This Day in History

On December 11, 1992, in my little hometown of Highlands, New Jersey, a Nor'Easter blew us all away! The tide was something like 9.2 feet above normal. Winds were hurricane force (if I remember correctly). And once again, the river overflowed its banks and roared down the street. We saw lifeguard chairs and picnic tables float by. Cars were submerged in the floodwaters. The power went out. And slowly, the water seeped into the house - up to about (almost) a foot, I believe. We were taken out of the house in a boat. We were misplaced for a few days. Our furniture and many other belongings were ruined. But we still had a house, when we returned a few days later. And we still had our family. Luckily, we viewed this storm as an adventure - not a tragedy. We made it through - as we always did. I am remembering that crazy, stormy, exciting day - today - so many years ago and so many miles away. It seems as if there was nothing we couldn't get through, nothing we couldn't conquer. I only hope I am still that strong.

Whew!

Turkey - and everything else - turned out GREAT! Missed being with my family but was happy to be with Ron and his family.

That Damn Bird!

I am freaking out about cooking the Thanksgiving turkey. This will be my first. Not only am I afraid to screw it up - since I have never done it before - but I am also totally grossed out!

You mean I have to reach my hand inside that thing and pull out a bag full of gook - gizzard, neck and who knows what else? You mean there might still be feathers attached that I have to pluck off before cooking? You mean I have to wash that thing, rubbing my bare hands all over the raw flesh of a giant bird? And I really have to get up before the sun to hoist that thing into the oven?

When it's done - cooked golden brown, steaming and juicy; slathered in gravy and resting comfortably in the company of mashed potatoes, stuffing, green bean casserole, biscuits and all the other fixings - then I'll enjoy it. But until then, all I can think about is having to deal with that damn bird!

Wish You Were Here

Wish you were here
Where corn fields dominate landscapes
And strangers say hello
Where country roads wind and wander
To places unknown and unfamiliar.

Wish you were here
To help me prepare the turkey
Smelling the hot apple pie
Fresh from the oven
Your recipe, remember?

Wish you were here
As a familiar face
In this sea of strangers
With traditions I do not understand
And connections I will never make

Wish you were here to share this
To see how far I’ve come
And to witness
What I’ve created in this home
Away from home.

Today's Goodness

1. I helped someone who truly needed my guidance and skill. And she was so appreciative! I really feel as if I made a difference.

2. Another day on the elliptical!

3. I know what I am good at and feel confident in my skill.

4. I am so excited about cooking Thanksgiving dinner next week!

Food for the Soul

So far, today has been a good day. I went to my writing class at Women Writing for (a) Change in Cincinnati and that always brightens my spirit and feeds my soul. My writer-friends there are all wonderful, supportive, creative, and special people whom I feel so very honored and privileged to have as a part of my life (if only for a short time). Having the opportunity to hear their stories is always a rich and beautiful experience. And their support and positive reaction to my stories gives me such confidence and pride in myself and my work. I am a better, more creative, more compassionate, and more whole human being from my experiences with these women. They change me with every meeting. They transform me. And I cannot say enough how grateful I am for these women and this experience.

On another note, I am just about to go work out on my new elliptical machine (which I put together myself last night, after lugging the 128 pound thing all over town, into the house and down to the basement!). Can't tell you how happy I am to have exercise equipment at home. So long to those few extra pounds (that I've put on since moving in with Ron)! Hello Skinny Bitch! :)

Writing My Way Out

I'm in a bit of a funk right now. Who knows why. Could be the weather. Could be that I've gained a couple pounds recently. Could be related to my relationship, school, homesickness, or just the overall - not feeling good about anything right now - feeling.

So here's what I'm going to do...I'm going to write my way out of this funk. Starting today, I am going to take notice of things in my life that make me feel good. These could be compliments from others, accomplishments and achievements, doing things for others, something related to the weather or nature, whatever. I'm going to write them down - make a list - of all of this goodness. And hope that this will help me get out of this funk and move on to brighter, better days (and moods).

So, starting today.....

1. I saw my first snowflakes of the season.
2. "Somebody" thinks I am phenomenal.
3. I am getting an elliptical machine delivered (any minute now) and I can't wait to start my workouts.
4. I am kicking ass in the football pool.

Wow...I feel better already.

