Dear Santa...

So it's Christmas Eve here in the Beehive state. I wanted to write to you and wish you good travels, filled with hot chocolate, freshly baked cookies, and no fires left burning in those chimneys you have to shuffle down. And of course I thought I'd send you a line to let you know what I want for Christmas.

This year was a difficult one Santa. I was desperately trying to find the spirit of Christmas. It was difficult with the limited funds I had accessible to me. I watched all the commercials and realized I wouldn't be able to purchase that soft body sweater for my friends, nor would my father be getting the new car that I know he would highly enjoy. No diamonds or gift certifacates for the Ma. And well, chocolate was just out of the question. So I sat gloomy, thinking where did the Christmas spirit go?

I thought back to being a kid and tried with all my might to think of a new toy I would want from you. It went between a slinky to hop down my bedroom stairs to a replacement of the Rock Star Barbie you gave me back when I was eight. But neither really seemed right.

And then I put together my cookie party and something unexpected happened. I realized it wasn't the gifts that made Christmas, but the feeling that you want to do things for the people you care about in life and being able to sit and share in a bit of celebrated conversation with them. It's not the need to boost the economy, but celebrate in all the gifts given to you through out the year that aren't purchased but merely the joys of living.  It's doing the best at what you can do, and not feeling as though you need to push things. It's about the laughter--the laughter friends have that makes them laugh so hard they cry (miss b. you know I'm talking of you).

So Santa, I just want to say thanks. Thanks this year for the gifts you gave me before the day of Christmas. Thanks for the time with my family, for the the experience of showing them the city I live in during this lighted season. Thanks for the giddy laughter over dinner as my Dad extended his fork to my Mom with a pecan on it saying, "Just try this, it's delicious, it's soft... It's impregnated with sugar." Where that line came from, I'll never know, but I cherish those moments. I cherish the images too. The photos of my family (wishing of any gift, that my sister was with us here too--though I'm sure she is giddy with the two boys in California's warm weather). Thanks for the memories of past Christmases and all the family comedy that has followed. Thanks for awaking my heart to tell the people I care for how amazing they are (because lets face it--you all ROCK), and how much I value each and everyone of them in my life. And thanks for somehow letting my parents cats and my cats know, that a cat fight in my tiny apartment would not be a good way to show the Christmas spirit. Thanks for all you do Santa. Thanks for the gift of the season.

Safe travels tonight. I'll be listening for your sleigh bells as I always do. And just so you know, no matter how old I get... I will always believe in you.

Merry Christmas to all out there, may you have sugar plum dreams...

D.dot

Want or Need... A post of thankfull-ness...

Maybe it's the realization that the parents are about to embark on a new journey (moving out the state here people, it's not the final journey...just need to be clear). Maybe it's that yet another life metamorphosis is taking shape in my mind, or possibly, it's the month of thinking of all the things a person is thankful for. Whatever it is, all that's been on the brain lately, is the challenging difference between two words: WANT versus NEED.

Living in the same apartment for the past 10 years, the reality hits when you realize all those trinkets, shoes, tables, and mugs are just "stuff." They seemed so needed at the time, but now--as I travel the road of "essential" buying--they have become hindrances. Blockades in the home, if you please the metaphor.

The interesting thing is when you realize as an individual, you have never distinguished a difference between the two words. "Want" has the tendency to evoke the definition of "Need" in our society. So, this month the cleansing process began. I have discarded four boxes of "things", donated a table, three chairs, and three shelving units to my neighboring artist, books have reached the sharing frames of my local coffee shop, and I'm throwing away all those bits of paper that I felt had such significant value though in reality just cluttered up space in the home.

As the "stuff" begins to clear, I'm faced with a more open space. Space to recognize the things that have true value in my life. So as it is the month of giving thanks, I will end with this:

I am thankful for my family, who is always so supportive and encourages me to do all the things I'm passionate about in life. I am thankful for my friends; all the laughter we have shared, the way you all let me be me (with all the quirks, nuances, and frustrations that along with it). I am thankful for my cats and how they love to snuggle and share time with me even though we don't speak the same language. I am thankful to all the stories ever told to me, all the moments that have ever shaped the life I live. I am thankful to me teachers who have encouraged me. I am thankful to the teachers that discouraged me and in the process taught me to fight for what I believe in. Finally, I am thankful, thankful, thankful for having all that I need and being able to dream and hope for all the wants of my future.

