#SelfieFreeSummer - My Unfiltered Life

So perhaps you remember way back in May when I posted my diatribe about selfies and the downfall of humanity. The rest of this post may seem particularly ironic, since it will be filled with selfies. But they are selfies with a purpose, y'all. They are, in truth, the end of my selfies.

In that post I also referenced this lovely selfie from Instagram, in which I pranced about au natural:

Said selfie was taken the morning of my backpacking trip (you know, the one were I almost died in the middle of the night), where I was fresh out the shower and headed out to the woods, so I had a makeup free face and hair full of ponytail frizz. 

This was a statement selfie, even though I didn't make a big deal about it at the time it was posted on Instagram. Okay, I may have hashtagged #nomakeup #nofilter, but I promise it was more to prove a point to myself than to declare any sort of pride over what I look like here.

Posting a pic of myself, of my real self, isn't something I typically ever do.

Because, let's be honest. In my selfie posting prime, this is what you could expect to see:

What is even going on in the lefthand pic? Am I an Anime cartoon? A Star Trek action figure?

Uh. I'm sorry. What? Let's do a little side by side comparison here:

Wow. Notice any striking differences? Is the girl on the left even the same person as those pics on the right? It sort of kills me that in my selfies (which, honestly, I took multiples of before posting the perfect pose), each pic was staged to highlight whatever my current idea of beauty happened to be. Skinny? Fit? Blonde? Heavily mascara'd? (it's a word, hush) Snarky? Sure. If it showed the most pleasing image of myself to the world, I posted it.

I'm not saying this is true for all selfie snapping girls and boys in the world. But it was true for me. I could blame it on many things. The thick purple scar that drew a heavy line across my right cheek as I was growing up. The endless bullying. Living through my twenties as "the fat one," and countless other things.

But the truth is, regardless of my past, my present need to be seen as somebody other than who I felt like I was on the inside is what dictated my selfie habit.

I can't really pinpoint when I decided to stop snapping and posting so many pics. At some point, it just felt silly. In part, a piece of what was broken on the inside healed after I spent six weeks in an intense round of almost daily group therapy after Dos moved out. But that's another story.

So why am I telling you all of this? It feels radically different than those filtered, make-up laden pics above. This is the real me, filter free. I'm starting my #selfiefreesummer this weekend, which includes as much time away from the mirror as possible also. I'll cover my bathroom mirror, and avoid obvious gazes into any other reflective surfaces as possible. Obviously, as my Seestah pointed out, I have to use mirrors when driving and I'll be in front of mirrors in public restrooms, and probably some other places I haven't really thought about yet. But perfection isn't what I'm looking for.

I think that's what my goal was in my selfie phase. Some perfect image of myself, some idolized idea of what I was supposed to look like.

This challenge is about being free of my outer self-image and focusing on inner-beauty and strength. It's about ignoring what I see with my eyes and listening to who I am on the inside. Along the way, I'll post pictures on Instagram of things that matter more than how much eyeliner I'm wearing, or what angle I have to hold my arms in to get the best shot of my face. Each photo will be tagged with #selfiefreesummer.

I'll be posting every Saturday through the summer with updates on how it's going and what I'm noticing. 90 days of being selfie and mirror free carries me right to my 40th birthday. A serendipitous realization made when looking at the calendar to decide when this little challenge should end. Maybe you'll join me, and post your own #selfiefreesummer pics on Instagram. I'd love to see what you're looking at that tells the story of your own unfiltered life. Feel free to grab the graphic in the sidebar and use it when posting on your own blog about your #selfiefreesummer challenge, or toss it in your sidebar. And leave me a comment, so I know to come check out your posts!

So. Let's begin, shall we?

#EveryDayinMay - O Selfie! My Selfie!

Oh, the selfie. Or should I say #selfie? Truly, the self portrait has been around for as long as art has existed, although The Public Domain Review says the first ever photographic selfie was taken by a rather dapper looking young man by the name of Robert Cornelius. It wasn't until social media exploded that what we know as today's selfie became popular.

I mean, let's face it -- it's a thing.

Even the Oxford Dictionary says so. And seriously, the beloved selfie even has its own song.

I've been thinking a lot about selfies lately, and what their prevalence means for society. When I read Becoming Odyssa by Jennifer Pharr Davis, she talked briefly about how after spending four months on the trail with nary a mirror in sight, her definition of herself changed. Beauty became less about her appearance and more about her strength.

I don't know about you, but that's the kind of beauty by which I want to define myself.

Earlier this week, musician (and Neil Gaiman's wife), Amanda Palmer posted a link on FaceBook that deepened my thoughts on how this selfie culture is changing the value we place on beauty. It seems some women are actually having their left hands re-beautified. I shared this little tidbit of pop culture with The Husband and he couldn't figure out why on earth anyone would have their left hand worked on. Then I held up my hand and waggled my ring finger in his face.

"Because," I said, "how can any proper lady possibly take engagement ring selfies if they've got mangled up fingers?"

He just shook his head.

And more and more, that's what I seem to be doing as well. There was also research conducted recently on the disease of the selfie. Thinking about young people falling into depression and becoming suicidal because of body image makes me ill. No one should ever have to feel that way. Granted, most people that fall victim to this degree of body dysmorphia are typically already suffering from other mental illnesses as well, but I don't think we need much more proof that narcissism is on the rise.

Top all of that off with the tragedy that happened earlier this week in California, when Elliot Rodger killed 6 people and then himself, decreeing in his manifesto that he was troubled (among other things) by his lack of success with women. Then add the fact that he was highly visible on social media with a large number of his own selfies.

If I hadn't already decided to go on a selfie-free, mirror-free challenge, all of these things combined would have sealed my thinking on it. I just have to wonder -- how differently might I view myself if I wasn't primping in front of a mirror each morning? If I didn't check my reflection in the window or take those selfies -- the ones I only seem to take when my hair and makeup is just right? So be on the lookout for some posts about how I will accomplish this vanity-banning challenge. Maybe you'll even want to join me!

I guess that's why I took my final selfie and posted it on Instagram the morning I left for my overnight backpacking trip. It was, I believe, the first picture I've ever posted of myself completely sans makeup. I could be wrong, but I can't think of another one. At the very least, it was the first intentional picture I've taken of myself not all glammed up. It felt like a turning point. I don't want to be defined by what I look like.

I want to be defined by who I am.

#EveryDayinMay - Ten (New) Slices of Life

Go check out Crystal's Ten by clicking above!