FEAR

Forget about everyone else, I should just say what I think (feel, need, desire...). But...
Everyone will think I am crazy (or mean, or stupid, or shallow, or ridiculous.....).
All I really want is to be loved (accepted, admired, appreciated, adored......).
Really, is that too much to ask?

Three Skills

You have the power to acquire three new skills (Playing the violin, becoming psychic, running the mile in less than three minutes, etc.). What are they? What effect do they have on your life? (Prompt from the book, Writing Yourself Home by Kimberly Snow)

1. I want to learn to be a runner. I want to be able to lace up my shoes, head out the front door and run – as far as I want, as long as I want, as fast as I want, as often as I want. Running will give me strength and toning. Running will give me energy and keep me fit. If I could become a runner, I could eat what I want (for the most part) and still maintain my weight. If I could become a runner, I could have more energy, more power, more balance and skill. Running would give me confidence (perhaps to even enter a 5K or a mini-marathon or something). Hell, if I can do that, I can do anything!
2. I want to learn to fix things. I want to acquire miss-fix-it skills. I want to be able to fix things around the house, remodel and decorate. I want to be able to tinker with my car when it is acting up, or change a flat tire if I break down. I want to be able to depend on myself alone – not boyfriends, not family, not friends, not handymen – to fix what is broken in my life.
3. I want to learn to dance. I don’t dance. At parties and weddings, in bars and even just alone in the house – I hear the music, I feel the beat, I want to dance – but I am afraid or self-conscious or just lacking the skill. So I sit. I talk with friends. I watch while others are out there dancing the night away. I do slow dance, occasionally, but rarely. But I want to DANCE. I want to get wild out on the dance floor. I want to stop being so shy or self-conscious or afraid – and I want to dance! What am I going to do at my wedding?

Yes We Can!

I don't want to spend time talking politics on this page, but I just can't go without marking this day and this history making election as significant for myself and for America. Obama Wins! Need I say more? It is a beautiful day. There is hope. There will be change. History has been made. And I once again have faith in my country.

I Am Writing

Pen in hand
Blank, white page waiting
I am writing
Memories, dreams, emotions
Shopping lists and what I ate for breakfast
Details from my trip back home
And the ever-present decisions
Words that get me through the day
Affirmations to keep me going
Tearful outpourings
And rage-filled venting
How I got here
Where I’ve been
And what I’ve learned along the way
Plans for tomorrow
Goals yet to achieve
Fantasies of what’s to come
And dreams to fulfill
Observations of the changing seasons
And the changing self
A record of my journey
The story of my life
Evidence that I was here -
Writing.

Missing You

I have been living away from my New Jersey home now for a year and four months. I've lived away before - both times in Colorado - but only as long as eight months. This move, to Indiana, was the big one, I suppose, and this may be where I end up for the rest of my life. Who knows?

I have a life here. I've moved in with Ron. His family has become my family. I have made friends. I have a job, hobbies, favorite places to go. I have settled in. But I am missing the old familiar faces and places, especially now as it looms close to holiday time.

I don't want to go back home right now - I just visited in September and had a great time with family and friends. What I do want is visitors. I want my family and friends to come here. I want to spend time with my sisters and brother and their husbands/wives and children. I want to cook Thanksgiving dinner with my mother. I want to introduce my NJ friends to my IN friends. I want my new home to merge with the old one.

I understand that people have busy lives, money is tight, vacations are difficult to plan (especially with kids), and Indiana is not on everyone's list of top places to visit. But I'm here and I won't be home for Christmas and you've never been to Oldenburg, Indiana and I am missing you.

What do I want from you?

Why I am writing this blog? What is my intention? Whom is my audience? I have only given the url for this blog to a handful of people - a few family members, some close friends and some writing friends, as well as instructors for my graduate studies courses. So what do I want from you? Well, as much as I have balked at this in the past, what I really want is "to be heard." Now, people say this at my writing class all the time and I get it, I do, but I have always questioned the notion. Writing - and reading your work aloud, just to be heard? Don't you want feedback? Don't you want praise? Don't you want advice? I used to think that was all there was to sharing work - constructive criticism, a pat on the back, advice on where to go next. But it goes so far beyond that I feel ridiculous for even mentioning it.