A Happy Thanksgiving week to everyone out there. I hope your home is full of the space to share with the one's you love.

Chance Encounter...

You never know who you'll meet who might change your day. The past night I had a five minute conversation with a man on the street. Somehow, he said the exact words I needed to hear. He said them with sincerity.

"I want to read your book."

...

I've been frustrated lately with my writing. Some of you know, I'm working on a book about personal family issues. The writing has been taking me through a ringer of emotional ups and downs. 

So I distanced myself form writing, from the issues, yet again. But it keeps pounding in my mind anytime I have a moment to breath.

I took some advice from the author of Eat, Pray, Love. She spoke on an NPR program and stated she talked with her creativity (muse, writing voice, or whatever you want to call it) as if it's a person. It was a challenge. Give creativity time as you would a friend. Let it know your intentions, as you do in any good relationship.

This gets a bit tricky, because as you speak out loud to creativity, people around you tend to think you're going crazy. Being viewed as crazy might be worth it though. I asked recently for help from creativity, for guidance, for support, for courage. And she provided me a stranger on the street to talk "story" with, to give me encouragement that even if some people don't want to hear what I have to say, one person does... And one person can be everything.

Bell Tolls...

Church bells rang across barren city. Not mechanical ringing of old, but pulled warning human hands upon rope, controlling metal tongues reverberating against steel. Heeding alarm, body turned and ran upon crumbling cement. Leaf of changing season fell from hand, embedded between left behind cracks--lost from hopeful thought. Dress swayed as bare feet pounded echoing sidewalks. Sidewalks speaking stories of times past--children playing, dogs barking with waging tails, sun bathing and blue skies. Everything in play now, brown with dust. Clouds covered homes left in sinister expression. All life running, all hiding.

Hands clutched, soles dark with dirt, panic took over. Panic to live. Life ingrained deep in soul. If trigger for survival wasn't there--none of this would be happening. Bells would be silent, sidewalks bare, homes only inhabitants would be the skeletal bones of a race lost by their own makings. And yet--running, breathing, hiding, waiting--a race remained, if only just.

Sound deafening--a heavy whistle cracked space crashing against ears. Hands cupped them to provide small relief. Only seconds and explosion hit, pulling body from earth. Feather thin fabric whipped face and there was ringing. Ringing jarring the bones. Ringing attempting to escape the frame. Blood trickled from ear to chin. Lips parted and mouth tasted empowering iron. Life still clung on to move.

Earth still shaking, a hole on the remnants of a hollow city left by weapon. Debris covered feet, legs, torso, arms. Body's only portion not bathed in battle: Ears.

Ears cupped by hands. Ears ringing, ears fighting, ears waiting. Waiting to listen--listen to words that would explain: WHY?

Find the Instagram photo that inspired this short bit of writing by following @abaa (click on name to see photo)

Helium Rising...

The party was over, and everything was quiet. That was the problem of living in a small town. Friends could only come over for a short stay. There would be an hour of running, getting in trouble, scraping knees, and telling each other what we would do when we grew-up. And then they'd have to leave, driven away by their parents, not to be seen until the next school day, and the quiet would creep in.

My parents were doing their own scraping. Each dish brushed, cake crumbs and melted vanilla ice cream found its way into the garbage. Another birthday and the same routine after. Ma and Pa talking of what I'd become. Ma wanted me to be a doctor. Dad had his heart set on lawyer. He kept talking about needing to get me into the right school, which didn't make any sense--as I was already in school and he knew that. Somehow they didn't get I was going to be an astronaut. I had told them this for the past year. All my friends knew. I was going to be the first man to walk on Mars. One small step for man, one giant leap to see a real alien. I had my heart set on it. I wanted to squish the red dust between my toes.

But my parents never seemed to listen--they just seemed to know. So I stepped out of the house, taking with me the only salvaged balloon from the helium war my friends and I had fought. Would helium have the same affect on my voice on Mars as it did here on Earth.