Every day is an opportunity for new experiences. Some good, some bad, some completely unbelievable. Today's Tuesday Ten is also a Slice of Life brought to you by one experience that made me realize how many new things happen to us in a day that go unnoticed. I wondered if I could come up with a list of ten new experiences today, to notice each moment that otherwise might slip by without celebration.

Ten Things I Did Today That I've Never Done Before

1. Ate a veggie sandwich at Schlotzsky's. Sure, this doesn't seem like a big deal, but hey -- it was new to me. Lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, cheddar cheese, a spicy ranch sauce, all on a deliciously toasted sourdough bun. Tasty.


2. Shared one of my Google Docs with a stranger. Proof I'm learning to play nice with others. I recently created a rather lengthy planning calendar for the upcoming school year, filled with literary events celebrated on a global level along with monthly deadlines for district technology and literary initiatives. Yesterday I noticed a tweet by someone looking for a calendar of literary events to use in their school next year and I thought, "Why not?" If my overly neurotic need to plan can be of some use to a fellow human, I'm happy to assist.


3. Used Skitch to screen capture and annotate an article. I've used Skitch before on images, but haven't played with it to highlight text, take notes, and summarize my learning. I did this today in a Discovery Education training, and when our instructors and a few other teachers noticed what I was doing, they tried it out also. It was fun to watch this spontaneous learning spark across the room.
   
   

   

   I think it turned out well!



4. Ate half a brownie. Now, I could be wrong. There may be some completely forgotten time in my past where, halfway into brownie consumption, I pushed that scrumptious little morsel of gooey chocolate aside and said, "Oh no, thanks. I couldn't. I'm just stuffed." But I have a feeling it hasn't happened before. When it comes to chocolate, I'm all in. Or I was. Today I have the wrapped remains of my half-eaten brownie sitting in my backpack to prove me wrong.


5. Used my phone to video a person using their iPad to demonstrate how an app works. Now, this app is probably one of the coolest things I've seen in the world of all things appy, so my nerdfest device-o-rama was definitely warranted. A Heart Cam app. Awesome. Sauce. You can listen to my obvious glee in the video!

  heart cam AR app demonstration  I'd like to point out that I wasn't the one that asked if that was his real heart. Just sayin.

6. Gave a dog Benadryl. Grimm seems to be suffering from wonky allergies. He gets big welts sometimes, which I believe are from bug bites. The vet suggested dosing him up with Benadryl, and although I'm not a fan of dosing any living thing up on anything, the poor guy is all itchy and bumpy and sad, so I gave in. For the first time in his little dog life, he actually spit something out. I tried again by dropping the pill into a handful of treats, which he happily gobbled up. By the time Uno and I got home from our errand, all his bumps were gone!


7. Oh, the errand. This has to be the most sketchy and least worthy of celebration in my list of newness. Uno's car was towed the other night when he unknowingly parked in a spot that required a visitor's permit while spending the night at a friend's apartment. I went with him tonight to pick up his car, and about $400 later he emerged with his car from the fortress of steel and security cameras that will forever be known to me as Car Jail (Carcatraz??).

   

   Watch what you say, yo.



8. While waiting in line behind the four people ahead of us at Car Jail, a tow truck from another company drove up and the driver parked and walked over to join us in line. He was an older man that looked as if he'd had a life punctuated with discomfort. His mannerisms and quiet observation of the scene around him made my writer's mind start wandering, so I took out my phone and started a short character sketch. I've never used my phone to take writing notes like this before (I make far too many typing errors with my phone! Kudos to peeps like Lauren Oliver, who appear to have the ability write entire novels using their phone!), but I'm glad I had it because this wasn't the type of place where I wanted to take a leisurely seat in the dirt, pull out my fountain pen, and start writing away in my moleskine journal!


9. Followed Uno in my car. I'm accustomed to chauffeuring my kids around town. I'm becoming accustomed to having them follow me places now that they drive, and we sometimes need to take separate cars when we're out and about. I am absolutely not accustomed to following one of my children as they speed down the highway like an actual grown up human. It's weird, people. It's a weird, weird life we live.


10. Looked through a collection of Uno's photography to select some pieces to frame and hang in the house. Okay, I've done this with artwork before. All throughout the boys' childhood, I framed and placed their art around the house. But this feels different. These are black and white photography pieces from his first photography class in college. And they are timeless and hauntingly beautiful and a message about the uncapturable energy of youth. I love them, and not simply because they are a part of him.

Above photos by Steven Lifsey, who
doesn't like sharing as much as I do.

#EveryDayinMay - Let It Go. No, Seriously.

Hop over to check out how Crystal celebrated Cinco de Mayo today!

I have a little cupboard in my heart. It holds more things than one might expect for such a small heart-sized cupboard. Bits and pieces of my childhood, a long list of angst filled days from my teenage years, the last remnants of bruises from my first marriage (I told you that was a story for another day), regrets from my children's younger years that still sting fresh as a jellyfish wound, and a plethora of memories I don't want to remember but can't seem to shake loose.

Tonight in class we read our Journey poems. You know, the one inspired by Cavafy's Ithaka. The one that reminds me of Gaiman's Instructions. And more recently, the one so very much like Mary Oliver's The Journey. When I started writing mine, it was a bit melancholy. The words poured out, focused on the past, as if miniature demons were dancing my pen across the paper, refusing to let me look forward. They were angry, grumbling words.

Not the words I wanted to use to honor my journey. Sure, it's been a rough one. But whose hasn't? Midway through writing, I heard the words of someone who recently said to me, "You have so much stress in your life."

She'd been reading my blog. Perhaps she'll read this. If so -- thank you, your words reminded me of my small heart-sized cupboard, the one that stores up all the aches and pains I've accumulated through the years. And because of that, I changed my poem.

Perhaps it will change my journey, as well.

So I decided to focus on the changes I've made, the positivity I embrace every day, the focus I place in attempting to stay in the moment, to live right where I am -- no turbulent past, no worrisome future. I threw open that cupboard door and let all the regrets and drama tumble out and wash away.

I'm pleased with how the poem turned out. My classmates seemed to enjoy it; they said they could see the path I wrote about, feel the grass beneath their feet. They likened it to Whitman and Frost, which is a compliment I'll take any day.

I'm reminded that my one little word for this year is light. And lately -- between my first semester in school, the upcoming trip in July, the decision to step back from areas in my life that don't quite fit, and a few other odds and ends -- I do feel lighter.

Released. (Which, funny enough, was my word for 2013.)

So here's to the journey, wherever it may take you. Here's to letting go of the things hiding in the cupboard, those shoddy little things you don't want anyone to see. Let it all out -- throw it all into the air and say goodbye.

And then go out and live your life, unapologetically. Perhaps, like Whitman, you can then sound your "barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."

