Yesterday I took my bike out. This is the second ride I’ve headed out on all by myself, the first time occurring last weekend. That first ride almost didn’t happen. As I rushed around the house trying to find my orthotics to shove into my bike shoes, and my biking gloves, which I never did find, and take my bike off the trainer to get it outside, I thought, “This is why people don’t get into riding, there is too much crap to put on and get out!” For as much as I appreciate nice gear, it can sure spread out quickly.
The clouds gathered heavily outside our front door. Frowning, I thought, “Why am I doing this? I’m just going to get stuck out in the rain and slide off the road somewhere. I will probably hurt myself too.” Right on queue, Elizabeth yelled down a request for something from her room upstairs. “Ask Daddy,” I told her and stepped outside.
It was now or never. I knew why I needed to get my butt on that seat. It didn’t matter if I only rolled a mile away from the house and then had to turn around, I needed to get on the bike and get out on the road because it intimidated the crap out of me. Waiting until tomorrow wouldn’t make it any easier.
I remember when getting out on the roads by myself wasn’t a big deal. Visions of cars side swiping me or of being kidnapped by a strange man in a pick-up truck didn’t cross my mind. That scary movie didn’t play because the real scenes of freshly painted barns, shiny green corn stalks and the blissful swatches of cool shady wooded areas took up all of the space instead. In those days, I pushed my pedals and felt my strength and independence rise within me without any surprise.
And so despite the pit in my stomach and the incessant fear that I would get stuck in my pedals and eat the pavement with my much appreciated teeth, I clipped in and headed out. We live in an area with a lot of round abouts. Knowing that riding through one would scare me, I headed for the closest one right away. My heart rate monitor beeped at me as I approached the tricky intersection. Following all of the road rules, I entered the round about and promptly got honked at by an angry driver. Apparently, he or she wasn’t pleased seeing a biker on the road. “Okay, so I got the round about and the pissed off driver out of the way in the first five minutes, not bad,” I thought. Sure enough, my heart rate monitor confirmed that my heart was still beating, I was still alive. A sense of adventure and freedom once again started to seep into my pumping legs. “Honk if you must, but I, Kate Kneifel, am out here on the road, like it or not!”
I knew there were ride markers on the road, starting at Elizabeth’s elementary school, so I followed those. As I pedaled farther and farther away from the subdivisions of our town and headed more and more out into the country, my spirits lifted. On that first ride, it never did rain. I saw two blue birds, with their brilliant indigo coloring, and each time I shouted with glee. “Oh my gosh, it’s a blue bird!” I love blue birds but have only seen them a couple of times in my life. I remember wanting to try to build one of their special houses when I was in girl scouts. I never did make one, but on this ride I saw them twice! Then, at one point in the ride, the clouds parted and a brilliant ray of sunshine streamed down upon a white barn sitting peacefully in a golden field of wheat. “Wow, “ I exclaimed to no one. “Will you look at that! Isn’t that just beautiful!” Smiling, pleased with myself as if I had created all of these little surprises myself, I rode on.
I’ve lived in Carmel for almost 15 years. Here was all of this beauty just a few miles by bike, and I’d never seen it or experienced it. It felt like a mini vacation, a little mini adventure in my backyard. And that experience alone, it was like being a little kid again. Almost as if these child-like experiences were a just smooth white shelled eggs nestled in my gut, just waiting to be picked up and cracked open.
Yesterday I chose a new route. I had no idea how far it would take me, or where it would take me. I could’ve looked it up on the internet or driven it first with my car, but that seemed beyond the point. Once again, I came home feeling rejuvenated and alive with the feel of the road, the smell of the burning wood, the rotting moss, the heat of the growing crops now enveloped in my body. It amazes me that how if I can manage to push the fear aside, other sensations will fill that space until there is just not much room for fear and anxiety.
