Celebrate!

I practically danced out of the clinic. Everything looks good. The trace of blood is from scar-tissue caused by the MPGN. Perspective again. A year and a half ago, I was praying the doctor wouldn’t find anything wrong with my kidneys, today I’m praying that all that’s wrong is the MPGN. We do like the familiar, don’t we?

Anyway, I haven’t had time to celebrate until today. So I did the Snoopy dance around the house, sang too loud and off-key, edited a friend’s story, went shopping for scrapbooks. I’ll let you all know what I’m doing with that later, today let's: Celebrate! Celebrate! Dance to the music.

And just in time for the New Year. I'm going to celebrate that, too. I feel so good, full of energy, the whole economics, though still bad, isn't quite the scary prospect as it was. I really have so much, you see, I have enough. That's what really matters in that department, I think. Enough.

Then, there's New Years Resolutions. I have plans, goals, hopes and dreams-no resolutions. And later, after I celebrate the New Year and the well me, and clear away the streamers and confetti, I'll make a list. For now, I'm doing the Snoopy dance

Finding

The tree is down, Christmas put away, for the most part. The house is back in order. There’s a relief in that. I love the tree and decoration, but hate having everything in turmoil. I’ve been trying to keep busy. My Cystoscopy is today. Hopefully, this is the last thing for some time and there is nothing more to be concerned with.

And things are looking up, too. Right after Maddie Rose ‘stole’ or kidnapped the tiny shard of clay, a hair clip came up missing. It is, again, my fault. It was an innocent mistake, really. I took the clip out of my hair while I took a nap. Normally, I’m not much of a napper, but I was up early to get my husband off to work and been going quite a bit for Christmas. I’m not supposed to overdue and it was so warm by the fire. Well, one thing led to another, as it so often does around here.

My hair has been fragile since being on prednisone, so off came the pearl and gold clip. I set it down right next to my cheek, thinking I would hear Maddie’s bell (I never have a bell-less cat around here. You can see why.) if she were to want the clip, but she wasn’t anywhere around and I was very quiet. Still, when I woke the clip was gone, nowhere to be found. Maddie Rose was asleep right next to me, the very picture of innocence. But I knew. I spent a few minutes searching for the hair clip, but I didn’t let myself get too obsessed. I’d done that enough with the clay shard, right?

What is it? The thrill of the sneak and grab, the attention from me, the success she’s been having lately? When I ask her, she crawls onto my lap, purring, clearly satisfied. I wondered if she’s always wanted to be a cat burglar.

Later in the day while fixing myself dinner, I noticed Maddie toying with something under the fridge. First thought was my clay piece, but no, it was the hair clip. Later while cleaning the kitchen, I found the black clay shard, beneath the pet’s food mat. As I studied the two stolen pieces on the counter, (yes, I put them where she couldn’t get them again) I wondered what it was about these two items that had snagged Maddie Rose’s interest.

It’s like that sometimes with my poetry. I never understand why a subject pops into my head, why I struggle to say whatever the poem is trying to say. What I know is, exactly what Maddie knows. For now, for the time being, when the item has caught my interest, it has my whole interest and the reason will reveal itself eventually…or never. Either case, it’s worth it. And then, I understand the satisfaction in Maddie’s eyes.

Looking

So, I’m a bit OCD. Some would say very. Which means I spent the better part of Wednesday and Thursday looking for the kidnapped piece of black clay. Needless to say, I didn’t find it, but…while searching for it, I did find 20 toy mice, 2 pens, 1 highlighter, too many dust bunnies and my poem tracks.

That’s how it happens. I work the idea, do research, find words I want to use, do a lot of pondering. What am I trying to say? What brought this idea to me? Why? What are the emotions the idea taps? Then, out of the blue, while doing something completely unrelated, I find the tracks of my poem. This usually comes down to one word. One word changes everything. And the poem is born-rough, unfinished, sloppy even, but it’s all there.

I work with L.E by my side and Maddie Rose wondering about my desk looking for: black clay shards, no doubt. Still, I can’t get mad at her. I’m much the same as I search for poems from my memories, thoughts and experiences. I never know what will rise and become going that poem that haunts me.