Writing (and sharing work) to be heard is about telling your truth, raising your voice and having the courage to let others know who you are and how you feel - and not expecting judgment, criticism or even praise. Of course I LOVE IT when you all write back with supportive and positive comments - who doesn't want to hear that they are good at something? But that's not what this is all about. I want to "publish" my work here and share it with you so you can witness and be a part of my "process." In essence, I am saying, "Here I am, this is me - this is what I think about, what touches me, what inspires me, what moves me. This is what is in my heart and in my head. This is my art, my passion and my dream. This is me, as a writer."

So what is my intention? My purpose? Who is my audience? I guess I am still figuring that out. But that's the wonderful part of the writing process - it is a journey. And right now I just want to enjoy the ride.

You Might Not Return Here

Take everything you can
As you embark on this journey.
You might not return here.

Take the books, especially. They have informed your life.
Take the completed journals
And those blank books you will soon fill.
Take the unfinished manuscripts,
The collection of poems
And the writing practice notebooks.
They are a part of your process.

Take the candles you burn as ritual, the rocks collected from your travels,
The seashells that bring you home
And the carved wooden turtle that stands by your door.
Take the wine, the collection of teapots,
The stuffed-dog and your photographs.
Take the little things that hold space in your heart.
You will need them when you are far away.

Take the new clothes (six sizes smaller),
The scale that has marked your losses,
And the yoga mat for continued practice.
Take the new-found self-esteem,
The emerging voice,
And the pride in what you’ve accomplished.
You will not be that girl again.

Take the sound of your nieces’ laughter
And the Saturday morning coffee with mom.
Take Christmas Eve around the tree,
Memorial Day barbeques,
And summers at the beach.
Take the moments you won’t get back
You’ll miss them when you’re gone.

Take the view from your bedroom window,
The back roads you know by heart,
The stretch of sandy beach you love to walk
And the blinking lighthouse you can see in your sleep.
Take the old familiar places and the lifetime lived here.
Take those things you cannot forget.
You might not return here.

Carnivore

I was a vegetarian for 8 years – a strict, reading all the ingredients and looking for the tiniest bit of animal product, kind of vegetarian. But one day I’d had enough. Being a vegetarian was hard. And I wanted meat again.

My first bite of meat, after 8 years without, was Tyson Chicken Tenders – frozen, packaged, crispy-coated chicken that tasted to me like I had ripped off a piece of live chicken flesh and began gnawing. Needless to say, it made me sick.

But I persisted, the next time going for fast-food chicken on the long drive home to New Jersey from Cincinnati. Had I not learned my lesson just days before when my friend and I cooked up the Tyson Chicken Tenders in her kitchen in Cincinnati? But this time the fleshy white meat went down a little easier. It made me a little nauseous, but I kept it down.

My next brave attempt was Thanksgiving turkey. And here’s where I found that love of meat again. Though I still couldn’t eat meat off the bone, I didn’t know how to cook it yet, and my consumption consisted of only chicken and turkey so far; after tasting that juicy bird smothered in gravy at the Thanksgiving table, I knew I would not go back to being a vegetarian.

So I began experimenting. I ordered a chicken sandwich when out to dinner. I tasted small pieces of the chicken breast my mother cooked at home. I tried deli turkey again. And yes, I even went back to Tyson Chicken Tenders occasionally (though I still can’t really stomach them). It was all good. I was back to eating meat and my life was so much easier!

But, like a gateway drug, I knew I couldn’t stop at poultry. Soon I was craving juicy hamburgers, sausage sandwiches, those slices of kielbasa wrapped in dough my aunt makes, and every once in a while, a few slices of bacon. Going to parties or out to restaurants made these cravings easy for me. I had choices here, and could sample a number of savory treats created by others. But cooking the meat on my own was another story.

When I learned to cook, teaching myself through experimentation, I was a vegetarian. Ask me to whip up a meatless dish stocked with veggies, whole grains and cheeses and you have yourself a meal. But ask me to handle and cook meat and we have a problem. First of all, until recently, I couldn’t even look at, let alone touch raw meat. It made my skin crawl. It made my stomach stick. It made me remember why I was a vegetarian in the first place.