I keep trying to find people who want to go out on rides with me. But it seems people have either had painful sore butt experiences with bikes and aren’t thrilled about the idea of reliving them, or they are zippidy fast and I don’t want to hold them back, sucking air the whole time trying to keep up with them. Perhaps I am just meant to ride alone for awhile and it turns out, I don’t mind at all.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
Happiness
Today I dropped my kids off at Vacation Bible School, I raced my guilt about not volunteering this year to the front doors. I won. Leaving the guilt behind to catch it's breath and latch onto another mother, I drove my smeared windowed Civic to Menards.
I've been wanting to plant more perennials in the back beds, but just haven't had the time lately. As I walked through the nursery with my list, my heart pounded as if I were embarking upon a new romance. I thought to myself, "This is me. I get butterflies imagining what I can plant in the dirt behind my house." I'm not sure if this is an admirable passion for life and the simple parts of it, or low expectations.
Pure joy hits you from behind while your not looking. It stuns me like a kick in the butt, but instead of being angry and shocked, when it is joy, you jump at the sudden impact and laugh. An Annabelle hydrangea plant sat shot gun. Kai's car seat held with lavender plants. The floor filled up with yellow rose bushes. The back end of my car sunk under the weight of several bags of black top soil and mulch.
No one was hungry. I didn't have to worry about putting a blanket down for dirt and water. It's my car. I am allowed to get it as dirty as I want. As I hopped into my car, I could almost hear the plants smile, sighing happily to themselves as well. There is a quietness knowing you will be loved. If I had a bigger car, I would've bought too much, felt sick to my stomach. Neatly folding the receipt and slipping it into that hidden pocket of my wallet I would have returned them the next day.
I will take a picture of this when I get home, I thought as I arched the front wheels out of the parking spot. This is pure happiness for me today. So I did, and there it is.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Giving up the Gold Star
I keep thinking about posting something, writing more, and then I don't. I do the laundry, start dinner, get caught up on paperwork for work, and think of other projects, something easier.
I keep thinking two things, first of all, that nothing worth having is ever too easy. And two, but maybe I am wasting my time. I had a big in depth conversation with my friend Heather about careers, life, etc. She asked me why I am writing, what I like to write, etc.
A year ago I started take more time to write because I enjoy it. I've kept a journal since I was about 11 and find that writing lifts me up. It leaves me feeling full and light at the same time. But as we continued talking, I realized that lately, I'd fallen into the "Gold Star" trap. I was writing to get the Gold Star. I wanted someone who wasn't a friend or family to read my blog and find it interesting. I daydreamed of an agent or publisher finding something I wrote worth a second look. And as the rejections came in, I lost that spark and worse, the fun evaporated as I replayed my own sense of embarrassment over and over in my mind.
Heather left me a card the next day. It is a yellow note card with a little pink star on it. "I couldn't find any gold stars, so you got a pink one on a gold card!"
I haven't been writing much this month. But maybe it was time for a break, time to take a breath, to let go of worry and stop trying so hard.
There is a woman at my club and she is teaching herself how to swim, just as I did last year at this time. Each day, she straps on the flotation belt and churns up and down the swim lane. Stopping half way down the lane, her chest lifts and falls, I catch her eye and smile. I want to say, "WAY TO GO! You are doing so much better than just two weeks ago!" But I don't, as I need to watch myself that I am not too friendly. She smiles back proud of herself. I didn't have to say a word.
Me, I plan to backstroke for a bit. I did a bit of revising on my Princess Hazel story, but that's it. I am just struggling going back to it. I'm not trying to make writing my career. It's funny, I can do marathons, cycling events or swim and not care at all if I am slow. Instead, I find I feel completely delighted each time I finish and don't puke. I wonder how I can transfer that attitude to other areas? Maybe drink Gatorade while I write to get me in the mood? Do push ups between sentences?
For now, I'm going to try to let go of the Gold Star Status, breathe and let it be fun again.
I keep thinking two things, first of all, that nothing worth having is ever too easy. And two, but maybe I am wasting my time. I had a big in depth conversation with my friend Heather about careers, life, etc. She asked me why I am writing, what I like to write, etc.
