about to enter. And that was a selkie’s charm.

Slowly my mind began to play out my life as a selkie. I began picturing the world, picturing the man, picturing even the children. The dream bore a marked resemblance to my current husband and children: though the land was different, and there were Irish accents spoken by all.

In the selkie-life, I was always beautifully distracted by the soft echo of ocean on the walls of my home when a window was left open. I saw the stars not as dots in the sky but as a map home. I would look at my family and still feel the draw back to my previous world, feeling trapped by the dryness of the land. The mocking damp that rain would bring, or the worst mockery of all: a bath.

Wait. I like my bath.

I decided to abandon this path in my mind meanderings and intended to turn on the jets when there was a knock on the door.

"Hon? Time to get out. The kids still need baths before church."

I sighed. Perhaps baths were a mockery. Giving me inspiration for imagination while never actually transporting me anywhere.

Or perhaps the opposite was true and baths were just what they seemed to be: awesome. "

I have a talent for romanticizing memory. Putting on the rose-colored glasses, if you will, and really re-experiencing it. I used to do this only with "the good old days" with the purpose of showing myself how bad the present was. I would compare myself to the past. Now it's time to
"use my power for good instead of evil."

And this is a start. Who would have thought that there was so much to say for and about being happy?