I tell myself the piece of clay is gone for good. I tell myself it’s OK, but it haunts me still. I have a Christmas Eve breakfast to attend, along with a little job Santa asked me to do and gifts to deliver. I sally forth, trying to ignore that little nag, for the poem is whispering too, as I attend my civilian life and I can only manage one other life. That’s what it feels like sometimes, with my writing. As if, I am living two lives.

Tracks in the Snow

The tree is trimmed, the halls are decked…fa-la-la-la-la-la-la. Christmas music is playing (great ‘radio’ available on the internet.) Snow on the ground, fog muffled and isolates. Winter…

I am not a winter person. Not at all. Years ago, when the kids were small, the coming of winter and the dark, snowy days made me blue. I would gather things to do, green plants and good books in the fall, like a squirrel afraid of starving; storing every tiny thing I could think of to ward off the winter blues.

One thing that always works for me is walking outside no matter the weather. The only things that keep me in are sub-freezing temperatures, intense snowstorms or bad air. Today the air is so thick with fog and smog if looks smudgy gray, so it’s walking inside on the elliptical or just walking around inside.

Among the many joys of walking are tracks in the snow. Proof left behind of all we’ve missed. Friday, a cross-hatch of bird tracks, rabbit tracks scattered up the hill, many dog tracks criss-crossing each other, one set whose owner needs to trim his dog’s nails, and deer. Oh, how I wished I’d seen the deer. We have a relationship. I see them all the time. At first, they’d run, but I’d always wave and shout after them not to be afraid. Now, they simply watch until I wave, then go back to eating. I suspect they’ve decided I’m harmless, though a bit strange.

The Maddie Rose situation and the Christmas Tree: I woke the other night to the soft tinkling sound of breaking glass. My dining room was a battlefield of shattered Christmas ornaments (favorite one, of course). I cleaned up the mess, had a talking to the sworn innocent. I think the siege on the tree ended, knock on wood. I find it hard to imagine my words swayed the cat. And if they did, why, by gosh, aren’t I selling like Stephen King?

I wish I could get into Maddie Rose’s mind. What draws her to something? For instance, I’ve been working on a poem all week about a little ghost town out on the Salt Lake Desert. My husband took my mother and I on a day trip out there many years ago on our way to Grouse Creek. Not much left. It’s a desolate place of dead dreams and broken promise. What remains remind me of those tracks in the snow swept away by the years and wind. What once had been a bustling rail town has all but disappeared. Yet, there is something about it that pulls at my imagination and calls to me.

I captured the haunting images by photo and memory, but what made them real were five tiny mementos, now only four. I know better than to leave things on my desk. I know Maddie Rose cannot resist my desk. I don’t understand. I look at that desk and can’t see the fascination for a cat. She loves pens, paper clips, highlighters, loose papers. I’ve said before, is she, herself a frustrated poet, reincarnated to be my cat? Or simple a mischief-maker, out to drive me crazy? I’ve searched the house in all the usual places and of course, she’s not telling. Only watching me, with wide green eyes, as I look under things.

It gets me thinking though. About the poem and what I was trying to say. It gets me wondering about that little token, that little something no one else would treasure. Why do I? Why does it speak to me, this broken piece of clay? What direction will this poem take now? Was it meant to be changed and Maddie Rose is trying to be my muse? I’d ask her but she’s not talking.

One Word

One word, one foot, one worry. Get those behind me. Then, do it again and again until I get through. A little step, sometimes a tiny step, no one else can even see. But do that enough times and the next thing I realize is I’ve finished the story, poem, task, that next medical test. I’ve spent my whole life learning that’s how you get things done. Not by big flashy steps, but tiny miniscule ones. That’s how battles are won, books are written, setbacks are conquered.

So, I got the CAT scan out of the way. Everything looks good. Then, I went into the Urologist, thinking I’d get the scope yesterday, but we had mostly a consultation. He agreed with my kidney doctor that all that was wrong was to do with the MPGN. Still, I have to have a scope to make sure, so it was set up for after Christmas.