But learning to cook meat was, to me, a task to be conquered, a goal to reach. So I started learning. I asked for advice, I read cookbooks, I experimented, I tried. And I am learning. Still.
I can now cook a few meats – hamburgers, chicken breast, bacon, sausage, tacos with either ground beef or turkey, and a few others. But handling it still freaks me out. And I still need it fully cooked. I need my hamburgers to be brown – without a hint of pink. I need my bacon and sausage crispy. I need my chicken done. And I admit I am a little freaky about it.

Just last night I freaked out when Ron cooked chicken on the grill for us. I usually cook chicken longer than necessary, just to make sure it is done. When I do this, I am in control, and can poke and prod the poor little white meat until I am satisfied that I have cooked it thoroughly. But when someone else cooks it, you never know. So I made him keep my chicken on the grill at least 15 minutes longer than what he said was necessary. It couldn’t be “gooey” I told him. And he laughed at me, but kept the chicken on the grill until I was satisfied. When it finally reached my plate, I admit, the chicken breast was slightly charred. Taking my first bite, knowing that quite possibly it could be under-cooked, I was a bundle of nerves. The chicken was good, of course and my worrying was all in vain. But I can’t help it, it makes me nervous.

It’s not about getting salmonella or mad cow disease or any of the other plagues brought on by the consumption of meat, although those issues do make me wary. It is more about the “ick-factor” for me. Eating meat is just gross, sometimes! And as satisfying as it is to consume Thanksgiving turkey, a nice cheeseburger hot off the grill, a thick Italian sausage sub with peppers and onions, and crispy bacon dipped in maple syrup at breakfast, I cannot get it out of my head, sometimes, that I am eating animal flesh. Gross!

I am still going slowly, taking baby steps. I still cannot eat meat off the bone. I still can’t stomach more than a small bite of steak. And I still, for the most part, stick to chicken and turkey, with a few burgers or sausage links here and there. And I’m slowly learning to cook meat. Although touching it still gets to me. Gosh, what am I going to do when I have to cook my first Thanksgiving turkey? I’m not reaching in there!

My Blogging Personality

Here's what "Blogthings" said about my blogging personality. I tend to agree . . .

Your Blogging Type Is Thoughtful and Considerate

You're a well liked, though underrated, blogger.You have a heart of gold and are likely to blog for a cause.You're a peaceful blogger - no drama for you!A good listener and friend, you tend to leave thoughtful comments for others.

http://blogthings.com/whatsyourbloggingpersonalityquiz/

(Thanks Christy!)

Cooking in the Country

Oh I am deep in the joy of cooking! Having moved in with Ron, and no longer living alone - making those solitary meals - I take pleasure in cooking dinner for us every night. I am almost embarrassed to say that the thought, 'what am I making for dinner tonight?' is with me all throughout the day. I cannot wait to begin preparing the meal every evening. I cannot wait to smell the yummy aromas filling the kitchen. And I cannot wait to hear Ron say, 'this is good, babe.' Maybe it's the country setting in which I am now living that makes me want to cook and bake and create. Maybe it is being in a relationship. Maybe it is my settling in to my own house and beginning to take on the "wifey" role (though I am not a wife yet). Maybe it is just another creative outlet. I don't know, but cooking, right now, seems to spark all of my senses, and it makes me happy.

When I cook, I try new things, I experiment, I cook to please, I cook for health, I cook for creativity. I browse the grocery store for new ideas, I look online and in my meager supply of cookbooks for recipes I can try. I email my mother, sister, and friends for recipes they have made that I’ve enjoyed. I want to stock the kitchen with all the best pots and pans, bowls and gadgets, fresh herbs and spices, and the satisfying smell of something cooking.

And I want to hear stories about cooking. I want to hear about family cooking traditions, old pots and pans and cooking utensils left over from great-grandmother, how to bake bread, the smells that fill the kitchen on Sunday afternoons and so much more. I want to share recipes, stories and tips with family and friends over coffee at the kitchen table. And I want one of those great kitchen tables, with history and stories of its own to share.

I am in the country. I look around and see corn fields and farm houses. I can hear cows mooing from my bedroom window. I smell fried-chicken and fresh biscuits throughout town. And fall is here with its crisp air and falling leaves. All of this makes me think of hot apple pie, pumpkin bread, big bowls of steaming soup, fresh veggies from the farmer's market....cooking, baking, creating!