A year ago I started take more time to write because I enjoy it. I've kept a journal since I was about 11 and find that writing lifts me up. It leaves me feeling full and light at the same time. But as we continued talking, I realized that lately, I'd fallen into the "Gold Star" trap. I was writing to get the Gold Star. I wanted someone who wasn't a friend or family to read my blog and find it interesting. I daydreamed of an agent or publisher finding something I wrote worth a second look. And as the rejections came in, I lost that spark and worse, the fun evaporated as I replayed my own sense of embarrassment over and over in my mind.
Heather left me a card the next day. It is a yellow note card with a little pink star on it. "I couldn't find any gold stars, so you got a pink one on a gold card!"
I haven't been writing much this month. But maybe it was time for a break, time to take a breath, to let go of worry and stop trying so hard.
There is a woman at my club and she is teaching herself how to swim, just as I did last year at this time. Each day, she straps on the flotation belt and churns up and down the swim lane. Stopping half way down the lane, her chest lifts and falls, I catch her eye and smile. I want to say, "WAY TO GO! You are doing so much better than just two weeks ago!" But I don't, as I need to watch myself that I am not too friendly. She smiles back proud of herself. I didn't have to say a word.
Me, I plan to backstroke for a bit. I did a bit of revising on my Princess Hazel story, but that's it. I am just struggling going back to it. I'm not trying to make writing my career. It's funny, I can do marathons, cycling events or swim and not care at all if I am slow. Instead, I find I feel completely delighted each time I finish and don't puke. I wonder how I can transfer that attitude to other areas? Maybe drink Gatorade while I write to get me in the mood? Do push ups between sentences?
For now, I'm going to try to let go of the Gold Star Status, breathe and let it be fun again.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Where is my Madonna poster?
I am the golden retriever of people. We owned a golden retriever for years. His name was Jak. Whenever the doorbell rang, Jak rushed to the door and shook with great enthusiasm . The minute I opened the door, Jak dashed ahead of me to make immediate contact. Most people don’t mind a welcoming dog. What people mind is what I call The Sloppy Velcro Dog. The Sloppy Velcro dog doesn’t go away after a few pats. He leans himself up against your leg, panting and drooling. He might drape his stringy saliva across your freshly pressed black pants each time he nudges your hand for more attention. As a guest, you politely pretend not to notice, not to care, while secretly hoping that this lovely pet is an “outside” dog and will leave to romp in the yard any minute now.
I should have known not to attend a meeting with so many letters strung together. SCBWI, what in the heck could that stand for? I didn’t find out until I came home and Googled it. It turns out it stands for Society of Children’s Books Writers and Illustrators. This information probably would have been good to know prior to the meeting.
I barely made it to the meeting in the first place. Today was the day a literary agent would give a presentation about why an agent is important, how to get one, and what they do for you. This woman had also offered to critique a draft of a children’s book or novel for a small fee. I jumped at this chance, as I still need 4 more rejections to make my New Year’s Resolution of acquiring 5 rejections. And secretly, I knew it would motivate me to finish one of my drafts that have been taking up memory in my computer.
I worked on my story, revised it, read it to the kids, reworked it again and finally submitted it to the agent. I knew it was just a start, but I enjoyed developing the story, playing with the settings and deciding how it should end. Kai requested to hear it again and again. Secretly I wondered, “Could this be it? Will something come of this?”
And yet, I tried to also prepare myself for the worst. People get rejected all the time, I told myself. You need to practice just persevering, practice just allowing others to read what you write, just be proud of yourself for going to the meeting, for writing what you did.
So I arrived early that Saturday morning and sat in my parked car with the windows down, breathing deeply, trying to keep my nerves in check. Other cars made their sweeping turns into rectangle parking spaces. I watched various women look up at the gray building, cross reference their written directions and then confidently march inside.
I eventually slid out of my car. I was starting to feel like a undercover cop waiting around for the action to drop. Following the signs, I walked up the rainbow colored stairs of the community theater into a room filled with folding chairs facing a miniature stage.
