Day 8

Patient, patient people.

I forget now how I came to discover Sleepy Joe and her Life and Writings. She lives on the other side of the pond from me and works in one of the coolest fields, ever - library science. I have such respect and gratitude for librarians in general and it's somewhat akin to knowing a rock star to be associated with Sleepy Joe.

As if that weren't enough, she is a steady and constant presence on this blog with her constant encouragement and her unfailing loyalty to reading and commenting. She's an aspiring writer, herself, and leads a busy life with two little people and working full time and just generally being fabulous, yet she always finds the time to root for other writers and bloggers. That really means a lot. It takes some effort to reach out to other people and she does it anyway and is a cheerful presence here and on a lot of the blogs I read.

Over the last several weeks, she has gifted me with two different bits of blogging love. I have been woefully behind in catching up with all things blogging and they have slipped through the cracks. These little blog award thingies have been a delightful little surprise bonus to blogging. I'm not much one for memes, generally, but to have someone take the time to single out my ranting over here is touching to me and I really do appreciate it.

So, for you, Sleepy Joe, I am grateful. For my Wonderful Team Member Readership Award, because I am not a wonderful team member, actually. Writing is a generally solitary and lonely pursuit. I spend hours buried in things invisible to the naked eye. It is exhausting and exhilarating and it appears to waste a lot of time. In what other endeavor would you strive to eliminate at least 20% of the work you've done after you've done it? As a result, I get all down deep in my head and shut out the rest of the world. Writing is not a team sport. Blogging is, though. And I deeply appreciate my teammates. And for my Reader Appreciation Award.  It may seem from time to time that I do not appreciate my readers as much as I should. If appreciation is measured in mutual comments or responding promptly to Tweets and comments and Facebook notes, then I fail at this. If appreciation is measured in the thrill of seeing a familiar name on my stats and taking the time to really savor and consider the words that you've left behind, then there it is.

I encourage you to go check out Sleepy Joe's blog if you haven't already. She's really a shining light, the encouragement fairy, if you will. I am so grateful for her and all of the people like her who populate this world and make things just more pleasant. I am going to change the rules of all this up a bit. Instead of answering questions about myself, instead I'm going to ask you to leave your favorite thing about Sleepy Joe here in the comments. Let's fill her bucket at least half as much as she does for others.

Coming Soon

Listen up, ducklings.
I have to go put on my secret agent hat today and stand tall and represent for the housewife contingent at a focus group about protein bars, so there may not be a whole lot of writing going on. I hope there are free samples. They will definitely reward my troubles with some cash, though, so it's all good. It's like giving plasma, only without the giant needles - boring, mindless, requiring no skill except to sit still, and you get paid for it. Sometimes they even have free coffee and doughnuts. I digress.

So, listen up, ducklings. I have an announcement to make. A week from today, Thursday, November 1 is the first ever Mindful Writing Day. Why does this matter? Well because I said so, mostly, but because it's really going to be a fun celebration and you can get in on it!

Remember the Small Stones? Take a look at something in your day and really see it, savor it, write it down. Everyone can do this because it's short and it's sweet and there is no right or wrong way to see things. Why are Small Stones a good idea? Well, because they're short and they're sweet, for one thing. But mostly because they exercise your Noticing Muscle. And with a strong Noticing Muscle, you can learn to slow down for a moment and transcend whatever awful day you might be having or whatever writer's block you have or whatever you happen to be knee-deep in and take a breath. You can notice a thing of beauty anywhere, even if only for a moment. These Small Stones pile up and they make little towers and walls and sculptures of things and they change the landscape of your brain. This is all very scientific. It is.

So give it a try, won't you? You can join the Facebook page and post your Small Stone there next week with all the other little goodies and it will be a feast. You can subscribe to the blog and get one every day, or you can even subscribe to the Writing Our Way Home blog and get all kinds of goodness from Robyn and Kaspalita who have worked hard on this whole thing. You can also collect A Blackbird Sings - a whole anthology of small stones that they hand selected and put together. You may or may not recognize a name or two in there, too. (Wink, nudge, nod. Uh-huh.)