Yellow and floating, the balloon trailed behind me as I past the line of our back yard into the field that was part of our house. The field stretched so far, and yet I could still make out the fence line. Everything here was sectioned off. The houses distant from each other still had boundary lines. The cows could only feed so far. And then there was me being placed into the mold of doctor or lawyer. Me stuck in a small quiet town that looked open and free, and yet here I was, fenced. Everything was fenced. Everything, but my last birthday balloon.

I let the balloon slip from my hand a bit. It rose high above my head and I held on tighter. The sun was setting and the yellow plastic glowed. I saw the sky above waiting for it. Space waiting for its arrival. I wanted it to be free. I wanted to be free. So I let the string go and watched as it drifted upwards, slow and steady, and I saw the rocket. The rocket I would one day be on. I saw my feet stepping on the red dust of Mars, and I saw the green alien that would be waiting for me--yellow balloon in hand as a welcoming.

Find the Instagram photo that inspired this short bit of writing by following @jdcowboy (click on name to see photo)

Glockenspiel...

Night was spreading. The clock tower sang in the light of the moons rays, ticking down time. Time--and people would be moving in line with the clocks chimes. The cafes lined the streets waiting with steaming urns of coffee and tea. Waiting, waiting for the crowds to come and sip the liquid down with their lips. But now... Now the streets hummed with the quiet vibrations of anticipation. The breeze whispered with the trees of all the journey's and places yet to be touched as it pushed the last of the day's clouds away for the stars to shine.

Petra sat motionless on a bench. She was staring at the towering clock--the Glockenspiel. With each tick of the second hand, each inching move of the minute hand, her eyes blinked--not able to fathom how time could move on. Tick-tock.

The barista in the cafe had shuffled past her, not willing to serve, as if she wasn't there. The tables lay empty and yet no words were spoken, no water offered. So Petra had moved, moved to the bench, and was now stuck to listen to the empty streets, staring at time as it past uncomfortably by. Everything was empty and she wondered if time had played a trick on her: Was she early?

Then the bells began to dance and with each echoing chime, the flags waved high on the tower. People flooded the streets, hailing each other to stop, take a moment to converse. The cafes filled and Petra heard of daily routines, spoken in unison behind her. It was all behind her. Her eyes didn't leave the clock as a long black car pulled up in front of her. The car door opened and the lean man in his gray suit looked down on her,

"It's time."

Petra stood and took in the last gleam of the hour hand shifting. Time passed by as she stepped into the back of the hearse. Tick-tock--nothing stopped.


This is a random project I thought would be fun. Take an Instagram photo I liked and give myself 30 minutes to write and edit a short story. Try to find the photo that inspired this bit of writing by following @bono73 (aka Flavio). Click on name to see photo. 

What do you want to be...

when you grow-up?

After seven years, a leap was taken. Notice given. May 27th marks the last day serving. 


Walking to get a coffee and write a bit, my fingers found their way strolling through past words written. Words from a year ago, this is what was found: 





5-3-2011
Recently I was sent an e-mail. Attached was a preview for a movie Pause, Press, Play. I can't really say why the last few words, "this changes everything, the industry's dead," inspired thoughts for writing today, but with the recession we're all in at the moment, and my continuing three year search for a career, I find myself truly asking: "What do I want to be when I grow-up?"


Having recently celebrated my 32nd birthday some may find this question funny. Haven't I grown-up already? But I'm realizing more and more, we are always growing-up, and this is a question one never stops asking. Whether you're in elementary school, graduating high school or college, or near the process of retirement, the question remains.


So what do I want to be when I grow-up? A lot of the work I have been thinking of lately is my own. Pause, press on, play. It's my future and my past combined.


When I was seven, I wanted to be a writer. I remember my Mom coming into my second grade class to read a story she had written (one I hope she will submit soon). I found story fascinating--and still do as those who know me are bombarded with my ramblings on the subject everyday.


When I was eight, my idea changed all because of a puppy from Santa on Christmas day. I wanted to be  a Vet. I thought it would be all "fun and games" playing with all types of animals. Then when I was 10, my Dad got me a Veterinary Dictionary for Christmas. It wasn't one of those little kid ones, but the college level type that gave the Latin names for all the diseases animals could possibly have. This for some reason moved my desire to a new realm (o.k. lets face it, the dictionary overwhelmed me, and I realized pets might not be that cute and cuddly when disease ridden).