#SOL14 - Mindset Reboot

I've been stuck in a circle of sorrow for the past couple months, choosing to have a pity party about my health issues  -- choosing self-defeat -- instead of focusing on the good things.

So my back hurts.
I can walk.
And my neck is chronically stiff and sore.
I can stretch.
I've gained weight by eating mindlessly.
I can focus on each moment and choose what makes me healthy.
I've slid back and am heavier and weaker than I was before.
I am completely capable of regaining the healthy body I want.
It's all up to me.

I turn 40 in September. I can choose to live mindlessly through each day and tumble toward that milestone without making any changes, or I can kick this bad attitude to the curb and start doing something about it. The time will pass either way. The real question is: so what am I going to do about it?

Since my doctors want me stretching daily but the physical therapy exercises are seriously boring me to tears, I decided to take up Pilates. I've done it before and loved it, and I know that when I love an activity I am much more likely to keep it up. I did my first round today, with Sass by my side. Since I want to workout from home, I decided to follow the beginner's workout calendar over at Blogilates. We laughed through most of it, even when she was rolling around on the floor yelling, "No more, no more - wow, this really hurts!"

Welcome to the burn, sister.

And since Grimm has come home, I need to work on leash training him. This is a great excuse to get out and start walking again. Eventually when my back and knees are stronger (and when he outgrows his puppyness), walking will become running. But I won't be able to run again unless I first walk.

Food is the easy part. By choosing to live in the moment and notice my choices, I tend to have great success in eating well. It all comes down to consistently making the smart decisions that will lead me to my end goal -- a long, healthy life.

Being active is the hard part, not because I don't want to do it, but simply because I ache everywhere and am sleepy all the time. Setting appointments for my daily walk and Pilates will be key to pushing through the first begrudging minutes. I know I always feel better about myself and am in a more positive mood with each workout I make it through.

I had hoped to do more of this during spring break, but the truth is I needed this week to just sit and think about what is truly important to me. I restarted my daily meditation practice and found myself falling easily back into that place where the past and future regrets and worries fall away. All that matters is today.

And I am very thankful for today.

I do my best to stay behind the camera these days. This was taken March 14, 2014 with Sass and Grimm!

#SOL14 Every(thing on my)body Hurts

I read that a slice isn't a list. But today, my mind has been sliced up across a timeline; a list of wins and losses in the past eight years.

Eight years.

It's like a lightbulb the pops and dies -- just like that, and it's gone.

Last September I willed myself back into the healthy lifestyle that I love. I always feel best when I'm eating real food and moving my body daily. In November, I injured my shoulder. I ignored it, thinking it would get better.

It didn't. In December, the Husband suggested a chiropractor. I went. Along with looking at my shoulder, they took back x-rays. The verdict: a backwards neck and leaning tower of Pisa back.  For nearly two months I was at the chiropractor three times a week, doing an odd assortment of physical therapy and adjustments.

My back and neck, which had never hurt before, now burned with daily chronic pain.

I went to a shoulder specialist. And a back and neck specialist. They saw no reason in the x-rays my chiropractor took for me to need such radical therapy. They gave me a steroid shot and sent me to a physical therapist.

For the next month and a half I went to physical therapy twice a week. I went through the prescribed stretches at home every day.

My shoulder is 95% back to full strength. My neck and back, though better, still hurt throughout the day. I lean over to turn on the bath faucet, and my back cries out. Stoop down too quickly to grab my shoes in the morning, my back cries out. Roll over too quickly in bed.... yep, you guessed it. I spend the day rolling my head from one side to the other, rubbing my neck, trying to release the tension. Nothing seems to help.

My doctor, upon palpitating specific points on my body, considered fibromyalgia. An entire battery of lab work was ordered. Every other possibility they could think of ruled out, the final diagnosis became probable fibromyalgia.

"Stretch," my doctor says, "Stretch, stretch, stretch. Fibromyalgia loves the stretching."

I stare at her blankly, nodding, but I'm thinking about 2007. June. Six months after I made my decision to stop living an unhealthy life. Six months after I started walking, then running, five days a week. Six months after I stopped eating all fast, fatty, and fried foods. Gave up soda for water. I was strong. Healthy. Happy. I could workout without pain; I could work out with joy.

Now, stretching hurts. Sitting hurts. Everything, it hurts.

I'm trying to find my way back to a place where I want to PUSH myself into caring enough to do something about it.

But even that, it hurts.

#Slice2013 - Day 20 of 31

I've found (often) that when I struggle to find something to write about, the truth is the problem doesn't really lie in finding a writing idea.

Most often, it's a problem of not wanting to write about the thing most pressing on my mind.

Take this month, for example. Nearly every day I've found myself at 10 or 11 at night, shouting, "Oh no, I haven't Sliced!" before dashing off to grab my laptop. (Procrastination, much?)

Even then, I sit poised at my screen (which, no kidding, glares angrily at me, as if even the laptop itself is saying, Girl, you ain't kiddin' no one!) with fingers hovering over the keys, trying to come up with something worthwhile to say.

It goes a little like this:

Write about how you're struggling to keep it together.
No, that's lame. Stop whining.
Write about how upset you are with yourself for not eating the healthy foods you know you should be eating.
Geez, you are such a broken record. Just start eating healthy and then you won't have to write about not eating healthy! Duh. Besides, how many times can you possibly write about struggling with food?
Okay, fine. Write about how you used to workout --and love working out-- all the time.
OMG WHY ARE WE STILL THINKING ABOUT THIS STUFF?? 
Um, okay, I guess I'll write a poem or about work or maybe a book I read, then...

I'm not making this stuff up, guys.

Almost. Every. Day. This. Month

And the truth is, I don't write about the food stuff and the workout stuff and the health stuff because I am ashamed.

I'm ashamed that five years ago I was in the best shape of my life, never let a morsel of fast food or soda or candy enter my mouth, worked out like a beast three to five days a week, and was HAPPY. I'm ashamed that I let the difficult times in my life become a food-fest and I stopped working out. I'm ashamed of how much weight I regained. I'm ashamed that last year I paid a trainer for six months to help me get back on track and I DID get back on track, but then I immediately fell back off again when I switched jobs last year and fell under the stress bus again. I'm ashamed of this cycle I keep going through because WOW how am I not smarter than this??

So for 21 days I've ignored what is most on my mind because I don't want to whine about it. After all, I caused the problem myself. But I feel sort of hopeless in this area right now, and each morning I wake up and tell myself I'm going to be better ... but then I don't.

So for 21 days I've wanted to say all these words that basically amount to: I'm ashamed.