So, darlings, I am going to go and examine the intricacies of protein bars and pretend to have a very strong opinion about such things so I can make a little scratch. And you have a good day. Find the beauty in something, even if it is tiny - especially if it is tiny. And do please consider taking part in Mindful Writing Day. Think of it this way: November 1st is also the beginning of NaNoWriMo, so you could either start your novel or write a Small Stone. You choose. I may do both, but I'm certifiably insane.

Even if you don't choose to participate publicly, I still hope you give the whole Noticing Muscle a workout.

Also, this: Go check out what else people have been up to over at Larissa's place.

Stick Your Arm In My Washing Machine

My washing machine locks up when it is in the wash cycle. Does yours do this? Being slightly less organized than I should be, sometimes I find a stray sock I need to throw in after the wash has started, but the door locks itself. I'm pretty sure this is so no one sticks their arm in the machine while it's agitating and breaks it. As if I would do that. I certainly wouldn't be overcome by the unnatural urge to grab one of those paddle thingies and let it wash my arm with the jeans just to see what it felt like. Who would do that?! Anyway, it locks. So if I need to put something in after it has started, I have to turn the whole thing off, wait a few minutes and then open and add. This takes a little bit more attention that I have the patience for, so it just means that sometimes that stray sock doesn't get washed or it gets washed with the next load, regardless of color. This bothers me inordinately, by the way, that sock out of place.

So it goes with the old noodle today. I've got an idea that is agitating around and the stupid door is locked. It has hung up its "Do Not Disturb" sign and is up to all kinds of nasty behind that closed door. I have a stray sock to throw in, but I'm not of a mind to shut down the whole production just to add it. I'm generally all right with this. I know from experience that eventually the cycle will end and the door will unlock and there will be wadded, soaking wet piles of stuff in there for me to work with. I have this stray sock, however, and it bothers me. I think I'm just going to hang onto it for a while and see what grows out of it. That's vile when you think about it. It's a metaphor, though, so you know... no real fungus.

This is where you can help, though. Think about femininity and give me some descriptors. What does femininity mean to you, personally? How about in a more universal sense? Is it only a function of gender or sexuality? Let us discuss. Shall we? Are there any metaphors, images of femaleness that have not been overused? I have recently come to the conclusion that our language and its usage is a wee bit sexist in this regard. Are you feminine? Are you comfortable with your femininity? Do you have trouble typing femininity like I do? Seriously. Are you casting about for a post? Is your washing machine locked right now agitating something else and you need another thing to focus on? Am I the only one who has appliances in her brain? Leave me a comment, write me a post, send me an email, draw me a picture. Tell me about femininity from whatever angle you choose. There needn't be any ghastly housewifely references.

Meanwhile, I'll try not to mangle my arm in the washing machine.

Gratitude

The sky that twinkles. The bite of fall in the air. The people who read, encourage, comment. The way my transplanted hydrangea has shot out new leaves all over the place. The smell of little sweaty feet. The smell of yeast bread rising. The Phillies shirt from a friend that wears like a hug. The wonders of the internet, text-messaging, telephones and easy communication. The kind of difficult communication that makes us stop and think and wonder how we can do better. The kind of silent communication that comes in hugs and glances and a casual patting of my arm or playing with my hair. The health of my family. The answering of prayers. The spaces of light and openness. The consolation of friends. The common experience. The history of a love. The funny things you did when you were younger that make you giggle today when you need to remember that things are fun. The people who will call you and remind you of those things. The buoyancy of life. The hope. The faith. The possibilities. The small excitements that add up to general joy. The pain. The defeat. The opportunity to get up again. The love. Definitely the love. In all of this, love.

Please add more of your own. It will be a river. It has nothing to do with page views, number of comments, good writing, right or wrong, personal or universal. This is a tribute. To life, to gratitude, to connection. Deepest gratitude to Tara who reminded me today of why I really keep blogging.

Oh, You Are So It!

I play tag nearly every day. It usually involves a lot of shrieking and tackling of small children. Sleepy Joe from The Life and Writings of Sleepy Joe invited me to play tag with her. This is the kind of tag where I can sit comfortably in my pajamas and drink coffee. Nice.