With my name tag firmly affixed to my turquoise cardigan, I chose a seat. “What do you write?” asked the woman sitting in front of me. Oh, shit. I hadn’t thought of that question. What do I write? I write whatever comes into my head. How about that? What the hell am I doing here? What do I write? Is there a wrong answer to that question?
“Oh, I am pretty new,” I said, trying to feel my way through, “I submitted a children’s picture book to be critiqued.”
“I write Middle School aged chapter books. I have one book published right now, but it’s with a small publishing company, so that’s one of the questions I have for her today. I’ve got another book I am trying to get published, but so far no luck.”
And there it was, that word, “published”. Suddenly, as this woman continued to share her writing history with me, I heard it bouncing around the room like an overzealous bouncy ball. “…she called me about wanting to publish a Cajun version of my story. There is no way I am giving permission for that…”
“…my agent says that they’ve had a run on boys books lately…”
and
“ I published a lot in the eighties and am now trying to get back into it…”
Have you ever had one of those “Holy crap” moments, when you realize you are totally in the wrong place, out of your league, and there is no way for you to quietly exit stage left? I felt like someone who was just starting an exercise program and somehow landed myself in the Olympic village.
Oh, please no one else talk to me. Please let this thing start on time. Of course it didn’t. But after another 5 minutes or so of small talk, and a brutal round of “Introduce yourself, where you are from and what you write, “ I was off the hook for two hours. I learned quite a bit about agents, writing a query letter, how the publishing business works.
Afterwards, the agent handed back our critiques and people lingered to chat. A few other women from Carmel approached me. “Oh, we should get together to do some critiquing sometime.” And of course, I cheerfully agreed and with that, like fastening your harness on a roller coaster, my nerves took off. The two women introduced themselves. I proceeded to pepper them with every question I could think of, anything to keep them from asking anything about me. My voice rose an octave. My eyebrows were probably rooted into the base I thought I’d hit the jackpot when one of the women mentioned that they owned a bike shop in town. “A bike shop! “ I squealed, “bikes are my second love!” Yes, I thought, let’s talk about bikes, not writing, not publishing, not agents, bikes. Let’s get into components, wheels, trails maintenance, and good group rides in the area. It was as if this poor woman unsuspectingly pulled a ball out of her pocket and I kept knocking it out of her hand to retrieve it. Isn’t this a fun game? Huh, huh, throw it again. Here let me show you how… I swear, thank God I don’t have a tail, it would have been noisily thumping the wide paneled wood floors.
Any good dog knows when he is losing the attention battle and eventually leaves to lay down and wait for the next opportunity. I could tell by the woman’s somewhat averted gaze that she thought I was a not- quite- bright- overly perky- highlighted -light weight. She was published. She had the book to prove it. Me, I was acting as if I had just downed three Red Bulls with a chocolate cake as a chaser. I made a few more attempts to redeem myself, then excused myself. I cited my work to do today and sang a final, “Nice to meet you!” before sailing back down the rainbow stairs.
Hoping back in my car, my cheeks flamed. I felt like an idiot. Why can I not just shut up? Why do I have to be the overly friendly chirpy girl? It’s okay, I thought as I looked at my folded up critique. I got what I came for and it was sitting right next to me. There it was, a judgment on my story. It could change everything. I drove home as quickly as I could and went upstairs to read it by myself.
I took a deep breath, sank into the welcoming plaid chair next to our bed and began to read. It wasn’t so good. Basically, she kindly and politely told me I have quite a bit of work to do. Then she gave me lots of concrete examples of how to make the story better. At this point, I’d like to write, “And I was okay with that.” I would like to tell you that I took her suggestions in stride, that I said, “Okay, those are great ideas and I’ll get to work on revising this story right away.” Technically, I can say that. I took it very well and was very well adjusted for about 10 minutes. Then, I cried. I felt so stupid. What was I thinking submitting that story? Really, what do I think is going to happen here? What the hell am I doing?