And writing about it helps, because once I see the words I realize that it's the shame that is keeping me down. Shame likes to hide in the quiet space in our heads. The space we don't let people see. Shame is very comfortable moving into those spaces and taking up residence. And shame will stay a long time -- our whole lives, if we let it.

There is no room in a healthy life for shame. Shame is the thief of joy. And although I can think about the things I want and the things I believe, it isn't until I write them down and see those words that I can fully process what it all means.

Writing the truth is important, especially the big truths that we don't want to see. The ones we want to hide from. But that's where shame likes to hang out...

And shame is the thief of joy.

So for tonight, I'm celebrating truth and joy.

And for tomorrow, I'm practicing putting more joy in each of my moments, because that's where success lies. In the joy of every moment, practicing following the path I want to be on.

(I finally had the courage to write this because a friend on FaceBook shared this post on forgiveness at jonacuff.com)

#Slice2013 - Day 12 of 31

This afternoon on FaceBook I read an article about Bridget Zinn, who was offered representation for her debut novel back in 2009. Not long after that, she found out she had stage four colon cancer. She passed away in May of 2011. She was only 33.

Her quirky YA fairy tale, Poison, is set to come out this month. It's up to her friends and family to launch the book, and they're doing an amazing job of honoring her memory while making sure her novel makes it into the hands of readers everywhere. You can read a review of Zinn's Poison here.

Beyond the heartbreak I felt for Zinn and her family, beyond the desire to have her book in my hands, this article left me pondering the fickleness of time. Our best laid plans mean little if we aren't here long enough to reach our goals. Procrastination, fear, the busyness of life - all these and more have often become my excuses for not putting a bold effort toward my own goals. If my time on Earth is abruptly cut short, I wondered, what dreams will I have left unclaimed?

My mind first drifted to the partially edited manuscript for my own YA novel. To the picture book manuscripts unsent. To the half-written stories, and the seeds of stories wanting to be written. To the local critique groups I know of, but shy away from, too afraid to sit in that circle and be seen. To the days spent not writing, when writing is - has always been - where I am most fulfilled.

I have other dreams, of course. For my children, for travel, and other less precious things. But those dreams? The writing dreams? They are the dreams I have the most control over, yet push against the hardest. Those are the dreams I need to be actively running toward, because just sitting here thinking about losing them fills me with regret.

What about you? What unclaimed dreams are waiting for you to run and greet them?

Writerly Wednesday: Beware the Kraken?

Let's start with the important announcement of the day:

I am a big, fat liar-head.

After spending last week revising my current picture book manuscript, I felt like I needed to push it through my crit group one last time. Sadly, this means waiting a couple of weeks before I get to send in my YA chapters (which I promised last week I would do!), but it felt right to keep working on the picture book. The more I revise it, the less it feels like me and I wonder what that means. Is it not really picture book material? Should I pour more into it and sculpt it into a chapter book? Do I have any clue what I am doing? Is it all just complete crap? Or, of course, the most logical place for my brain to leap:

Maybe I'm not a writer, after all.

Yep, that's right -- I'm admitting it. When I have even the tiniest mouse-sized doubt enter my mind, I immediately jump ship -- and although I may be wading in ankle deep water, I'm envisioning sharks and squid and the Kraken all torpedoing straight for me. Death is imminent, my friends. Imminent.

So let's review, shall we?

How I feel when doubting myself as a writer:

Actual level of threat when said writing is in "peril":

And even though somewhere in the extremely tiny logic-side of my brain, I know -- I KNOW -- I am being ridiculous... I still mope. I'm not sure if this has ever been identified in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, but it really needs to be. We can call it Writers' Hysteria Syndrome.

Please tell me I'm not alone here.

In other news, here are some nifty writerly websites I spent time at this week (when I wasn't throwing darts at my WIP, I mean.)

1. Query Shark - a crit partner sent me here, and it's genius. Really. You can trust me, regardless of how the above rant may prove otherwise.
2. Verla Kay's Blue Boards - I'm sure I've shared this before, but it's really worth the time if you're working on building your craft!
3. Jo Knowles' LiveJournal - I just finished reading See You at Harry's, which is wise and beautiful and funny and true, and you should read it too. Jo has been posting weekly writing warm-ups in conjunction with Teacher's Write, and they are always a great way to get started.
4. Stenhouse Blogstitute - this is a great site to follow if you happen to be doubly blessed as a teacher and a writer (hahaha). This week Jeff Anderson is the writer and he shares some great tips, including...

A writer in motion stays in motion.

Kind of difficult to argue with that, even if your logic-center is as small and whispery as mine tends to be. So I guess this week's lesson is simply this: The Kraken is less likely to get you if you keep in motion!!

Or something. I'll leave the lesson-learning up to you.

Writerly Wednesday

June was a writerly kind of month! There was...

• Kate Messner's Teacher's Write! Virtual Workshop (which is -thankfully- still happening!)
• North Star of Texas Writing Project's Young Writers' Camp
• A brand new Caffeine-Fueled Online Critique Group
• Fleshing out a new WIP, and
• Editing a close to finished PB manuscript

While each of these felt monumental in my growth as a writer and a teacher, I think I've learned the most about myself through our new critique group.

People. Let's be honest. Sharing your writing is hard to do. It's not like sharing a recipe, or a good shoe sale, or a brownie -- although, honestly, sharing brownies is pretty hard, also.

But sharing writing is different. We see it in our kids at school -- at the beginning of the year, when I offer the opportunity for author's chair, I am met with a resounding silent wall of dread. It takes time for them to dip their toes in and realize there are no sharks waiting to snatch them off to the deep, dark terror they are anticipating.

As adults, although we like to consider ourselves all grown up and mature and stuff, it's not so different.

For our first round of critiques, I shared my picture book manuscript with the group. There were a few good reasons for this: it's short, it's been through some revisions already so it's a quick and easy piece for me to work on, I reeeaaalllllly want to get it out into the hands of publishers, and I don't have a high level of emotional attachment to this particular piece. It wasn't blood, sweat, and tears to write. It's uber low-threat on the share factor.

And the critiques came back exactly as expected. They saw the same places I had noted that needed changes. They gave excellent advice. It was a nice, safe exchange.

But again. Let's be honest. It was a nice, safe exchange because I am scared to release my YA novel's hand and let it go skipping merrily down the street to meet other people all alone! In fact, after finally rereading it to begin revisions, I realized there is so much more work I want to do with it (so much that needs doing!) -- and I basically wilt when I think of showing it to anyone in its current state of imperfection.