Found Along the Shore

My bare feet step upon the warm and grainy sand
Of the ocean beach, my home.
I’ve been away
And this is the first barefoot walk
On the beach this season.
Sharp seashells poke the soles of my feet.
Sand fleas jump at my presence.
A light breeze blows off the ocean
Leaving my skin sticky, salty.
The sun shines warm on my shoulders
Even though it is September and
Fall is approaching.
I lean over to handle a piece of driftwood
Left smooth by the wind, water and sand.

Found a clam shell – white, purple and brown.
A snail shell, broken and sharp on one end.
A scallop, a mussel, a razor clam and some seaweed.
Found a mermaid’s purse – a skate egg case
And those little shiny shells
that look like toe nails.
I once strung some together on fishing line
And hung them from a tree.
Their quiet tinkling sounds
always bringing me back to the ocean.
Found some stones – one grey, one white, one pink,
And pocketed them.
Found a sand dollar.
Found the holes in the sand from “pissers” (steamers) spewing water
As the tide seeps slowly away from the shore.
Found a jelly fish, its bubbly body still and lifeless upon the sand.
Found the shell of a baby horseshoe crab,
This creature, too no longer alive.
Found my stride along the shoreline
As I walked, feet half in water, half on land,
Smelling the sea,
Feeling the sun,
Working my calf muscles upon the sand,
Molding itself under my feet,
Taking me in, welcoming,
Inviting me home.

Characters

Back home again in Indiana, I keep thinking about the train - the Cardinal Route from Chicago to NYC and back again. It was a LONG ride. An accident (our train hit someone!), slow speeds, mountains, and odd hours piled up to create annoying delays. But we made it through. Tired, but full of interesting experiences. Specifically with the people I met along the way.

There was a 21-year-old college student - feminist and anti-war bumper stickers plastered all over her laptop, combat boots, too many bags, and an attitude - that boarded the train with me in Cincinnati. Somehow we became friends along the route and shared conversation and coffee in the cafe car. I learned about her life, her boyfriend, her religion, her family....it's amazing what strangers will share with you.

Then there were the two men who boarded the train in West Virginia, a case of Budweiser stashed in their bags. Josh sat next to me and persisted in flirting with me the whole ride, calling me sweetheart and telling me he'd be better for me than my boyfriend waiting back home. Joseph sat across the aisle and spewed nonstop nonsense about the military, hunting, pot, his wife, Bunny, and all sorts of other vomit. At times I escaped to the cafe car just to get away from his incessant verbal garbage.

There were also the characters camped out in the cafe car - sipping beer, coffee and Mountain Dew. There was the visual artist who tried to convince his seatmates of the magical powers of mushrooms. There was the woman who was convinced that our train was cursed - citing the early morning accident, the delays, the train number and other factors to create the spell she believed was cast upon our train. And the group of men at the end of the car who downed Bud Light and talked about relationships, work, family, religion and politics. Eavesdropping on their conversations filled me with fodder for many stories!

There was the woman who locked herself in the bathroom before we even left the terminal in NYC, her yelling and banging to get out echoing through the car. To assist her, I simply told her to unlock the door.

Then there was the young guy on his way home to Kentucky from Maine after working his fifth summer at an arts camp. He had been traveling, he said, when he wasn't working at the camp. After his brief stop at home, he was heading for California.

Oh and I cannot forget the retired couple sitting in front of me who boarded the train in Philadelphia. They were headed on a cross-country train ride (all the way to Seattle), just for fun. The man (I wish I could remember his name) was fascinated with the train and could not sit still. He jumped around from car to car searching for information about the technology of the train, our route, the reasons for our delays, our speed, and more. He asked the conductors and other staff continuous questions, and made a point to get to know everyone in his vicinity. His wife, constantly checking her GPS device to figure out where we were and how fast we were going, did laps up and down the aisles from one car to another. She needed her exercise, she said, and had to get it when she could. In Cincinnati, this pair exited the train with me to pick up "Mother," as the man called her, to travel with them the rest of the way across the country.

And then there were the random meetings, the conversations I overheard, the passengers who constantly walked past my seat on their way to the bathroom or the cafe car. There was the screaming child at the front of the car, the woman who walked in on a man in the bathroom because he hadn't locked the door, the man who kept staring at me from a few seats ahead, the smokers, aching for the next cigarette break, and the man and his daughter leaving the train in Philadelphia, arguing about who would carry the extra bag.