Despite my ridiculous crying, I needed to work and it had to be done that day. I called my sister. I called V. I called my mom. They were all wonderful and supportive as all good friends are. They took all of my fears and concerns out for a walk and smoothed out my bruised pride. I am not going to quit. I didn’t even feel like quitting. But here is the thing. It sounds so good to say, “Do what you love!” “Go after your dreams!” But when it IS something you love, when you are trying to grasp the dream that lives in the quiet, private corner of your mind, it hurts like hell when you fall on your face. It feels like everyone can see the scabbing scrapes on your nose and is thinking, “Does she really think that will work out for her?”
To overcome this feeling, I’ve established a new philosophy going forward. So, I may be a crappy writer. Fine. Let’s start there. Well, is Madonna the best singer in the world? No she is not. But she has a hell of a drive. She’s passionate. She‘s made herself an icon with that passion and determination. And so, I am adopting Madonna as my new, “You don’t have to be the best to make it work” philosophy.
I just want to write. I’ve got three more rejections to go. Game on, I may be a golden retriever and that’s fine. Throw me the damn ball and let’s get this thing moving again.
I should have known not to attend a meeting with so many letters strung together. SCBWI, what in the heck could that stand for? I didn’t find out until I came home and Googled it. It turns out it stands for Society of Children’s Books Writers and Illustrators. This information probably would have been good to know prior to the meeting.
I barely made it to the meeting in the first place. Today was the day a literary agent would give a presentation about why an agent is important, how to get one, and what they do for you. This woman had also offered to critique a draft of a children’s book or novel for a small fee. I jumped at this chance, as I still need 4 more rejections to make my New Year’s Resolution of acquiring 5 rejections. And secretly, I knew it would motivate me to finish one of my drafts that have been taking up memory in my computer.
I worked on my story, revised it, read it to the kids, reworked it again and finally submitted it to the agent. I knew it was just a start, but I enjoyed developing the story, playing with the settings and deciding how it should end. Kai requested to hear it again and again. Secretly I wondered, “Could this be it? Will something come of this?”
And yet, I tried to also prepare myself for the worst. People get rejected all the time, I told myself. You need to practice just persevering, practice just allowing others to read what you write, just be proud of yourself for going to the meeting, for writing what you did.
So I arrived early that Saturday morning and sat in my parked car with the windows down, breathing deeply, trying to keep my nerves in check. Other cars made their sweeping turns into rectangle parking spaces. I watched various women look up at the gray building, cross reference their written directions and then confidently march inside.
I eventually slid out of my car. I was starting to feel like a undercover cop waiting around for the action to drop. Following the signs, I walked up the rainbow colored stairs of the community theater into a room filled with folding chairs facing a miniature stage.
With my name tag firmly affixed to my turquoise cardigan, I chose a seat. “What do you write?” asked the woman sitting in front of me. Oh, shit. I hadn’t thought of that question. What do I write? I write whatever comes into my head. How about that? What the hell am I doing here? What do I write? Is there a wrong answer to that question?
“Oh, I am pretty new,” I said, trying to feel my way through, “I submitted a children’s picture book to be critiqued.”
“I write Middle School aged chapter books. I have one book published right now, but it’s with a small publishing company, so that’s one of the questions I have for her today. I’ve got another book I am trying to get published, but so far no luck.”
And there it was, that word, “published”. Suddenly, as this woman continued to share her writing history with me, I heard it bouncing around the room like an overzealous bouncy ball. “…she called me about wanting to publish a Cajun version of my story. There is no way I am giving permission for that…”
“…my agent says that they’ve had a run on boys books lately…”
and
“ I published a lot in the eighties and am now trying to get back into it…”
Have you ever had one of those “Holy crap” moments, when you realize you are totally in the wrong place, out of your league, and there is no way for you to quietly exit stage left? I felt like someone who was just starting an exercise program and somehow landed myself in the Olympic village.