So I turned my sights to be an artist. This ambition was short lived as I realized, though I could draw--I didn't draw well. 11 and 12 my sights were on Olympic swimmer, amazing Rock Singer, or Journalist. Obviously, this was my pre-teen years and my mind was getting jumbled by the on coming hormones. 


Which gives reason for 13 and 14 being a bit blurred on what I wanted to be when I grew-up. I do believe my sights were more fascinated with boys (as seems to be the case still, though I pretend I manage it better now) than on my own dreams and desires of self achievement.


At 15, I went back to science, but I Incorporated the pool, thinking I would be a Marine Biologist (I mean come on, who didn't). Even my job aptitude test told me I would be great at this profession. Though I don't think it took into account I lived in a desert.


16-18: I was going to be (and was) an entrepreneur. Business licence purchased, I promoted rock concerts in the rural south-eastern corner of the "L" shaped Utah state. This was my focus for years, it was the direction for my early college education, and then I turned 20 and I was back to books. I wanted to be a writer, but added the possibility of editor of children's and young adult literature.


At 25, college grad, a book slinger, and ambition still driving my forces, I went back to school for a second degree. And then I found myself 30 and confused, because I still hadn't grown-up and somehow all that questioning of what I wanted to be when I grew-up had made me a master beer slinger. Lost. 


And now at 32, smack dab in a recession, options and opportunity abound. So here's the dream at the moment: submit writing to publishers, examine the entrepreneur projects you've been thinking of for years now, meet with colleges and see if they want a quirky-fun-and enthusiastic woman as an adjunct professor in children's and YA literature, and begin the process of submitting for PhD candidacy.


It seems like a long road travelled to get here, and I find it funny that at age six I knew writing would be the crux, story the glue. Sometimes we just have to remember that our young selves knew us better than we thought. They weren't confused by all the crazy distractions the years bring. They saw open doors, unlike our adult selves shutting and locking us in.


So maybe the question isn't ,"What do you want to be when you grow-up?" Maybe the question needs to be, "Who did you want to be when you were young?"

And now, a year later after writing these words--33--I'm back to my six year old self. That girl who took gymnastics and tumbled and leaped to her hearts content whenever she heard a story. It's a balancing act, doing what you love and working to survive. But I leapt. I'm taking the risk on myself with the hope that I can write the net that will catch me.

A New Tax Bracket...

... And yes people, I'm talking about dating here.

On Tuesday, I was a good American citizen and I did my taxes, much to my dislike. I wrote out two checks, one to the Feds and one to the State, neither of which covered the full cost. But hey, they were filed right.

And then today I came to a new analogy on dating as I sat having coffee with a long time friend I haven't seen in over a year.

Dating in your 30's is like jumping into a new tax bracket. 

You think all is good. You're making more money, right? And then tax time comes and you realize all that great pay just places you harder into the doom of the high middle class. Specifically... all your money goes to the government.

Now I realize that by writing this, my future prospects in the dating world may be slim. But really, let's face it--If a guy can't laugh at this, I don't think I'd really want to date them anyway.

But let's get back to those [brackets].

In your teens, dating is all dramatic and over the top (which I've also found somehow lingers as time goes, but whatever). In your twenties and dating, you're all full of hope and wonder as you travel along the path with a person to not only develop a relationship but find yourself as well.

In your thirties... Well lets face it people, you pretty much know who you are, know where you want to go and are trying like crazy to get there. You've had love and heartbreak. The wonder-lust is still there, but you have to some how find the time for it in your already developed and heavily busy scheduled life, and well... goodness gracious it's a lot of work to find that person who fits with you and wants to put the time and effort into making things progress.

I wonder what I will be saying on this topic in my forties?

Who knows, but like this years taxes, I won't give up. I might not be able to pay it all right away, but I'll chisel away payments each month, with the hope that one day I'll hit that high tax [bracket] and be able to bask in the sun on vacation.

(If any of this doesn't make sense to you, try reading a tax pamphlet and you'll recognize I make a lot more sense than the government.)

To Err is Human...