These were characters, alright. And even though the train ride was LONG and exhausting and the delays were a hassle and an annoyance, I'd do it again for the experience, for the scenery and, most importantly, for the people you meet on the Cardinal train.

On the Road Again

I am leaving Wednesday for a visit back home to New Jersey. I am taking the train - 18 long hours - across Ohio, Pennsylvania and on into Penn Station in NYC. It has been a while since my last road trip. And though this one is on a train, rather than my preferred method of driving, I am still feeling all of the old excitement and anticipation of getting on the road again.

Songs like Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again", Janis Joplin's "Me & Bobby McGee", Fastball's "The Way" and The Indigo Girls' "Get Out the Map" keep playing in my head. These, and of course the classic Credence Clearwater Revival tunes are my familiar companions on the road. Back when we still listened to cassette tapes (yes, I'm old!) I used to make mix-tapes of my favorite road trip songs. Then when cds came along, I'd do the same thing. Now, traveling on the train cross-country (sort of) for the first time, I have uploaded my favorite cds onto my laptop and plan to kick back in my coach seat tapping my feet as I watch the country roll by.

I'll miss driving, I think. Given the choice I would drive anywhere. I've driven across the country quite a few times (often by myself) and have made numerous trips up and down the east coast. I've traveled through New England, the Midwest, all over Colorado, out to California, and many points in between and up and down. I love the freedom of it. I love taking rural highways and small country roads, stopping at roadside stands, exploring an unfamiliar town, and discovering unknown scenic beauties along the way. I love getting out my map to look for out of the way places, small towns and state parks & historic sites. I love being independent and going wherever I want to go - lingering a little longer at a site that interests me, taking a road I have never seen before, stopping when I want or driving on and on.

I won't be able to do that on the train. But it will be another kind of adventure. I'm excited. This is my first long train ride. I've never done it cross-country before. I really don't know what to expect. One great thing is that on the train, I can write.......so I'll let you know how it goes.

Appetites: A to Z (revised and still playing)

Appetites: A to Z

I have an Appetite for the rich and delicious blessings in life,
Feeding my Bountiful flesh healthy doses of Beauty and Burden.

The Creative hunger reveals the Core of who I Claim to be.
That Dreamy girl, with her head in the clouds,
But essentially, Earth-bound.

I wonder, will it ever be Fruitful? Writing
Those words on the page that keep me Grounded.

I am always Hungry for more.
Insisting I can have It all.
Wiping the Juice from my lips,
Like after a stolen Kiss, so delicious, you cannot tell
If it is Love or Lust or maybe just a Lie.

The Mass of emotions, a Mess
Leading me Neither here Nor there.
Like Ocean waves, bobbing and cresting, rolling and crashing.
Like Passion.

But then it is Quiet.
And I Rise to discover
That all is Still.

And though I Tell my Truth,
And share the Universal human experience,
And let the blood flow from my Veins,
I still Wander. I Wonder
Where to draw the X.

The desires of Youth keep me traveling.
And feed my Zestful appetite.

Appetites

So I just wrote a poem for my writing class tomorrow. To me it seems a little weird and I don't know if it makes sense or if it is really even a poem. But I'll share it anyway.....

Appetites: A to Z

I have an Appetite for the rich and delicious blessings in life,
That shape my Bountiful flesh into both beauty and burden.

The Creative one is the cornerstone of who I claim to be.
That Dreamy girl, with her head in the clouds.
But essentially, Earth-bound.

And I wonder, will it ever be Fruitful?
Those words on the page that keep me Grounded?

I am always Hungry for more.
Insisting I can have it all.
Wiping the Juice from my lips,
Like after a stolen Kiss, so delicious, you cannot tell
If it is Love or Lust or maybe just a Lie.

The Multitude of emotions,
Finding me Neither here nor there.
Like the Ocean waves, bobbing and cresting, rolling and crashing.
Like Passion.

But then it is Quiet.
And I Rise to discover
That all is Still.

And even though I have told my Truth,
And I have shared the Universal human experience,
And let the blood pour from my Veins,
I still Wander.

And I will never know where to place the X.
For my Youthful desire for adventure keeps me traveling.
And feeds my appetite for Zest.