Go check out Sleepy Joe. She's an aspiring writer like so many of us. She's so warm and witty. Plus she's got the best screen name, ever. And she's British, so you know, sexy.

Because there are not enough random facts about yours truly cluttering up the consciousness of far too many people, I am to list eleven facts about myself. Then I am to answer Joe's eleven questions. Then I am to tag some more people to answer eleven questions of my own devising.

You can listen to this song while you read.

Eleven titillating facts about Tangled Lou:

1. I fall in love about 100 times a day.
2. I am not much of a fidgeter.
3. I collect pens and coffee mugs. The cheaper and tackier, the better.
4. I also collect those smooshed pennies from tourist destinations. One day I want to cover a wall in my office with them, a glittering tribute to blatant merchandising and tourism.
5. I try not to say "I can't" when what I really mean is "I won't" or "I don't want to".
6. I fart a lot.
7. I almost stroked my neighbor's glorious lambchop sideburns yesterday.
8. Whenever people have those huge gauge grommets in their ears, I am tempted to stick my finger through them.
9. A cruise does not sound like a vacation to me. It sounds like torture.
10. Sometimes I eat random things I find.
11. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed by the beauty of things I just cry and my monkeys say "Oh. Mom's crying again."

Eleven Answers to Sleepy Joe's Questions:

1. Who is your favorite literary hero? I don't do favorites, really. Here are some I like: Hobbes from Calvin and Hobbes, Anne from Anne of Green Gables, Tom Joad from The Grapes of Wrath, Perkus Tooth from Chronic City, Ron Weasley from the Harry Potter series. These are just a few I can think of right now.

2. Why? I like characters that aren't necessarily the hero. I like flawed characters, I like the ones who aren't front and center, but are next to the front and center. I like characters who are rich and dynamic, with strong character. I like characters who mess up and change over time, who work hard and keep living.

3. What is your favorite children's story? The Three Questions, based on a story by Leo Tolstoy.

4. Are you a closet reader? Are there some books that you won't admit to reading? It's kind of too dark and crowded in my closet. I prefer my bed or the couch. I find the best way to keep from having embarrassing secrets discovered is by telling them myself. I read every last word of the Twilight Series. Same with the Sookie Stackhouse books. I read all of the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo books. I used to sneak pulp romances in junior high for the sexy bits. I've read every Agatha Christie book ever written. I also read The Devil Wears Prada. I've read the entirety of the graphic novel Buffy ouevre. I am oddly resistant to best-sellers and then I break down and read them eventually to find out what all the hype was about. I'm more embarrassed about admitting that there are some books that I should have read, but haven't.

5. Do you have any regrets in life? I regret having spent so much time reading the Twilight series. I regret that I didn't get that "Winner Winner Chicken Dinner" T-shirt I saw at a restaurant.

6. Name one ambition, not including getting your writing published. My Miss America answer to this question is that I want to make a difference with my life. I really do. I don't know exactly how, but I want my life to have meant something, mattered to people, and to have helped make at least a small part of the world a better place. This has always been my ambition for as long as I can remember. The "how" of it changes, but I like the idea of being open to the possibilities with this in mind so I can do what's needed where ever I am. I also would like to leave my kids with boatloads of money so that they don't have to worry about things, but that's more of a pipe dream.

7. Heels or flats for a night out? Doc Marten's boots. So I guess that would be flats. I have a lovely pair of Italian heels that are collecting dust in my closet that make me feel like a dominatrix, but in a good way. They are oddly comfortable for such high heels, but then I feel like an impostor when I wear them.

8. What are your comfort foods? Chips and queso and re-fried beans. That might explain number 6 in the previous list.

9. Normal clothes or comfy PJs? I like for my "normal clothes" to fit like comfy PJs, so really, it's the best of both worlds. My PJs kind of resemble workout clothes. So if I should, hypothetically speaking, walk my daughter to school in my PJs, people just think I am super diligent and I am going to work out after I drop her off, rather than being a lazy slob who will go home and eat cookies for breakfast with six cups of coffee. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

10. What is your favorite film? Again with the "favorites". My top 5 are probably... Moulin Rouge, Lost In Translation, Casablanca, The Birdcage, and Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels.