Right?

Many questions have been going through my mind as of late. Non of which need posting here, but truthfully I want to know what we're doing? What is the story you want to tell?

I keep thinking of different things, and lately my mind has been a bit boggled by emotions, questions, and the what not.

I know I shouldn't say this, but whiskey became my friend awhile back and I haven't turned around since.

On my walk home tonight, I looked at all the passing cars, the people on the street, the trees changing suit from winter garb to spring, and I thought, "I need to write more."

To be a writer... well that's a tricky enough business. And isn't that what it all is? Business. People are in your business, your trying to show your business, and well... you pretty much just stumble around hoping to find your way, your voice, yourself.

The business of self discovering can be tricky. Lets not forget the moment in the Neverending Story where Atreyu is about to step foot in front of the second Oracle. It's the Oracle that shows the true self, and lets face it, do any of us really want to see it?

I think of myself as a kind person. A person that can relate and empathise with others. But really, I'm out there fighting. Fighting for me. For what I want.

But what I want, I haven't clearly defined yet. And above anything, this scares me. Because at the moment, I feel reckless. I feel as though I'm playing with fire and about to set the biggest fire storm known to man.

I am one lone girl, lady, woman... or whatever you want to say. But in my mind right now, I'm a child trying to put the puzzle pieces together. And I don't know if they're fitting. So I use a proverb to make myself feel better...

To err is human...

Right?

And is it ever truly an err?...

Drummer Man, Lemon Chicken, and a Place Called Home...

I'm learning to find comfort in myself...

To make time for all the things I love to do...

And "home" is what I make it...

The one thing I love in life is seeing people happy...
Doing the things they love...
Making the most of life in the time we have...
Sharing experiences and being ourselves...

Yesterday, I was exhausted after a long (and may I say fun) weekend of work. Driving to have lunch with a few co-workers, I found myself stopped on 4th South and 300 West in downtown SLC.

Stretching my neck, I turned and saw a gentleman in his beat-up work truck, wearing his fluorescent work vest and beat-up white work shirt, practicing the drums by pounding drumsticks upon the dashboard to the beat of a track--I can only assume--was playing on his stereo. It wasn't as if we were there long, or that he saw me, but it was a moment of life. He was his job, I was on my way to relax from mine. He was an individual with talents and goals, making the time for each wherever possible. I had taken the steps to achieve mine with my new job. I left smiling.

Tonight, after a planned coffee with a high school friend I haven't seen in 15 years, I found myself out to a forgotten dinner planned with the girls. Catching up over Chinese food, we laughed at our passed frustrations and disscussed our new worries, goals, jobs, boys--you know girl talk. Each of us reached for our chocolate fortune cookies with anticipation, and found ourselves in disappoitment. None of us received what we wanted (you know the fortune that says... "You will win a million dollars tomorrow." And it actually happens). Instead I received...

"All the water in the world can't sink a ship unless it gets inside."

O.k. Thanks for that.

So I left dinner and met up with a friend for dessert. Through our conversation I found myself telling one of my favorite stories during my last trip in Europe. I realized this time in telling, my moral in the story--"If you miss your train to catch your plane, there is always another way back home."--was like my fortune cookie. And the fortune cookie was like the stranger playing the drums in his truck.

I saw something in passing yesterday...

I received a fortune from my fortune cookie at dinner tonight...

I told a story to a friend over dessert and coffee...

And each melded together to a strange and comfortable realization.

There may be hiccups in achieving my dreams, but if I see the moments around me then the few seconds of waiting for a light to change from red to green will open my eyes to reflect upon my fortunes, and a story told many times before, can show the foundation to the home I plan to live in.

Pink Aisle Confronted...

As is usual, I found my grocery shopping path changing course after January 1st.
I was taking long routes to "find" the eggs, jumping aisles to get that needed bread, or just telling myself the toilet paper could wait until next time.

I steer clear of the "Pink Aisle" every year.
(Say this as if it's a story from the Twilight Zone for full affect.)

If you've read my past posts on this subject, you know I've been battling Valentines Day for a long time. But last year, I told myself I would take the battle head-on, celebrating by buying/eating an entire box of chocolates from the dreaded--shove hearts down your throat--Pink Aisle.