In fact, I've been so upset over the necessary revisions on this novel, that I have pretty much ignored it for the past two months. Basically, I'm hiding it in a closet until I can deal. It's good I don't handle parenting the same way I handle writing. Yipes. 

However, serendipitous as my life has been lately, even though I have attempted to shove that sucker in the closet and move on to new things, my precious novel won't give up. It's in the latest news stories I see snippets of on Twitter and FaceBook, it's singing to me through my favorite songs, it's waving to me from books I am reading, and it's bubbling up and sitting right beside me in my dreams.

Apparently, my sweet little novel has decided she's done spending time in the closet.

Hai. My name is Kelly. And I am an Insecure Writer. And next Monday, when it is time to submit pages for critique, I am going to send in my baby -- the first chapters of this novel that won't let me go -- and although it may hurt, I am going to grow because of it.

And if I'm lucky, so will my novel.

I don't believe in...

Tuesday's quickwrite exercise over at Teacher's Write! Workshop had us looking at poetry! If you know me even the tiniest bit, you can imagine the inner carthweels of happiness I was doing. There are several amazing poems in the comments from Tuesday -- even if you aren't doing Kate Messner's workshop this month, they are definitely worth checking out.

The more I write, and possibly because my current WIP is so near to my heart, the more I realize that all the little (and not so little) hurts that I've "healed" from over the years aren't as gone as I believed. Writing through the hard parts is a little like letting the poison slowly be sucked from the marrow of these wounds. Perhaps finally taking on the challenge of writing this old-new story will mean some real healing can take place. It's an interesting revelation how intertwined the two are.

After reading Sara Lewis Holmes' unbelievably fun and witty poem, Credo, several of us tried out our own.

Here's my quickwrite response to an "I don't believe..." poem:

I don’t believe that kids should grow up,

unless I’m being honest,

and then I know they must, and they should,

and my heart beats a little faster and my

breath sort of stops in my throat

when I see these little grown ups

walk out the door and into their future.

I don’t believe in negative thoughts,

in fact, I don’t believe in them so much

that I watch them wink out of existence,

one. by. one.

But sometimes, in the darkest dark of night,

I worry those vanishing thoughts

are still alive somewhere,

and just might come back to haunt me.

I don’t believe in just one right way,

one black or white answer, a perfect solution

to save the day.

There are too many colors to paint, too many

notes to be sung, too many wondrous words

to settle on just one.

And I don’t believe in sitting still;

I’m a river, not a pond.

And life, well –

life is too twisty-turny,

filled with grown-up little kids, and

secret thoughts that wake your heart from sleeping,

and then,

there are all those words waiting to be written.

Sitting still just won’t do.

Home, Not Home

Have I mentioned how thankful I am for Kate Messner's Teacher's Write workshop? I'm finally making some headway with my latest WIP, and that familiar prickle is running along my spine, telling me this roller coaster will be off and running soon.

On Thursday, our quick write exercise had us looking at "home" and then rewriting our idea of home if it were changed to the point of no longer being home. I dropped my new MC into this quickwrite idea and here is what I came up with - completely rough and unedited! Eep!


"C'mon in! You're gonna love what I've done with the place!"

My father grins at me, wiping sweat from his dirt-smudged forehead. The Florida heat is stifling today, and it's difficult to know if my breath is so shallow from the blanket of humidity or my rattled nerves.

I follow, through the garage that remains stacked with boxes of Grandma's old fabric, and down the hallways that lead to the living room. White squares of paint blink at me from the otherwise cream-colored walls, reminding me that old family portraits and my grandmother's paintings once hung here. These halls are nothing more than an empty graveyard now. Little puffs of sawdust escape from beneath my feet with each step I take. I feel my stomach begin to tug itself inside-out, as if warning me to turn and run. But it's too late. I step into what once was my grandparent's relaxed sitting room and survey the damage.

Dad's gaze seems cemented to my face, and he watches me in that childish sort of "Look mom, no hands!" kind of joy.

I haven't been back in years, and as my stomach swirls around like a laundromat washer stuck on spin, I regret coming here today.

I squint my eyes shut in the glare of all this newness. My mind shoves it out; a film reel that's skipped a beat and come undone, spitting images out in a cacophony of light and color.

Inhale.
Remember.
Exhale.

I open my eyes, seeing the colonial style red cushioned rocker that my Papa basically lived in for as many years as I knew him. When we came to visit, his face was always buried behind a crisp newspaper, wisps of vanilla-scented pipe smoke trailing up from behind his paper screen. I'd poke my head around the paper and shout, "Boo!" and in response his whole belly shook with laughter. His often stoic face flushed pink, lips breaking into a wide grin, revealing the whitest teeth I had ever seen. As a child, I marveled at those mysterious pearl teeth. I decided he must have sat around brushing them all the time to keep them so shiny.

On a good day, Papa pulled me onto his lap and grabbed a new book from the ramshackle mountain of papers, magazines, and books stacked on the wooden table beside the rocker. We read together until Grandma called me to the kitchen to help with dinner. There was one television in their home, but it was rarely on. Entertainment came from shared work, books, and conversation.

Grandma, I think to myself, and my eyes seek out the small gallery kitchen that I spent many childhood hours in, learning the basics of bread-making, vegetable peeling, and best of all, cobbler baking.

I always loved the position of Papa's rocker. From where we sat, Grandma's constant activity was a quiet comfort, like watching hummingbirds in flight. She was tucked just behind the kitchen bar, but still visible. Sometimes she hummed quietly to herself, and sometimes she merely worked in silence, only the clattering of measuring cups and bowls and knives against cutting boards to accompany the sight of her quick and constant motion.

Eventually these words would come quietly from the kitchen: "And where is my little helper hiding today?"

Papa and I grinned at one another as I slid from his lap to dash into the kitchen and report for duty.

Kitchen duty with Grandma might mean a trip to the garden to hunt down collard greens, tomatoes, and fresh berries, or it could be as simple as peeling potatoes while she prepped a huge salad. The great thing about working with Grandma was that she never forced a conversation. She shared the secrets of her recipes, spread apart lettuce leaves in the sink under a cold stream of water, explaining how to choose the very best pieces, and both amazed and frustrated me with her ability to use a spatula to transfer every last drop of cake batter from mixing bowl to pan. 

Standing here, on the cusp between the once cozy parlor and lesson-rich kitchen, I could almost feel them near again.

Papa's booming voice, reading my favorite fairy tales.
Grandma's wrinkled hands guiding mine as we kneaded dough together.

Inhale.
Remember.
Exhale.

But even the worst film glitch will eventually get back on track, spliced apart and mended to reveal a somewhat smilar picture. And when I open my eyes this time, the reality of Dad's monstrous renovation comes slamming into view.