11. Coke or Pepsi? Neither. I'm not much of a soda drinker, but if you've been around the Periphery a while, you'll know what I mean when I say HOT YELLA KOOLAID!

Here's the part where I run around with my arms flailing like a chicken and try to catch someone without running into a lamppost. So get ready to run:

The M-Half of the M-n-J Show
Faith In Ambiguity
The (not always) Lazy-W
Word Nerd Speaks
Just A Mum?

Even if I didn't tag you, you are welcome to play along if you are so inclined...

On your marks, get set... 
Here are your 11 questions:

1. If there were 5 birds in your yard, which one would you eat? And why?
2. What's the best thing that happened to you when you were 7 years old?
3. If the mob was going to take one of your fingers to recover a debt, which finger would you give them? Why? (Or would you do that thing where you flip the table and grab the giant meat cleaver from Vito?)
4. If you were to throw a drink in someone's face, what drink would it be and why would you do it?
5. Someone gives you a gorgeous mink coat for a gift, would you wear it? Why or why not?
6. You are trapped in an elevator with the following people: Elton John, Kathy Griffin, Jimmy Carter and John Malkovich. What do you do? Would you take pictures with your cell phone?
7. Who did you want to be when you were 13? Are you that person? Why or why not?
8. If you found a finger in your burrito, would you set it aside and keep eating? Why or why not?
9. If your navel dispensed the condiment of your choice, what would it be? Why?
10. Are you a ferret person?
11. You are given an award for something you are very proud of. You get up to make your acceptance speech and they hand you a box of teeth. Does it throw you off? What do you do? Would you proudly display it on your mantel?

GO! Happy tagging, folks!

Links of Love

This is not a post about sausage. Although, I guess it could be.
I've been digging around in people's love lives for the last several weeks and have made some interesting discoveries. I was talking to my love and doing that thinking out loud thing that I do and I was telling him that there are about five topics about which I find it difficult to write without resorting to cliche or maudlin, sappy nonsense.

"Really? What are those?" he asked.
I ticked them off: "Love, death, parenting, coming of age, faith."
"I don't believe you," he said. "Have you ever read a story that wasn't, in some way, about one of those things?"

He's right, of course. He and his orderly, lawyerly brain are good at pinpointing things for me that I've muddled all around into a panic. He challenges me and believes in me and so when I told him about my baby idea - my little wobbly, new fawn - he said "Write it."

So, you can blame him for my muddling about in your affairs.

I've been collecting love stories and here are some that you've offered up:

Larissa at Papa is a Preacher "Because I promised myself to not shy away from writing of things I'm scared to write about... Because I want to. Deep in my gut I want to. But I will admit, I don't know how."


Michelle at Buttered Toast Rocks "It's the story of two kids who felt older than their years, who came together like perfect connecting puzzle pieces, who knew that to say yes to this big adventure was a forever kind of deal."


Sleepy Joe at The Life and Writings of Sleepy Joe "Meeting my other half was not the happiest time of my life. I was 8, my father was ill and we had just moved to a bungalow because of his mobility issues..."


Tara at Faith In Ambiguity "My mind settles on the second boyfriend, the one who ended up with a part of my soul in his back pocket forever."


Masked Mom at Masked Mom "How could I have thought, even for a moment, even under the duress of there's nothing to be done about it in any case, that our renewed contact resolved things in any permanent way?" [I might add that this is only a teaser of a post that is yet to come, so stay tuned.]


Word Nerd at Word Nerd Speaks "Then there was the guy that all of my friends thought I would marry. Thought I should marry. The first serious guy. He was nice looking, stable, educated, and came from a good bit of money. If I was a checklist sort of girl, he’d have scored very well. The thing was, I didn’t love him."


The M-Half of the M-n-J Show  "Knowing it could never last, but that maybe it would if we worked hard enough. If we paid enough attention, if we learned the right words, took the right classes, and tried hard enough, maybe it would last."