Dreaming

I had a dream last night about my wedding. It was a disaster. Crazy things kept happening and Ron & I (yes, I was marrying Ron in the dream) had to keep postponing until the next day. But we had good spirits about it and remained determined to get married. I woke up before we finally did, but.....

I had another dream the other day - a nightmare, really - where I was being stalked by a man who wanted to kill me. I can remember running from this man, and hiding. I remember walking through the house with a flashlight every night - double-locking doors, checking corners and under beds. I never felt safe, I was never able to rest. That dream haunted me all through the next day as I was tense, on edge, and a little bit afraid.

A recurring image in my dreams is a male lion. I don't know what that means, but lions seem to pop into my dreams often.

I also dream often about running - running from something, running toward something, or just running. I don't know if I am trying to escape, searching or just enjoying myself.

My dreams often stay with me on into the next day (and longer since I can still remember these dreams). Yet others disappear without a trace. I don't know what they mean. I often do not know how to read them. I am not a skilled interpreter of dreams.

But I think I'd like to start writing them down, looking for themes, recurring images, and searching for meaning. There have been extensive studies about the significance of dreaming. And many (journal therapists among them) stress the importance of dream journals. Maybe I'll try it. What do I have to lose except my ignorance (of the meaning of my dreams)?

...things that we have lost in the past will be recovered. ~Isabel Allende

(Here's a little "fastwrite" I wrote this morning at my Women Writing for (a) Change writing group. I used the line above as my prompt.)

Things we have lost...

• the courage to be ourselves
• dirt under our fingernails
• skinned knees
• the ability to run free
• giggling
• Friday night movie dates
• eating whatever we wanted
• baggy sweat shirts
• snapping bubble gum
• cuddling with dad on the couch
• cloud-watchin g on the front lawn
• getting lost and not caring
• letting things go
• bright colors and crazy earings
• making a statement
• recovering quickly from a hangover
• playing sports
• wandering
• comfort food
• being taken care of
• piles of presents under the Christmas tree
• sibling rivalry
• house rules
• photographs of the happy family
• sharing weekends between parents
• high school dances
• girlhood crushes
• studying for a test
• fighting to be noticed
• drama
• fist fights
• lazy summer days on the beach
• being home before dark
• long rides in the car
• the smell of someone else cooking supper
• homemade pie
• birthday cakes with candles blazing
• picking fruit off trees
• hay rides
• pumpkin picking
• dressing up for Halloween
• Valentines cards
• overflowing Easter baskets and gigantic chocolate bunnies

In the Midst of Living

The story is written in the midst of living.
While making coffee, feeding the dog, taking out the trash.
During the drive to work, food shopping, working out, lunch with friends.
Through dinner, and an evening walk around the neighborhood.
While showering, brushing teeth, watching the 10 o'clock news.
In the midst of making love, drifting off the sleep.
In dreaming.

The ideas float in like morning fog and drift away as the sun rises above the dewy grass.
Snaking around the edges of my mind like a wisp of smoke.
Blowing away quickly in the wind.
Rising and falling like the tide, building like a storm.
Fading away like a memory, slipping from the mind like ice.

The lesson is in learning to listen, learning to hear, learning to see.
The significance of little things:
a shy smile, the touch of a hand, paper fluttering in the wind,
the smell of cinnamon buns, a rainy Tuesday, how the car won't start,
black coffee, yellow cheese, moldy bread, a chocolate bar,
the smell of a campfire, hotel sheets, a watermelon lollipop,
the sound of trickling water, a striking match, a doorbell,
sun shining through a window in the morning, storm clouds rolling in,
a yellowing photograph, a ripped dress, red high-heeled shoes,
a necktie, cigarette smoke, a bottle of wine,
the smell of fresh-cut grass, a trash can, lipstick on a collar,
the lingering scent of sex.

The story is written in the midst of living.
In the every day.

Procrastination

I have so much to do - papers to write, books to read, boxes to unpack, people to call. But instead I choose to sit on the front porch with Ron and throw toys to the dog. I choose to play with my Facebook page, browse Amazon.com and write this blog. I choose to lay on a lounge chair by the pool, soaking up the sun and flipping through SELF magazine. I choose to cook elaborate dinners, challenge Ron to a game of Jeopardy and watch Big Brother. I choose to sleep in, drink coffee and read the paper at the kitchen table. I choose to go out for a drink with the girls, knowing full-well I won't get home until after two. I choose to procrastinate. I choose to put things off. I choose to enjoy the moment. Is that so bad?