Oh, please no one else talk to me. Please let this thing start on time. Of course it didn’t. But after another 5 minutes or so of small talk, and a brutal round of “Introduce yourself, where you are from and what you write, “ I was off the hook for two hours. I learned quite a bit about agents, writing a query letter, how the publishing business works.
Afterwards, the agent handed back our critiques and people lingered to chat. A few other women from Carmel approached me. “Oh, we should get together to do some critiquing sometime.” And of course, I cheerfully agreed and with that, like fastening your harness on a roller coaster, my nerves took off. The two women introduced themselves. I proceeded to pepper them with every question I could think of, anything to keep them from asking anything about me. My voice rose an octave. My eyebrows were probably rooted into the base I thought I’d hit the jackpot when one of the women mentioned that they owned a bike shop in town. “A bike shop! “ I squealed, “bikes are my second love!” Yes, I thought, let’s talk about bikes, not writing, not publishing, not agents, bikes. Let’s get into components, wheels, trails maintenance, and good group rides in the area. It was as if this poor woman unsuspectingly pulled a ball out of her pocket and I kept knocking it out of her hand to retrieve it. Isn’t this a fun game? Huh, huh, throw it again. Here let me show you how… I swear, thank God I don’t have a tail, it would have been noisily thumping the wide paneled wood floors.
Any good dog knows when he is losing the attention battle and eventually leaves to lay down and wait for the next opportunity. I could tell by the woman’s somewhat averted gaze that she thought I was a not- quite- bright- overly perky- highlighted -light weight. She was published. She had the book to prove it. Me, I was acting as if I had just downed three Red Bulls with a chocolate cake as a chaser. I made a few more attempts to redeem myself, then excused myself. I cited my work to do today and sang a final, “Nice to meet you!” before sailing back down the rainbow stairs.
Hoping back in my car, my cheeks flamed. I felt like an idiot. Why can I not just shut up? Why do I have to be the overly friendly chirpy girl? It’s okay, I thought as I looked at my folded up critique. I got what I came for and it was sitting right next to me. There it was, a judgment on my story. It could change everything. I drove home as quickly as I could and went upstairs to read it by myself.
I took a deep breath, sank into the welcoming plaid chair next to our bed and began to read. It wasn’t so good. Basically, she kindly and politely told me I have quite a bit of work to do. Then she gave me lots of concrete examples of how to make the story better. At this point, I’d like to write, “And I was okay with that.” I would like to tell you that I took her suggestions in stride, that I said, “Okay, those are great ideas and I’ll get to work on revising this story right away.” Technically, I can say that. I took it very well and was very well adjusted for about 10 minutes. Then, I cried. I felt so stupid. What was I thinking submitting that story? Really, what do I think is going to happen here? What the hell am I doing?
Despite my ridiculous crying, I needed to work and it had to be done that day. I called my sister. I called V. I called my mom. They were all wonderful and supportive as all good friends are. They took all of my fears and concerns out for a walk and smoothed out my bruised pride. I am not going to quit. I didn’t even feel like quitting. But here is the thing. It sounds so good to say, “Do what you love!” “Go after your dreams!” But when it IS something you love, when you are trying to grasp the dream that lives in the quiet, private corner of your mind, it hurts like hell when you fall on your face. It feels like everyone can see the scabbing scrapes on your nose and is thinking, “Does she really think that will work out for her?”
To overcome this feeling, I’ve established a new philosophy going forward. So, I may be a crappy writer. Fine. Let’s start there. Well, is Madonna the best singer in the world? No she is not. But she has a hell of a drive. She’s passionate. She‘s made herself an icon with that passion and determination. And so, I am adopting Madonna as my new, “You don’t have to be the best to make it work” philosophy.