I put off putting up the Christmas tree, waiting until I could celebrate being clear of everything but the MPGN. (Perspective, again. Once, I would have celebrated a complete clean bill of health, now…I just want nothing more to be wrong.) We didn’t have a tree last year. I was just too weary of dealing with my illness (That’s not true, it wasn’t the illness by then, but the medicine and…I was still sad about Irene.) and we had a new little frisky kitten to deal with. She’s older now, a real terror, but I decided she has to learn her boundaries.

And, I need the tree.

Funny how just bringing the decorations up from the basement helped. Kind of sad, though. We had to get rid of the old military green footlocker we had our decorations in because of a flooded basement last January. The new, clean plastic containers just aren’t the same.

You see, I’m terribly old-fashioned. My tree isn’t designed or matched. The decorations have been on the tree, year after year, added as we could afford. Many have been on the tree since the beginning. I like it like that. Years ago, we made only one concession-an artificial tree and then, only because the real trees we were getting weren’t lasting through to Christman. The last one we bought dried out terribly and barely made it to Christmas. I miss the wonderful smell, so I’ll try to buy some boughs, etc.

Because Christmas is definitely about smells. Bayberry (you never find this anymore), cinnamon and pine. For me, the smell of a new doll also brings a ton of memories. Betsy McCall, Madame Alexander baby doll my father bought in Denver and hid downstairs in the rafters because they’d sold out here, ( and first suspicion about the big guy) Betsy Wetsy, Terry Lee. I never was one to play with dolls much, but, oh, that smell. It still gives me butterflies in my stomach and a smile in my heart. It’s as full of memories and smiles as puppy breath. Whenever I see either, (doll or puppy) I beg for a sniff. With all those wonderful smells, and glitter-covered ornaments and the memories they evoke, I’ll bet I find something to write about. What about you?

Point of View

I have read tons of articles on point of view. I’ve studied whole books on the subject. Still, sometimes when I’m writing I lose track of what that really means. This last week I’ve had a number of lessons.

Several years ago, in article in RWR, November ’03, The View from Here by Leigh Michaels, she pointed out how perspective has to be considered, too, when trying to get point of view right. How true I have found this in my writing and in trying to understand others, whether characters in your work or flesh and blood people you interact with.

Point of view and perspective work together to make up character. It’s what you see and hear but also how you feel about what you see and hear. It’s about what’s come before because that gives a character reason to react in their own unique way. It’s about how a person expresses himself, too. That’s a lot to think about.

How often do you observe someone do something and you wonder why. Years ago, my husband and I were at a diner having a nice Sunday morning breakfast. As the family next to us prepared to leave, their actions caught our attention. Carefully, the mother picked off every smidgen of food left on each of the plates and put it in a Styrofoam container, then stacked the dishes. Then, she dumped every bit of water left in the glasses into a Tupperware container she pulled from a diaper bag and stacked the glasses inside each other. She placed both containers carefully into the diaper bag while the father took napkins and cleaned all the surfaces of any crumbs, then gathered the discarded napkins and folded them neatly before shoving them into the top empty glass. This was done with practiced efficiency as the three solemn kids look on. It was obvious they had done this before.

I could think up a dozen scenarios. They were on the run and needed the food so they didn’t have to stop so often, and maybe, be seen. They were starving, but found a twenty-dollar bill and decided to use it for one good meal in a warm restaurant. Leftovers would get them through the next day. They were raising pigs or they fed their dog the scraps. (Still doesn’t explain the water, but…)

To me, what they did was cause for speculation, to them, just the way they ate at a restaurant. My point of view and theirs, but what was their perspective? Were they embarrassed by the situation or did they even notice the stares because it was common to gather food scraps for their livestock? Were they scared and hungry and desperate and just doing what they had to do to survive?

Memories are another area where point of view and perspective can be so different to all involved. Just ask a sibling or friend what they remember in a given incident. It might be close to what you remember but I guarantee there will be things that are off in your memory. Next reunion, family or school, ask around. You’ll be astounded at the different descriptions of the same incident.

My point of view: yesterday’s snowstorm will be a wet, sloppy mess for my walk today. Perspective: My daily walk is one of the elements that I believe has contributed to my getting better. So, I pull on my boots and do the walk. I’d be letting myself down if I don’t. Besides, the sun is shining, the sky is a patchwork of blue, and gray, and white, and I haven’t been outside for days. I might even be lucky enough to see the deer or at the least, their tracks.