Walking

At home, in New Jersey, I used to walk at the ocean. I'd walk along the beach or through sandy trails or down the bike path that wound through holly forests, beaches and historical landmarks. In the morning, when the sun was rising gloriously over the blue and white waves; in the afternoon after a work-out at the gym, still invigorated from the exercise high; in the evening, just before sunset, when it was quiet and still and I had a moment to sift through the day; I'd walk. I loved smelling the salty sea air, drifting in from the open waters; hearing the cries of the gulls, soaring above me on a gust of wind; and listening to the waves singing their meditative song as they crashed upon the shore. I enjoyed the peace, the quiet, the solitude. I liked knowing that I was doing something good for myself, working toward a goal, taking steps toward fulfilling a dream. I felt accomplished, healthy, strong. I felt alive.

In Yellow Springs (Ohio), I walked in the Glen. The nature preserve, a block or two from my tiny apartment opened up before me like an eden. I tackled the trails - across the river, up steep grades, over rocks, through thick forests. I followed unknown paths - not knowing where they would lead, but hoping for a great adventure. I meditated by the waterfalls - just listening to the sound of the water. I sang songs to myself or made up stories or worked through a problem or just quieted my mind as I strolled along the wooded paths. I talked to trees. I searched for birds. I marveled at the vistas, a new one always up around the next corner. I walked every day, at one point. It was my meditation, my practice, my routine. When I didn't walk, I felt lost, something was missing. Walking centered me. I was focused, at peace, alive.

I'm not walking anymore. I've moved away from the ocean, away from the woods. I live in a small mid-western town with no hiking trails, no bike path, no water. Walking here feels different. It's not as fun, not as fascinating, not as wild as the ocean or the woods or the waterfalls. It's a nice town - pretty, peaceful, safe. People say hello, they wave and smile. The yards are manicured, flowerbeds pepper the lawns, and the sound of the church bells ring quietly through the air. I'm not complaining about the town. I live here now. I chose it. But I haven't yet found my walking place. I haven't settled into my stride.

I am reaching, now, searching. I need something to grab onto to ground me, center me, settle me. It is different here. It's much less "me" than anywhere I have ever lived before. But it is who I am now. Or it is who I have become. I need to get back to my walking. I need to find a place to call my own - one of beauty, of peace. I need a place where my feet can feel the earth, my lungs can fill with fresh air, my mind can be free. I need to find a path - or make one of my own - that will keep me alive.

First Lines

Last night, at my writing group, we practiced "First Lines." This is practice in detail, in action, in story. The first line should grab the reader, hook them, pull them in. Playing with these first lines (created on the spot, off the cuff) was actually a lot of fun. I know mine aren't prize-winning, but I kind of liked them. I think I will play with them a little more. Who knows, maybe something will come out of this. Here they are:

• She noticed him watching her as she stepped onto the crosstown bus.
• The pain paralyzed her with each step as she pushed on toward the top.
• Aunt Sue came over last night with the apple pie she had made for daddy's hogs.
• Their laughter, echoing down he hall, sparked memories of her childhood.
• Parsley, that's what she had forgotten; now she'd have to scrap the whole thing.
• Between the two of them, he could see the shadow of his father.
• Bubble-gum lip gloss sparkled on the lips of the girl in the hot-pink mini-skirt.
• Her favorite flowers were daisies, but she hadn't seen any of those since the year her daddy left.
• He ate yellow cheese and moldy bread because the cupboards were bare since Laura left.
• Lucy was sitting on the rocking chair, gazing out at the yellow corn when Rob raced up in the jeep.
• She used to cruise the main drag in her cherry-red convertible, silver fenders sparkling in the sun.
• When she was ten, she'd steal pickles from her grandmother's deli and eat them out among the weeds.
• He filled the pickle jar with bottle caps, then trudged among the weeds to find the hiding spot.

Beginning

I am beginning here. I want to share my words, my ideas, my thoughts. I want to begin to feel confident or at least comfortable sharing my work. I want to discover and develop my writing voice. I want to write. Though the idea of posting my raw and unpolished work frightens me, I am taking this step, pushing myself - because I need to - for me, for my writing, for my future.