Gone are the dark blue and burgundy sofas, the adored rocker, the deep cherry end tables, the tiny gallery kitchen with the scratchy bar stools I spent hours sitting at, watching my grandma at work.

I once laughingly referred to their house as The Home That Technology Forgot. No one in their right mind could say that now. The centerpiece of the newly wide, open space is a theatre-worthy flat screen TV, surrounded by a myriad of consoles, speakers, and devices I'm not even familiar with. White carpet practically sparkles beneath gleaming white chairs that rival my Papa's pearly choppers. The bar separating the living room from kitchen has been removed. In its place is a square, marble-topped island. A chrome pot rack is suspended from the ceiling just above the island. Grandma's old white stove, which held countless family meals and carefully prepared desserts, has been replaced with a sleek, alien appliance that flashes a bright blue code at me from its touch screen display panel.

There is nothing left here that resembles my sweet and solid grandparents. Nothing old and wise and funny. None of the childhood pieces I have worked for years to cherish and keep alive in a heart that otherwise could easily release the good and turn cold, forgetting what kept me afloat all those years.

Tears slip down my cheeks, betraying my need to appear unaffected by my father's selfish changes to my childhood safe place.

As usual, he misunderstands.

"Yeah, nearly brought me to tears too. Who knew this scrapyard could transform so much, right? It's a freakin' Cinderella story!"

He laughs, lost in his own amusement, and lumbers over to a slim, white laptop resting on a chrome end table.

I gulp back the words, grit my teeth against the anger that boils beneath my rib cage. 

"Let me show you the network I've got set up here," he begins, his back to me as his fingers slip across the keyboard.

Another deep breath, and I let my head hang in defeat. He has erased every good memory I have, filling this house with everything about him I've attempted to forget.

Something catches my eye through the doorway that leads into the hall. A stack of unframed canvases rest like falling dominoes against the wall, hidden in the shadow cast from a nearby ladder. My breath catches in my throat.

"Hey Dad," I call, my feet already leading me away from his spot at the computer, "what's this stuff?"

He half-heartedly glances toward me, one hand waving me away. 

"Eh. Just some old junk of Mom's that didn't sell in the Estate Sale. Salvation Army will be here in the morning to grab everything that's left. Now come check this out..." his words bleed away, and I hear the clicking at the laptop pick back up.

I squat by the hodgepodge of canvases, my fingers hungrily flipping through them one by one. This junk, as my father refers to it, turns out to be a collection of Grandma's oil and watercolor paintings. Brilliant beachfront sunsets, long-stemmed cattails bending in the breeze, endless sand dunes rolling across the horizon; all captured by my grandmother's steady hand. 

My hands close over a selection of the paintings and I lift them to my chest. I stand, fresh tears demanding their way forward, and turn away from my dad. I slip though the hall, unnoticed. The heat slams against me when I return through the garage, embracing the treasure in my arms. I slide back into my rusted out Toyota Camry -- the same car my Grandma helped me buy not too many years ago -- place the paintings in the seat beside me, and back out of the driveway.

A smile catches itself on my lips, and I can't help but think of Papa's whole-faced grin, and the way he stood beside the stunted palm trees in the yard each time I left, one arm around Grandma, so tiny beside him, and one hand in the air, waving enthusiastically. I always honked in response, acknowledgement, but not a goodbye. I never wanted there to be a goodbye. I always knew I'd be back again soon enough.

This time, as my car glides past the yellowed yard, I wave. I wave until the house slips behind me, winking out of sight from my rear view mirror.

W: weights

w

WEIGHTS, LIFTING

I learned the power gained through weight lifting about four years ago. I had never considered myself to be an athlete, or even remotely capable of anything falling under the category of “sports.” But then, after losing about 100 pounds and needing a way to firm up all the undesired flabbiness that comes with a huge weight loss, I grabbed myself a personal trainer and timidly opened the door to lifting.

Here is what I learned about myself:

1.     Contrary to my lifelong belief, I am athletic

2.     I am stronger than I believed

3.     I push myself past the point where many people would stumble and quit

4.     I love lifting

Many women are afraid of lifting because they believe weights will hulk them out like a super-charged steroid-ridden power lifter. Not so much. Even lifting seriously heavy, a woman’s body just isn’t designed to grow gargantuan muscles without some serious supplementation on the side.

When I was lifting regularly and eating clean, I was leaner, stronger, and smaller than I had been in my life. In my life, people. It only took 2 to 3 one-hour sessions in the gym each week to maintain a body that, while not as sculpted as a fitness model, was still strong and healthy.

Right now I’m on the road back to that kind of regular dedication to myself. It’s a hard battle to fight, when it’s so much easier to let kids, a husband, work – really, any number of things – take precedence.

But here’s the deal – the truth of the issue that people just don’t like to face – eating right and being healthy aren’t about the calories or the scale or the number of reps or increase in weights.

Being healthy is about being dedicated to you. And when you can master truly putting your best health before anything else? I think you’re making an amazingly impressive statement: I matter.

And when you matter to yourself, people can’t help but treat you differently. Because you’re worth it, and you know you deserve a life filled with healthy choices – from the food you eat, to the people you surround yourself with, right down to what you’re willing to spend your money on.

Funny how I learned all that through “lifting things up and putting them down.”

C: car accident, chameleon, cocaine, crescent moon

c

CAR ACCIDENT

It was years before the sound of an ambulance or other emergency vehicle stopped throwing me into a series of violent flashbacks. I was an adult before I was convinced that I could be barefoot in a car and it wouldn’t cause an immediate car-related fatality. It’s only recently that I can see a white van on the road without my chest tightening. I’d say the 30 year anniversary of the car accident that changed my life is a fabulous time to finally let it go.

CHAMELEON

The first time I read the word chameleon was in 4^th grade. My dad gave me a copy of Piers Anthony’s A Spell for Chameleon. I asked my dad what a “chameleon” was, sounding it out with the blended /ch/ sound instead of the hard /k/ sound it’s supposed have. “What’s a cham-ē-lē-on?” I asked, innocently. He shook his head. He took the book back. He said, “Huh. I could of sworn you were ready to read these.” His eyes were sad; confused. I’m just now making the connection between this moment and my “shedding my chameleon” mantra of letting go of all my masks. Interesting.

COCAINE
When I was 12, my reconstructive surgeon (see: car accident) decided I needed my nose whittled away to make room for more oxygen or some such nonsense. My parents eagerly signed me up. Before the surgery, the nurse shoved Q-tips laden with cocaine up my nose. It dripped down the back of my throat, burning and causing me to cough and sneeze. When I woke up from surgery, I couldn’t stop crying.
“Don’t worry. Many of our young patients have this reaction to the cocaine,” the nurse said, patting me on the back.