From my dog’s perspective, there are the most wildly interesting smells out there. What’s not to be happy about?

The Music Changed

The snow is welcome, the cold isn’t. Snow has been falling off and on since yesterday morning. Travel was frightening. I don’t go out in snowy weather if I don’t have to, but I had a test at the hospital. Real fun, too. I got to drink some yukky stuff(technical term) and get a CAT scan on my bladder. Of course, it took longer than it was suppose to. So, I had to rush to get my mother and take her for her H1N1 shot.(Another frustrating situation. Especially since, I just heard from a daughter-in-law that my clinic now has the shots available there. There is a great convoluted story I should relate here but I’m still so frustrated about the whole thing I can’t seem to organize my words into something coherent. Uuuugggg, expresses it pretty much the way it’s in my head today.)

Then, next week, a scope for the same. It’s all to make sure the tiny bit of blood still in my urine is from the MPGN. Not something more serious. So, I worry(stress) and say a bunch more prayers, try to remember all I have to be grateful for(wonderful kids and grandkids, my mother, my husband, a great sister, loving and loyal pets, writing, and enough) cuss from writing plan upheavals and then, I plug along.

So, I’ve been thinking (if my husband was reading this, he'd shudder)…I’m starting to want to expand my writing. Finally, I’m getting the itch to write something bigger. I’m wanting to write a novel again. This is at once, wonderful and scary. (Do I dare when I could get sick again? Damn it, TiGi, you can’t let this run your life.) There is all the old things that need working on and submitting. I know I should do that. Anything that rise to the top, you know, things that are really good but for a little fixing, really should get out into the world.

And yet, I read this quote: When the music changes, so does the dance. —Hausa Proverb, and feel the truth in that for me. Though things are much the same, everything has changed, too. The last two years have put me in such a different place.

An idea for a new story has been hovering, knocking around in my mind for the last few weeks. Very faint, but tantalizing. One thought that doesn’t ever let go, though, is how short a time we all have and most likely, it’s shorter than we think and much shorter than we want. To me, this means I strike out toward the writing I most want to do, the writing that stirs me. So, to quote a song from my son's rock and roll days: An' here I go again on my own, going down the only road I've ever known.

For the record:

The news around here (KSL.com and KSL-TVNews) is covering a story about what will be new rules for bloggers reviewing products, books, movies and the like. If we're compensated in anyway we have to disclose. As of yet, I've never been compensated. (Would I want to be? Hell, yes. What I earn from writing (monetarily) is just pitiful. Truly.

I pick and review the books, movies, etc. randomly, which I'm sure shows as I tend to have varied, eclectic taste. For blue sakes, I even include out of print books on subjects and authors I rarely hear anyone even mention. That's how I like it, too.

I think of my mind as a child's or my dog's. Can't stay on a subject very long if something more interesting comes along unless...I run into something that happens to burrow deep and really hook me. Then, I concentrate on that until I wear everyone around me out. Like my dog with her nose to the ground, taking in all the wonderful smells until she finds that one. You know, that one she (usually a pole) can't be dragged away from.

November Reads and Movies:

I just realized that I labeled last month’s read wrong, calling it November Reads. Well, this is really November’s. It’s been that sort of fall, but a great month of books.

The Time of My Life by Patrick Swayze and Lisa Niemi: So much in this book broke my heart and yet, it was also uplifting and powerful. A lot of behind the Hollywood scenes, a lot of interesting insight into how films and careers are made, but mostly, there was Swayze’s and Niemi’s heart. One of the things that struck me was the voice. It seemed so much as if Swayze was sitting with me sharing a cup and a friendly chat. I’ve been reading a lot of memoirs, done a lot of different ways but I think this was the most accessible for me. Just a nice conversation. I highly recommend this.

Note: This was where I found the greatest drawback with my Kindle. I love it mostly, but…and for me this is a big but. I can’t share the books on it. Most of what I read on it is memoirs because I’ve always thought memoirs are highly personal as far as which one will interest who. But there have been several such books I’ve really wanted to share with my mother, sister, daughter-in-laws or sons.