I just want to write. I’ve got three more rejections to go. Game on, I may be a golden retriever and that’s fine. Throw me the damn ball and let’s get this thing moving again.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Stranger at the stoplight- AKA Poodle guy
There are many everyday things that bring me joy, identifying a bird by their song, mowing the lawn, watching people sing in their cars and of course, good hair day. Today, while waiting at a stoplight on my way to a swimming lesson, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. Turning my head to look at the car waiting in the lane next to me, I saw a teenaged guy who looked just like Troy’s best friend in High School Musical, fluffing up his poufy hair in his rear view mirror. His hair reminded me of a poodle’s fur, soft, brown, curly and most of all, big. It sprung out from his head with a sort of reckless abandon. If he were a friend of mine, I’d put my face squarely in that mass of curls, just once. I’m guessing it would tickle and smell like some kind of overly scented shampoo that teenage boys seem to favor in the quest to smell manly. I watched as he peered into his rear view mirror, fluffing his hair out just so, trying to obtain that fragile balance between, styled and slightly tousled hair.
Poodle guy, perhaps sensing my gaze, turned to look at me. Laughing, I smiled and blushed for being caught snooping. He smiled back, wide and easy with lots of white teeth. From behind his lightly tinted window he laughed at himself and shrugged his shoulders. I turned away, embarrassed. I studied the red light with a sort of ridiculous intensity. But then again, out of the corner of my eye, there was more movement. Poodle guy waved his hands back and forth across the window in a sweeping X motion, trying to recapture my attention.
Turning once again, he raised his eyebrows and rolling his eyes up towards his halo of curls. He requested my input by signaling a thumbs up sign or a thumbs down sign to me through his window. It was now my turn to smile widely. I gladly gave him my best thumbs up sign. He gave an exaggerated sigh and leaned back in his seat, obviously pleased with the given approval. The light switched to green. I quickly made my turn.
As I drove down the street alone in my car, I couldn’t help but smile broadly to myself. What a funny and sweet guy. There are many times a day when I have to remind myself to not take everything in life so darned seriously, to “lighten up” as my Dad sometimes demands of me. Poodle guy did just that, he didn’t take himself or his hair too seriously and laughingly appreciated my own noisiness. It made my day. Who knew a good hair day for someone else could jump start a stranger’s day without one word exchanged.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Family Mission Statement
In our family love is a big blanket. It covers all of us and never goes away. Words and actions matter in our family. We problem solve. Ideas and feelings are shared and listened to. We look out for each other.
In our family, we are allowed to be cranky, angry, frustrated and upset. It will pass.
In our family we grow our dreams. We help each other tend to the fragile seeds of our dreams, caring for them each day, celebrating together as they grow.
In our family we sing, play music, read, dance, explore, pray, imagine and create.
I've wanted to write some kind of mission statement for our family for awhile now. We're trying to have weekly family meetings and I feel that the kids are old enough to start to get and appreciate just what being a family means. As we talk about issues during these meetings, I keep coming back to these central themes. We'll see how it goes down. I tried to write it in a way that my 6 year old and 4 year old could relate to easily. I wanted something in thee about service to others as well, maybe I'll do another draft, but for now we'll see how this one flies.
Does anyone else have a family mission statement? Want to share? Or do you have family meetings ever? This is new for us.
On other fronts, I did submit a draft of a children's book to an agent who is coming to speak next weekend in Carmel. For a fee she will read it and critique it for you. This was a pretty big step for me, as she could totally hate it. Here is the thing, at this point, I feel okay with that possibility. I imagine all of this submitting like weight lifting. Rejection is a heavy blow, but it will build up the strength of my determination. Each time I "hit the weights" again, I will get stronger and the muscle will grow a fiber at a time. I may get sore, but that's okay. No pain no gain.
**Note to friends and family--remind me of this bravado later when I am feeling crushed! :)
In our family, we are allowed to be cranky, angry, frustrated and upset. It will pass.
In our family we grow our dreams. We help each other tend to the fragile seeds of our dreams, caring for them each day, celebrating together as they grow.
In our family we sing, play music, read, dance, explore, pray, imagine and create.