CRESCENT MOON
Whenever I see a crescent moon, I instantly think the same thing.


Horns up: it’s the Cheshire Cat.

Horns down: God is giving me a thumb’s up!

Musical Montage

When I was little, mom sang me to sleep.

I love my Kelly, oh this is true... I love my Kelly, oh yes I do...


I was raised on a mix of Elvis and The Eagles, with a little Joan Jett and Journey sprinkled in for good measure. These songs were the soundtrack of my life from birth to about eight. I remember singing along in the car as we listened to songs like Hound Dog or Don't Stop Believin'.

I can attach a song to nearly all my childhood memories -- music was always in the background. My dad often hummed along to many favorites, and my mom was a trained quasi-opera star in her own right, so music just didn't know how NOT to follow her around. She's sort of like Snow White, that way.

In fourth grade I remember starting to buy my own music: Michael Jackson, to be exact. And when I couldn't buy the newest tape for my boombox (oh yes, I went there!), I would simply record it off the radio. This was especially helpful when I wanted to learn the lyrics to a new song. Record, play back, stop, play, stop, play, stop, play -- until all the words were safely written in my notebook. And when I wasn't writing down lyrics from the radio, I was writing my own.

By middle school my friends and I listened to Madonna, The Beastie Boys, Tiffany, and Guns N' Roses. Music was my bipolar best friend. Where else could you find these tunes hanging out side by side? Only middle school, my friends.

I distinctly remember crying to Cruel Summer and Groovy Kind of Love when my first boyfriend moved away. No, seriously. I probably even ran into my room, flung myself onto my bed, threw one hand over my forehead, and wept bitterly. I bet Whitney Houston was singing in the background.

Soon after that deluxe moment of sitcom love gone wrong, I was banging my head to the likes of Alice Cooper, Poison, and Def Leppard (why didn't it bother me that their band name was so hideously spelled??) with one group of friends, while also kickin' back with a different group listening to LL Cool Jay, Whitney Houston, and George Michael.

No wonder I was confused.

When I was alone, I had a third set of music that begged for my attention. At night, after my friends cleared my parent-free house, my radio dial always tuned to the same thing.

Classical music.

It started innocently enough. One night, deep into a bout of insomnia, I was storming the radio stations in search for something new. Somehow I landed on one of the only classical music stations in Vegas -- nestled between dozens of rock, hip-hop, and pop stations.

And I was hooked.

What began as random background music to my insomnia became a love of Chopin, Bach, Mozart, and  Mendelssohn.

It became my must-have lullaby, the perfect serenade for late night homework sessions, and quite often -- the soundtrack to my long drives to class for the years I was determined to finish my degree, no matter what.

Even through the years in high school, bebopping around to The Cure, Johnny Gill, Billy Idol, and Sinead O'Conner -- classical was still my closeted musical BFF.

Don't you just want to slap teenage me upside the head and yell, "Yo! Find your own taste! WHO ARE YOU???"

I still rock out to live music whenever I get the chance, beam like a little kid on Christmas morning when I hear Elvis, and pull out some serious white-girl dance moves when any of those classy songs from the 80's and 90's are on.

But in a moment of high stress, when my heart is pounding and I want to just run away and pretend nothing exists? There is nothing like being surrounded by the pulse and energy of swirling emotions that speak to me through classical music.

Oh, and teenage me would be proud -- I've actually found the music that speaks to me (beyond my classical bestie), even though no one I know really cares for it. So when I'm not seeking a Zen moment in the land of harps and violins, I'm happily crooning along with singer/songwriters Joshua Radin, Ingrid Michaelson, The Weepies, Imogen Heap, Schuyler Fisk, and more.

And P!nk. Because let's face it, she's pretty badass.

Writerly Wednesday

I'm really digging these mini-writing updates. They help me be accountable and the feedback I'm getting makes me feel like maybe I'm helping some other secret #nerdywriterclub members start to come out of their shell, too. I'm not gonna lie -- that's a pretty good feeling.

First, here are some of my favorite writerly reads this week:

1. Script Frenzy: this is a no brainer. Since I'm gearing up to write my big screenplay, I'm spending mad online time browsing this site. Lots of helpful tips and forums as busy as the local sports bar on $2 wells night. (p.s. I have a plot!! I know, a lot can change for me in one day, right?) There's also a site for teachers, if you fancy running this month o' madness in your classroom (and you should).
2. Donna Newton's Blog: writer, runner, mother, storm chaser -- this chick can do it all. And when she isn't off living large, she's blogging about nifty writer stuffs, such as contests, workshops, and author interviews. Check her out!
3. Texas Sweethearts (& Scoundrels): 7 authors and illustrators from Texas that write for kids and teens. You can access all the author's websites from here, and I have a weird love of reading author blogs (is this how some people feel about reading People magazine??) so you should definitely give them a visit -- who knows, maybe you'll even find some new books to read!
4. AdvancedFictionWriting.com: Another great site filled to overflowing with tips, tricks, and helpful info. You could spend way too much time here reading about writing, and not actually writing! So I'm linking you straight to my current favorite page -- an article on the "snowflake" method of writing a novel.
5. Writing Excuses: this is a super-rockin' website with podcasts on just about every writing topic you can dream up. The line-up of talent on this blog is pretty spectacular, too. I like to listen when I'm feeling a bit deflated. I hope you'll give it a listen, too!

On my own personal writing front, I'm knee-deep in edits on my picture book. I took the best advice from the 8 critiques I've received and have been able to tighten up my sentence structure, reorder a few lagging moments, and let some unnecessary words take a hike. I'm feeling good about sending it out soon! Once the edits are done, I'm going to work on some of the other titles I have in mind for this character. I think she'd be a character many kids can relate to, and I'd like to submit the first picture book with the promise of other titles to follow. I'm not sure that will help sell the book to a publisher, but I've read it never hurts to show you have other stuff lined up. I'll let you know how it works out -- by next week, I should be working on this stage. Exciting stuff, guys!

And as a little edit to yesterday's floundering post-of-much-whining, I'm pleased to say I've come up with my screenplay idea. It's an idea that I actually had about 5 years ago. I wrote this tiny snippet down and never went back to it, but the main character keeps kicking around in my head lately, so I decided I may as well give him some time in the spotlight. I'll spend the rest of this week fleshing out his character and rubbing the rust off the story details. I'm pretty hyped to share my story with my class, and can't wait to see what they want to work on. I have a feeling April will be a very good month!