Lucy at The Trans-Gentle Wife writes a whole blog about her love story and the twists and turns it has taken. "We tried on ruby rings surrounded by diamonds. Something not traditional. Something with deep quality that is impossible to break. Something still simple. Something perfect."


Jane in Her Infinite Wisdom writes of a first love found: " It was the next weekend Andy and I would...I don't even know what. Talk late into the night and remember only later that other people were in the room with us...but only as a memory...an intellectual exercise." And then lost and lost again: "And then? Then I got mad. Madder than maybe I've ever been with him. I wanted to yell and scream at him...maybe even kick his shins for being such a damn dunce! And also for being dead. I can't seem to forgive him for that."


There are more. Infinitely more. If you peruse your favorite blogs, you'll find love stories of every description. If you look around, you'll see them: in your own life, walking down the street, in your families, in your neighborhoods, churches, workplaces, underpasses, back pockets, everywhere. Love manifests itself, is the basic fabric of our lives, will not be contained by the heart-shaped boxes in which our culture tries to place it. 


Everyone has a love story to tell. Thank you for sharing yours with me.

Thoughts On Cooking

Thoughts on cooking?
There's a point to this, I promise.
What do you think about cooking?
Do you cook as often as you'd like? Too often?
What are your favorite things to make? Why?
How about eating?
We all like that, right? Do we?
Food in general?
Favorite foods? Why?
Do you have any strong associations to a particular food or foods?
Am I making you hungry?
What did I forget to ask about?
Discuss.
In the comments are fine.
Take all the space you need.

I'm Always Up To Something

For a few weeks when I was three or four, I drove my mom insane trying to pee standing up. I still remember the contortions that took. I would straddle the toilet bowl as best I could with my pudgy little legs and let fly, swiveling my bottom to adjust the stream. It was a messy and frustrating endeavor. I was trying to be like my dad. Thankfully, I discovered pretty quickly that my biology prevented me from emulating him in this aspect. I'm sure my mother was relieved. I moved on to other pressing things, like lodging a button in my nasal cavity and encasing my right leg in purple bubble gum.

When we were first married, the Chief Lou and I were on our way to my parents' house for dinner one summer evening when I decided that I needed to apply some of the Carmex that had been sitting in the hot glove compartment of the car all day. That went pretty much like you'd expect it would. I opened the little jar and liquid, hot, camphor scented magma poured out all over me and the seat. Since it was a time before babies, we didn't have a stash of napkins anywhere in the car for random acts of nonsense. I rode the rest of the way trying not to touch anything while my new husband shook his head in disbelief that I didn't know that was going to happen. When we arrived at my folks' house, I scuttled into the bathroom to try and clean up the greasy mess and I heard my mom in the other room: "I should tell you, she's always doing something."

She's not wrong, either. It's another way I have emulated my dad all these years. He was a preacher and a missionary by vocation, but he wrote, sculpted, painted, gardened, made stained glass, did basic carpentry, baked homemade bread, trained bonsai trees, did graphic design, desktop publishing, plumbing, wiring, and really anything else that struck his fancy. His response to art galleries, craft fairs, home improvement shows, and life in general was "I can do that." And then he would set about with intensity and passion to see if he could. Most of the time he could and he would until everyone he knew had a loaf of artisan bread or a bust of themselves or their own crooked little tree. I have inherited this trait along with his smile and his excessively hairy legs. It is one way my biology hasn't prevented me from being like him, but it can still be a messy and frustrating endeavor.

I am always up to something. Right now I'm up to something, as a matter of fact. I have an idea that is still a bit nebulous, but will take form. It will require some audience participation. Because it's no fun to be up to something if you can't make a mess and involve as many people as possible, right?

I've written here a little bit about my first love - my dad. I will write a little bit more about other loves, too, in the days to come. I want to hear about your first loves. The ones that made your heart go pitter-pat, the ones that got away, the ones you're glad are gone, the ones that never made much sense to begin with. The heart is an unwieldy and willful thing. It baffles and confounds us with its choices. Let's hear about those choices your heart has made. Blog about it, send me an email, forward this to non-bloggers even. This is part one of the plan. Stay tuned for part two. Just be glad that this particular fancy of mine doesn't get pee on the floor.

Misson: Comment Mob

Let me tell you about a blogger.

She's brilliant and funny. She makes the rest of us look like slackers. She's working on her PhD, teaching, running a freelance translating and writing business out of her home, and she's raising four children, all under the age of four. Do you know who I'm talking about? Many of you probably do. For those of you who don't, it's cdnkaro at four under 4 (plus two). On top of her workload of epic proportions, she still finds the strength to stay positive and witty, and what impresses me most is that she also still finds the time to reach out to others with incredibly thoughtful gestures: surprise flowers for another blogger going through a rough patch, a stamp book for a blogger's little brother, endless and regular sweet comments on any number of blogs, guest posts, and on and on.

Our blog friend has been a little bit overwhelmed lately and it's time for us to give her back a tiny bit of what she gives to so many. Jane in her Infinite Wisdom and I had an idea. We are going to mob her with comments. She just posted for the first time in a month yesterday with a tiny update on things. Click on over and leave her some love, then encourage others to do the same. Even if you haven't read her blog before, you don't have to know her to know what it feels like to be completely buried in life.

This is one of the wonderful things about the immediacy and far reach of blogging. Within a matter of minutes, I can sit in my home in Seattle and encourage you at your computer in __________ and you can send some goodwill to a dear heart in Canada. Pretty sweet, no?

Let's fill her post up with so many comments and well wishes that it boggles the mind.

Thank you and good days to all!

Big Sticky Tootsie Pop Hug

I am a Tootsie Pop. A hard outer shell, with a soft and gooey center. My kids know this, so they have learned just how to patiently lick away until my gooey-ness is exposed. Sometimes, people with especially sharp teeth can just plow right into that gooey part without warning. I don't like that as much. But sometimes when the moon is right or if I've been listening to a lot of REM, I crack open that outer shell and give folks a view of the soft stuff. Really, and shhh! this is a secret, I'm mostly soft stuff.

I have spent the day getting ready to take my monkeys on a trip for a little breaking of spring, and to my delight, a large part of this day has been spent in communication with various stranger-friends who for no other reason in the world except that they're nice, have volunteered to guest post for me while I'm away. This is the sort of thing that reassures me about the future of the human race. Overly dramatic? Perhaps. Perhaps not, though. I was going to say that it's not like we're changing the world here. But maybe we are?

Technology and the internet and blogs and social networking all have their damaging effects on the world in one way or another. In the wrong hands, they can be used to tear down, to divide, to isolate, to disengage. I'm a hands-on kind of girl, so I prefer my life to be in 3D for the most part. But I also believe in the power of the written word. These words that we all work so hard to get down on the screen every day - most of us for no tangible compensation - these words matter. Sometimes they're silly, sometimes they're terse and driven by exhaustion, sometimes they're angry or moving or profound or misspelled or nonsensical. But always they matter. They matter to the lives that they touch, they matter as the tiny threads that weave people closer together, they matter because they're yours.

Six months ago I got my first actual reader on this blog. It was a thrill and a rush to know that some stranger out there read something I wrote and responded to it. To my amazement, some people responded again and again, and brought other people to respond as well. And now I have this little crowd of stranger-friends who inspire me daily, encourage me both directly and indirectly through their words, their tenacity and their dedication. That's you. All of you. You have changed my world.

So as I sit here, sleepy and satisfied, I want to say thank you. To all of you. Even if this is the first time you've ever read this blog, thank you. Thank you for having the courage to say things out loud, to follow your dreams, to think, to reason, to write, and to share. It's people like you who do change the world. Each time one of you reaches out to another person with a comment, an encouragement, a note, a laugh, or any of the other many things you do, you are making this world a better place to be. So thank you, from the bottom of my great big, gooey heart. Thank you.

And Speaking of Guest Posts...

This is not at all creepy.
Photo credit: sideshowmom from morguefile.com 

I want YOU.
Yes, you.