I've wanted to write some kind of mission statement for our family for awhile now. We're trying to have weekly family meetings and I feel that the kids are old enough to start to get and appreciate just what being a family means. As we talk about issues during these meetings, I keep coming back to these central themes. We'll see how it goes down. I tried to write it in a way that my 6 year old and 4 year old could relate to easily. I wanted something in thee about service to others as well, maybe I'll do another draft, but for now we'll see how this one flies.
Does anyone else have a family mission statement? Want to share? Or do you have family meetings ever? This is new for us.
On other fronts, I did submit a draft of a children's book to an agent who is coming to speak next weekend in Carmel. For a fee she will read it and critique it for you. This was a pretty big step for me, as she could totally hate it. Here is the thing, at this point, I feel okay with that possibility. I imagine all of this submitting like weight lifting. Rejection is a heavy blow, but it will build up the strength of my determination. Each time I "hit the weights" again, I will get stronger and the muscle will grow a fiber at a time. I may get sore, but that's okay. No pain no gain.
**Note to friends and family--remind me of this bravado later when I am feeling crushed! :)
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Five Questions
So often, when I meet and am getting to know someone new, I find myself asking them what they do for a living, or where they live. I find this habit interesting, as it doesn’t really tell me much about the person. For example, I work for Papyrus in sales for their Wholesale division. My basic line is that that I am a glorified stocker of greeting cards. My current position sheds little light on who I am. These are the 5 questions that I would really like to ask people, both new acquaintances and friends.
1. What were you like as a five year old?
2. What music album never grows old for you?
3. If money were no object, what would you be doing right now?
4. Where are your favorite places to be?
5. If you had to pick a theme song what would it be and why?
Answer those questions and I’ll certainly know more about you and who you really are. I’ve asked these questions of many people, specifically #3. It’s exhilarating to hear what others secretly dream and long for in life. One friend wanted to open her own store and run the business with her sister. She is doing just that today. Another, an attorney, dreamed of owning a dairy farm. Among my friends there are budding student advocates, bed and breakfast hosts, painters, musicians, art critics, owners of summer camps, forest rangers, photographers and writers, just to name a few.
I’ve come back to this question quite a bit this week. As with so many people, I’ve received news about my job, our company has been sold and we’re all feeling just a bit nervous about whether or not we’ll keep our jobs through the transition. What will I do if I lose my job? I’m weighing my options. My hope is to stay as close to my dream job as possible.
And if money were no object for me, what would I do you ask? I would write, learn to play the guitar, sing in my family room and take dance classes. I would join a storytelling group and perform stories to groups of children wherever they would listen. I would walk through my days with a camera around my neck to take photographs. I would learn to build bicycles and work in a bike shop. I’d start a writer’s workshop for adolescent girls to foster a sense of empowerment and community.
That’s a start at least.
1. What were you like as a five year old?
2. What music album never grows old for you?
3. If money were no object, what would you be doing right now?
4. Where are your favorite places to be?
5. If you had to pick a theme song what would it be and why?
Answer those questions and I’ll certainly know more about you and who you really are. I’ve asked these questions of many people, specifically #3. It’s exhilarating to hear what others secretly dream and long for in life. One friend wanted to open her own store and run the business with her sister. She is doing just that today. Another, an attorney, dreamed of owning a dairy farm. Among my friends there are budding student advocates, bed and breakfast hosts, painters, musicians, art critics, owners of summer camps, forest rangers, photographers and writers, just to name a few.
I’ve come back to this question quite a bit this week. As with so many people, I’ve received news about my job, our company has been sold and we’re all feeling just a bit nervous about whether or not we’ll keep our jobs through the transition. What will I do if I lose my job? I’m weighing my options. My hope is to stay as close to my dream job as possible.
And if money were no object for me, what would I do you ask? I would write, learn to play the guitar, sing in my family room and take dance classes. I would join a storytelling group and perform stories to groups of children wherever they would listen. I would walk through my days with a camera around my neck to take photographs. I would learn to build bicycles and work in a bike shop. I’d start a writer’s workshop for adolescent girls to foster a sense of empowerment and community.
That’s a start at least.
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