So guys -- what about you? What have you been writing this week?

Words That Must Not Be Named (WTMNBN): Part 2

It took me exactly two days to move out after graduating from high school. I was 17 years old. There's a lot of backstory leading to that decision, but that's another story.

Lately, when I look at my own 18-year-old son, I find myself thinking about the day my parents dropped me off at the International Airport in Amsterdam, Holland and waved goodbye as I strolled to my plane. I was moving to Florida where my 24-year-old boyfriend lived. If my kids tried this, I'm pretty sure I'd lock them up and throw away the key -- 100% remorse free. But honestly, that is also another story.

This story isn't about my kids, my parents, or even my decision to move to another continent and live with a man I barely knew.

This story is about the strange journey I've been on with my body in the past 20 years. Twenty. Years. How is that even possible?

Anyway, back to the story.

I was still sporting my fabulous new 130 pound body when I arrived at the tiny airport in Pensacola, Florida.

That summer was amazing and horrible and eye-opening.

It only took a few months for me to realize that my dad could no longer limit the foods I ate.

So I ate.
And ate.
And ate some more.

I actually remember being elated at the freedom I had found -- I could leave the lights on through the whole house, waste as many paper towels as I wanted when cleaning up a spill, and eat macaroni and cheese by the box-full.

I think my choices really proved how totally mature I was, and definitely ready to be in a serious adult relationship.

By the following February -- just eight months later -- I weighed 184 pounds. This number is forever burned in my brain. It's the number I saw when I stepped on the scale to check my weight on the morning of my roadside chapel wedding.

I'm not really sure how it's physically possible to pile on 50 pounds in eight months -- but I do know it involves things like steak lunches, tons of chocolate pie, and a lot of Taco Bell. Oh, and several years of self-loathing mindspeak rattling around in the brain. That'll do it, too.

A month after the wedding, I found out I was pregnant. I was elated.

Nine months and another 50 pounds later, my first son was born. He was perfect and beautiful. (He still is, but he'll roll his eyes now if I tell him that.)

I'd love to tell you I spent my first pregnancy bathing in a pool of health and wellness.

But that would be a lie.

I was 19 and had a mean addiction to cupcakes and Coca-Cola.

After Uno was born, I attacked my weight like any normal weight-challenged teenager with a baby.

And so began the ever-fluctuating merry-go-round of gaining, losing, and regaining the same 30 pounds once or twice a year.

When the final seams of my first marriage were finally unraveling, I weighed right around 250 pounds. One of my close friends jokes about this time as my "closet days," saying she never wanted to see "Kelly hiding in the closet" again.

There were many reasons I was hiding. 10 years of living with an emotionally abusive, controlling husband had turned my mind into swiss cheese. And let's be honest -- my self esteem was a joke before I met him; so even mild deterioration was apt to cause some big issues.

When I looked in the mirror, I certainly didn't see anything worth appreciating. I didn't see a human being. I saw a bunch of words meant to keep me down. I've always been a collector of words, but in this case, I'd picked up several that needed to be discarded.

Scarred.
Fat.
Irresponsible.
Useless.
Stupid.
Ugly.

I left my first husband in 2002. Not the words, though. They hung out much longer.

But that's another story.

In Which I'm Proven Wrong, Yet Again

Remember how I promised my kids I would actively seek out publication for some of my writing? (And then threw a big hissy fit, positive it was going to kill me?)

And then got this crazy idea to write a completely new picture book manuscript, and take it through all the steps that lead to having an actual-factual book sitting in the stores? (Also: resulting in hissy fit.)

Yeah. I'm still pondering what on earth I was thinking, but it appears -- and I know this will shock you -- it's not quite as bad as I had imagined it to be...

I've followed the Face Book group Writers Support 4U! for a while now. Mostly I just lurk the posts, feeling sorry for myself -- look at all these writers writing! look at all these writers publishing their work! look at all these writers interacting!


Seriously, yo. I'm not really sure why I even joined if I just wanted to creep up on them Peeping Tom style, and not actually participate.

But last week I finally did more than hit the "like" button on a random post.

I asked about critique groups.

The response was quick and painless, and as a result I'm the newest member of a weekly Skyping writer's group and an online critique site.

The picture book has been critiqued twice on the site so far, with some really great feedback! I've got some ideas on a few changes to perk it up a bit, and both critics left me feeling hopeful about sending it out to publishers.

I also read the manuscript to my class, proving to them that I am, indeed, sticking to my word -- they had the same reaction as my own Littles, which was another plus. Laughed in all the right places, and because we so often critique each other's work, they also let me know what was strong and what needed help! What amazing little writers they are becoming!

This weekend I'll participate in my very first Skype critique group. I expect w(h)ine to be involved. (You didn't think I would give up complaining that easily, did you?)

It's good to be moving forward. New possibilities keep springing to mind. And I'm sort of falling in love with that.

What's Possible in Possibility?

Possibility. That's my one little word for 2012.

It's interesting to me how one word can wrap itself around you and take on a life of its own.

Impossible spells "I'm possible." (We love you, Audrey.)

Dwell in possibility.  (Thank you, Emily.)

LIVE with possibility.

One month ago I felt overwhelmed -- eaten up by -- possibility. The choices and chances in the coming months swirled around me, leaving me feeling lost in the fog -- of possibility.

Now I see it differently. I see the bliss and the blessing in all this possibility. I see adventure and opportunity. I see a life lived out loud. A life worth living.

I decided I needed to track down the root of this word that has become the framework of my year.

Possibility led me to possible, which led me further down the path to the Latin word posse, which means "be able." Following this still further I found that posse and potent both mean "power."

There is also the Latin verb possum (no, not opossum!), meaning "I am able," or "I can."

Follow the etymology around long enough and you'll find your way through the Latin potis (which leads to pote, meaning vessel -- how beautiful is that?) to the Sanskrit word  पति, or páti, which means "lord, master, rule, sovereign."

And what more is possibility, than to dwell in the brilliant truth that each day I get to choose what path to take. To dwell in "I can." To toss out the lists and the schedules and the must-have's and never-do's, and just get on with the business of living.

The words found in possibility are beautifully empowering. I found myself thinking of the words from Invictus by William Ernest Henley; the last stanza in particular:

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul. 

With all these delicious words wandering through my mind, I was reminded of Bob Raczka'a book Lemonade and Other Poems Squeezed From a Single Word. I looked up Andrew Russ, whose work Raczka was inspired by, and found even more words to ponder.

So I decided to give it a try with possibility. After much shifting around of letters and words, I realized it's much more difficult than I thought! But here it is, and here I am, dwelling in possibility: