i’ve spent a good deal of time with my dog lately, and i’ve noticed that we communicate differently . . .

me: i need to start walking.
phoebe: what’s wrong with right now?

me: time to cook supper.
phoebe: 4 of my favorite words.

me: i can’t explain it, but i kinda’ want to take apart an old piano to harvest the keyboard.
phoebe: count me in. that means we can spend more time in the shop.

me: time to pay the bills.
phoebe: sweet – that means time in the jeanneararium. hope the turkeys come by to say hey.

me: okay. time to change the beds.
phoebe: funny things come out of your mouth when you can’t get the bottom sheets stretched over the last corner.

me: how does my hair look?
phoebe: what hair? oh, i hadn’t noticed you had any.

me: i know it sounds crazy, but i’d sure love to crochet a little dress and attach these broken shards. . .
phoebe: cool. the cats are so cute when they play with string.

me: i’m tired.
phoebe: let’s nap.

me: do these pants make me look fat?
phoebe: what’s fat?

we go on a walk, and there’s nary a smell she doesn’t notice. she is totally there in the walk.

when her back itches, she rolls around on the grass or the carpet, she walks under your foot or the chair to scratch it – and she never once apologizes or whines or complains, she simply scratches her back. period.

i look out the window and see limbs that need to be picked up, leaves that need to be raked, mulch that needs to be topped off. phoebe looks out the window – the same one, mind you – and sees deer and turkeys and woodpeckers and squirrels and possums and raccoons and owls and cats and bats and sometimes even a wandering bovine.

i see squirrels on the birdfeeder and mutter “pesky, thieving squirrels.” phoebe sees squirrels feasting uninvited on the birdfeeder and chases them away then stands guard so the birds can eat.

notice anything?

phoebe never once says “yes, but” or “are you sure?” or “say what?”

she’s grounded in the present, content wherever she is, and lives in a state of constant readiness.

and she has a keen sense of right and wrong and doesn’t hesitate to address wrongdoing.

me: i miss blogging, but there are toilets to clean, weeds to pluck, houses to get on the market.
phoebe: sit. write. i’ll lay on your feet to keep you in the chair.

i think my dog is my best teacher.

Second helpin's:

1. lost (then found) in translation
2. happy times at happy time (best business 2009)
3. the key to thanksgiving 2009

i’ve been offline for far too long, tending to things that simply have to be done.
well, guess what: writing has to be done, too.
writing is my life raft,
my ticket to worlds beyond where i shop for groceries,
my train to discoveries and quarries and ores.

i think better when i write.

keep my fingers away from the keyboard for too long, and my thoughts become fuzzy, uncertain, timid.
let my fingers romp regularly, and i’m confident, clear, (more) courageous.
let my fingers languish too long, and i slouch.
let my fingers dance with words daily, and i smile more – inside and out – and stand taller, too.

away = small.
write here = abundance.

away = alone.
write here = connections.

away = shallow panting.
write here = slow, deep breathing.

when i’m away from writing, my to do list that grows more than it wanes.
when i’m write here, i’m actually (and strangely) more productive.

when i don’t write, my brain chases its tail, going faster and faster and faster.
when i take the time to write, my soul has time to exhale and take a look around,
turn over rocks,
and roll down hills without worrying about grass stains.

when i don’t write, 2 + 2 = 4.
when i do write, i am quick to note that i just say 2 + 2 = 4
because that’s what most people are comfortable with,
all the while rubik-cubing ways that 2 + 2 = all sorts of different answers.

when i don’t write, the world is reduced to faded primary colors.
when i do write, there are at least 64,000 different colors – and it’s not the least bit overwhelming.

i don’t write, i get cranky.
i do write, and well, okay: i sometimes still get cranky.

i don’t write, and it becomes harder to write.

i don’t write, and it becomes harder to think of something to write about.

so why don’t i write daily?

the readily available and easy answer is: there’s not enough time.
but we both know that i have the same amount of time that everybody else has,
i just choose to spend it differently.
i mean, if i had diabetes,
i’d make time to check my blood glucose levels and take insulin, right?

perhaps the common answer is fear.
afraid that my writing sucks,
that i’ll be rejected,
that i’ll just have to go eat worms.

but truth be known,
there’s something else:
a little something we like to call guilt.
for more years than i care to think about,
my adorable husband
has trekked off to a job he never wanted
and doesn’t much like.
so why should i get to do something i enjoy?
i mean, really, what makes me so damned special?
if he’s miserable, it seems only fair that i should be miserable, too, right?
isn’t that why we learned equations in high school?

so merrily we roll along.

this time writing hasn’t solved anything, but
i’ve clarified it,
sat it on the table,
and that counts.