Listen, I'm leaving the planet for a few days starting Saturday and rather than hang a sign around the ol' blog that says I've gone on an extended coffee break, it would be just ducky if someone wanted to write a guest post for me.

We're not picky here around the Periphery. Got something that you don't want to put on your own blog? Send it over. Funny pictures of cats? Keep 'em. Treatise on the use of hands as symbolism in the collected works of George R.R. Martin? Send me an abstract. Or really anything else you've got kicking around. I'd be delighted to flog for some other bloggers.
So, ladies and gentlemen, start your search engines and send me some stuff. I would be so much obliged.

You can send me an email: tangledlou@gmail.com
You can use the spanky new message feature on my Facebook page.
You can let me know in the comments here and we'll make the proper arrangements.
You can Tweet me.
You can write them on a bus.
You can write them without fuss.

There even might be something in it for you.

It's this, or I post a video a day of some of the most hideous ear worms ever to grace the face of Youtube. Or possibly interpretive art made from my fingernail clippings? Informative links with photos about various infectious diseases?

Seriously, if you're a seat-of-the-pants poster, this is an opportunity for you. I'm nothing if not a last minute gal.

And I thank you in advance. Mwah!

Uncovering Skeletons

Write to me of loss, I said. I'm interested in loss. Tell me about the first time. What did it feel like?

I wrote about losing my wisdom tooth, I've written about losing contests, I asked you to write about your losses. Succinctly, freely, instantly, 250 words or less. Some of you did, and it was fantastic.

Deb at Kicking Corners wrote about an old loss that somehow uncovered more recent losses.
Michelle at Buttered Toast Rocks wrote about the good kind of loss - the little loss of selfishness that comes with being a mother.
Larissa at Papa Is a Preacher wrote about the necessity of loss for growth, the divine plan in loss and even used a parable.
Masked Mom wrote about a loss of something indescribable as a child, but clearly a loss.

Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom sent me this marvelous link. It's a project driven by loss, to uncover the commonalities across the board in all kinds of loss.

Casey has a whole blog dedicated to dealing with cyber losses. Check it out here.

I had a few other responses, too. A fellow blogger commented on the BlogHer version of the post and wondered if it was necessary to examine losses.

A friend of mine told me this in an email: "I apologize, but I'm not gonna write about loss. I'm trying to explain, but I'm having trouble getting the words right. So simply put, I'm not gonna write about loss cuz I don't want to."


Only a very small part of this whole exercise comes from a creepy voyeurism on my part, I promise. I have been pushing my writing (obviously not my blog writing) to its limits and beyond lately. I've tried to stop being so polite, so proper. It has been the sweatiest of exercise for me. I don't like to sweat, but there is the hope that after I'm all showered up, I'll feel better for having done it. Not feel better for the sake of a kind of therapy, but that the writing will feel better - healthier, more toned, leaner, stronger. I believe in writing for therapeutic reasons; I don't necessarily believe in publishing said writing. I do, however, think we can use these intense emotions, these moments in our life that take our breath away (for good or for bad) to enrich our writing, rather than skimming merrily along the surface.

There is a price, though. It's sweaty. It's uncomfortable. It's exhausting. It sometimes takes you places you weren't quite prepared to go. Sometimes it frightens small children (this is why I write after they've gone to bed.) If you've read my blog for any time at all, you may have realized that I like to examine things. I appreciate so much all of you who chose to examine along with me. You are my comrades, my co-conspirators, my fellow travelers through the madness that is writing. I have nothing but the utmost gratitude and respect for all of you. As always, if you don't see your link or if I've overlooked someone, LET ME KNOW! I want to include everyone. Thank you.

So, my 230-some-odd words on loss. I wrote four different pieces to get to this one. I had to peel back several layers of defenses and I probably could stand to peel a few more. But I wanted to get this done, so I could share the lovely work you all have done.