The battle was fierce, and I realized a three step program was needed:

Step 1: Register and recognise the actual existence of the Pink Aisle.

About mid January, I mustard up the nerve to motivate my eyes to gaze upon the aisle as I walked through the grocery store doors. I had no problems finding it, as shiny red helium balloons circled it's location, and weird blood dripping light illuminated its being (I'm guessing this is from the reflection of the fluorescent lighting). And then my head would move to the vegetable section and I would decide there was no need for the actual items I entered the store for, because I wasn't ready for step two quite yet. This went on for a few weeks.

Step 2: Stand in-front of the Pink Aisle and take-in all the crazy hearts and stuffed animals it contains.

You might say this would have been a great time to get over my unnatural fear and just enter the frick'n (yes, I'm from Utah) aisle. But I couldn't. Instead I just stood staring at the long abyss, blockading others admittance while I clutched a hold of the cat food bag, Mint-Milano cookies, and soda I was purchasing for the night. After a few minutes, I'll admit I ran to the self-checkout stand and quickly swiped the bar codes so I could seek comfort at home from my cats.

Step 3: Place yourself in that aisle, baby!

This happened the night before Valentines Day. After driving a co-worker home from a late night at work, I achieved the confidence to confront the aisle. But let me say this before I proceed. This year I found myself in an odd state of being. You see, this year was different from the last twleve. This year, I actually had a Valentine!!!
So as I walked into the store I rushed with determination to confront, and wallop, the damn Pink aisle for all the annoyance it presented in my life previously. I made it about 5 feet in and stopped dead.

The shelves were dishevelled and picked over. Each one ransacked by individuals picking-up heart chocolate packages and tossing them aside in frustration. Perusing my options, I quietly and with confidence chose a tiny red hear shaped box of chocolates. It's cover marked by Snoopy and friend (this seemed the best option as Snoopy and I go way back and he and his pals comforted me in my youth).

It seemed to easy...
But it wasn't hard to eat the chocolates...

My Valentine comforted me the next day. He did everything right. A thoughtful gift--with me in mind, reservations at a nice restaurant of his choosing, wonderful conversation and laughter, and mini cup cakes for dessert... and not one thing from the dreaded "Pink Aisle!"

Who knows how my impression will be of the Pink Aisle next year? For now it's camouflaged by pastel colors of eggs and small stuffed chickadees and lambs. But I know it's waiting, bidding its time!

At least I've made the first steps to reconciling our friendship. 

Fainting into the New Year..

Three days before the new year, I found myself waking very early in the morning (before the sun was even thinking of showing it's face) and stumbled--luckily--down my stairs. Only to pass out half naked in my hallway leading into my kitchen. (NO, I wasn't drunk.)
I was out for a brief few seconds, but when I woke I remember thinking, "What am I doing on the floor? And why is my hand touching my garbage can?"

You might be asking yourself why I'm telling you this? What does this have to do with the New Year? I guess it's because it seems fitting.

It takes me awhile to reflect (hence the lateness of this post), but fainting in my kitchen seemed to sum up 2011.

2011 was a year of constant ups and downs:

Started out weighing 135 pounds, dropped down to a very low 100.
Fell in Love, got heartbroken.
Applied for multiple jobs, had a few interviews, got rejected for each one of them.
Had some money, was out of money and eating Cheerios for a month.
Was giddy and cheerful, dealt with a bout of depression.

You get the idea...

But here's what it also brought:

A year of swimming with amazing people who have become rocks for me.
A desire to put myself out there and meet new people, even if that means I risk being hurt.
The drive to continue following my passions.
A realization that money isn't everything.
And the understanding that we can push to change our expressions.

Oh... and cool nicknames like Death Treat and Noodles. New friends. A lot of writing and creative projects. A road trip with my Dad. Stealing my friends first dance as a married person. A paper written and presented for my peers who love Children's Literature. A lot of running around, all for books. And a plethora of cookies.

So when I found myself on the floor, I knew one thing: I had to get UP (sore caboose and all), and fight for all the things I want in 2012. Which I must say is starting off with an amazing bang!

Though...the pink aisle is popping up in stores across the nation.
I'm still redirecting my grocery shopping path.