Second helpin's:

1. but you can call me “Her Highest Petticoat Potentate”
2. rightful sound
3. just call me flounder

first, i want to say, on behalf of both gwen and me, that this was no setup. but, gwen, i do thank you for making today’s post so easy for me.

i spent the better part of this year spinning things off and practicing saying “not now, i’m writing” without apology or laughter. my plan is that come january 2010, i will sit in the green leather banker’s chair that once belonged to my paternal granddaddy and write those books and plays i’ve been carrying around inside for a while. i’ve remain determined that i want to do that, but as the calendar ticks nearer the 1/1 box, my confidence wavers.

then on november 30, author, blog/facebook/twitter rockstar, and funny one patti digh posts something on facebook about this blog challenge that she’s entering, and before i had time to talk myself out of it, i’m in, too. i wanted a ready-made writing structure and to develop a rhythm to my writing days, and i’ve found that and much, much more . . .

i am becoming will eventually become fluent in twitter.

i’m meeting new people – folks who are not only nice and encouraging and supportive, but who are dynamic, crackerjack, intelligent writers, and, as if all that isn’t enough, they step up my writing game. they raise my bar. for starters, and in no particular order, there’s lindsey; and patty; and karen; and angela; and mahala; and bryce.

i am choosing – sometimes it’s agonizing and i want to dodge in the worst sort of way – but i stick and select, and that feels good. real, real good.

i am developing a rhythm that goes like this: i read the assignment > think about it all day > let it get bigger and bigger and bigger to the point of wondering about things like bandwidth > spend some creativity coming up with reasons i just can’t post today > jotting a few notes > then finally sitting down just to see if anything comes out > burn a little clock trying to find my notes > then sighing audibly and turn my fingers loose.

i am learning new organization systems for my digital life, for keeping up with the so-called normal life while checking in with new posts and investigating new links. responding and replying and initiating communications, encouragement, and support so i don’t take more than i give and don’t constantly feel like i’m sipping from a firehose. (it’s slow going and none have completely gelled yet unfortunately, so ideas, suggestions, and tips welcomed and appreciated.)

i am accepting positive feedback and encouragement with heartfelt appreciation instead of my usual sidestepping or deflecting in my familiar aw-shucks mode. for decades, i’ve been the cheerleader, you see – a role i find easy and rewarding – but to have the tables turned, to have others rah-rahing me makes me think keep-it-coming while saying oh-stop.

i am making my way through a month that others find full and festive, a month i find melancholy on the best day. participation hasn’t made me giddily festive or caught me wearing christmas sweaters or wiring a wreath onto the grill of my car, but i am quietly getting through the month focusing on what has filled instead of what has emptied. and i’m discovering and developing more good things in the process. it just doesn’t get much better than that.

with so many benefits, it’s easy to see why i say that behind door #1 we have the best blog i stumbled onto in 2009: gwen bell’s big love in a small world. gwen, sugar, i thank you for being and supplying the kindling. i thank you for being fun and generous and honest. i thank you for raising the standard with your writing. and i especially thank you for yesterday, for making me believe that maybe – just maybe – i can do this thing called writing.

p.s. gwen, feel free to go ahead and sign me up as a 2010 volunteer . . . but do you think i could be an elf instead of a reindeer? it’s a personal preference thing, that’s all.

#best09
~~~
the story is mine, but credit for the kindling goes to gwen bell and her best of 2009 blog challenge.
~~~

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#best09

Second helpin's:

1. pieces of peace
2. best project(s) of 2009
3. welcome to my so-called writing life