It hurts in the center of my chest, and when I breathe around it, it leaks out my eyes.
I can't write this. It cuts to the quick and it hurts.
It divides muscle from bone and leaves me a lifeless, spineless heap.
It exposes my useless mask and the skeleton it hides.
We hide our skeletons, not in the closet, but right under our skin.
They prop us up, they keep us walking, keep up the framework of our appearances.
These skeletons aren't hanging out forgotten, underneath out of season clothes, dust bunnies, defunct vacuum cleaners and the shoes I forgot I had. That's not where our skeletons live.
They walk around just under the surface, always there. They hurt and they break us when we bump up against things unexpectedly. Like a picture. Out of the blue, just pops unexpectedly where there was nothing before and you bark your shins or stub your toe.
I didn't stub my toe. It hurts just behind my ribs, that skeleton that covers my heart. Protects it and other soft and vulnerable things. It hurts. The bruise is from the inside. It threatens to burst.
All unnatural, unnerving to see the skeleton on the outside. The little bit of bone, out of place, poking through flesh. It sickens. It must be addressed. It must be healed.
I don't want to write this.
It hurts.

Sweating With My Blog Homies

What do cliffs, needles, blackberries, mothers, whirs, and voices have in common? Why bloggers, of course! Sometime in the past few weeks (they all run together in blog-land for me) I posted about a poetry exercise that tickled my fancy and extended an invitation for some audience participation. That's the beauty of blogging, isn't it? The community of it?

Several sporting bloggers gave it a whirl and I'm dancing and whirling with them. They all came up with such vastly different pieces using the same tools. It has just delighted me to no end to see that sort of magic at work. The exercise was The Ten Minute Spill and I outlined the instructions here.

Confession time: This exercise was hard for me. It was much harder than I originally imagined. The time limit panicked me a little bit, as did the line count, did I use enough of the words? My offerings pale in comparison with those of my fellow bloggers. For some reason, this also delights me no end. I love a challenge, I love to sweat over things. I even enjoy the feeling that I've done something rather poorly and therefore have plenty of room to stretch and improve. I will never climb Mount Everest - I find sports that can kill you somewhat distasteful. I do, however, create mini-Everests for myself to hurl myself against and grow dizzy and deplete my oxygen in the process. Thank you so much to those of you who did with me. It has been so much fun. For those of you still considering, please do. We all write for different reasons and about different things and with different voices. I think what ties us together is discovery. What's not to discover?

Here are the lovely contributors, my fellow climbers who took their ten minutes and spilled. I've also added my favorite line from each of their poems next to their links:

Larissa at Papa Is a Preacher "I'll take on all it entails, the celery, the strawberries, / The fails, the victories, all that I can be."


sebtown at In Search of a Title  "I can edge to the cliff. / I can fly. / Every day I can be scared and I can be alive."


Michelle at Buttered Toast Rocks "They teeter on a tightrope cliff edge / Dreaming dreams bigger than I had dreamed for them"


Masked Mom at Masked Mom "The desire to protect them all--from the world, from myself--overpowers nearly everything, / Until, finally, fear's voice is the loudest one in my head"


Julie at Feeding The Cat "I can't hear her voice, / or smell her spit on my hair / to hold down a cow lick."


Esbboston at My Worlds My Words My Worries "But I thought about how much I had grown in the last year, plus how much weaker my mother was getting since her ax accident..."


Please do go check out their links and read the whole poems. They are just delightful and imaginative and so very exciting. If you have done this exercise and not shared it, or I've overlooked it please link up! [If I've overlooked yours, please hit me with the Twitter stick or something and LETMEKNOW so that I can add you to the post. I just got a foot of hair cut off and I'm still heady from the fumes of the styling products.] This has been so much fun. Who knows? I may drag out a few more fun exercises that I come across. 


Oh, yeah. I promised you dreadful. Here it is. Catch me in my black lipstick and a dog collar reading this at a college poetry slam near you:


She didn't know how to jump.
The clouds lay beneath her
And tremble, wobble, no.
She didn't care a lick
about the gazes, intense as needles
from the faces below.
She didn't want her mother
to find her.
She could almost see the News vans, helicopters now.
Nothing left of her but blackberry jam.

Author's note: When I was just now typing this, I typed "feces" instead of "faces" and almost left it because it made the whole dreary affair a teeny bit more interesting. Thanks for playing with me, blog friends!