If I have it on the Kindle I can’t. I either have to buy a book to share or encourage/hope those I recommend it to will go out and buy it. Now, I’m all for helping the book industry, I have a vested interest after all, but books are for sharing. That is just basic. You want to share a book so you can discuss it, etc. That is one advantage I can see with Barnes and Nobles e-reader: nook. You can loan your book to others with a nook, no charge. When I need to buy a new e-reader I will seriously consider it.

The Wolf, the Woman, the Wilderness by Teresa Tsimmee Martino: A small book about returning a gray wolf to her homeland. Much was learned by the wolf and the woman. Much was taught. It was a journey for the two and for the reader. Some lovely poems, too.

They Loved to Laugh by Kathryn Worth: A rereading of a book I read as a young girl. Much as I remembered. A young girl, Martitia, orphaned and thrust into a new strange life. Very interesting to see writing as done then compared to now. The innocence of that time was very clear in the writing, wording etc. Young adult books are much different now.

Bang the Keys: four steps to a lifelong writing practice, by Jill Dearman: This book explains writing to a writer. Oh, the writer knows so much of this by instinct but the world fights the writer. The writer fights the writer. Writing isn’t just writing. It is facing down demons and self and family and life in order to get things on paper. It’s having loved ones say or think: for blue sakes, just quit. (Writers say this to themselves, too.)

This book shows the writer that all of that is true, but so what. Keep banging the keys. Keep obsessively trying and doing. Keep writing.

See, the ugly truth is the hardest thing for the writer is the fight with self. There are so many distractions and so damn many reasons to be distracted. Well, Dearman shoves all these excuses into the light. Then she tells you to do anything to get around the obstacles and distractions. Then she shows you how. This book is a writer’s just do it. I needed it. I needed it now.

A Redbird Christmas by Fannie Flagg: I promised myself a few Christmas stories, just to get into the mood. And this did that with the sweetest story. I’ve always been a fan of Fannie Flagg. (Truthfully, clear back when she was on TV. Her appearances on game shows and talk shows always brought a smile) I think the thing that is most charming is the simple story of regular people told in a warm conversational voice is what I like most about Flagg’s writing.

The story begins when Oswald T. Campbell is told he hasn’t much time left to live and the best thing for him is to find someplace warm and dry to spend his last months. So, on the suggestion of his doctor, Campbell takes himself down to Lost River. In Lost River, he finds wonderful friends and plenty to live for. He also meets a redbird called Jack, who helps set in motion a miracle.

I love movies. Of course I do. I love stories. Good stories. I don’t often go to the theatre and I do love videos and DVD, but watching a movie in a theatre does add a little something to the experience.

Amelia: I have a special place in my heart for Amelia and the reason has nothing at all to do with her flying. Or maybe it does. It’s her writing. I’ve read a few of her poems and a little of her writings on flying. She had a way of writing that touches something deep in my heart. This movie showed her human side and showed her story very straightforward.

I don’t know how true this version was but Hillary Swank did a great job, but she’s another one who touches something in my heart. I think what it is with both these woman is their strength and courage to pursue their dreams against tough odds. That courage speaks to me deep down.

As I watched this movie I had a hard time separating the story from the two women. I liked the story, but I admired the women. One of my first articles for my Romance Writers of Utah newsletters started out with a poem of Earhart’s. After I’ve reread and edited it if need be, I’ll post it here.

The Blindside: Loved this. Bullock does a perfect job in this feel-good story. Michael Oher was homeless when the Tuohy family took him in. Leigh Anne Tuohy doesn’t just give Oher a place to stay, she gets involved, puts herself and her family out there for this kid. Great story and even better because it is true. There are good people in this world. This movie shows that. It also shows what a little help up can do. I truly loved this movie. It's worth seeing more than once.

December Godsends:

• Flannel sheets
• Animal tracks in the snow
• White chocolate-covered oreos
• Simply awful Christmas sweaters
• Tucked close to the fireplace while snow falls
• Yearly trip for poinsettias and deciding which color this year
• Christmas lights
• Christmas carols sung by children
• Snail mail Christmas card
• My favorite black and white films: Penny Serenade, White Christmas and Pocketful of Miracles