Practice is the Purpose

I find dialogue awkward.  That is, I find writing dialogue awkward.  There is a certain singsong-ish flow to a conversation created by voices and tones and facial expressions alone, involving senses much more complicated to convey in written word.  It is an art... and it is an art I am working to develop.

There is nothing quite so intimidating to me, in regards to writing, as transferring the lively characters dancing through my imagination and their exchanges to paper, except perhaps doing so poorly.  It is, however, in my experience, the very thing you dislike most or are most uncomfortable with which you should practice most ardently until you find mastery, or at the very least comfort.

Burpees are my best example in this moment, because so much of what I do now is relatable to the more palpable physical struggles of fitness and health. I don't know many people that don't have a love-hate relationship with taking a push-up and adding a "stand-up-and-jump" to it.  I realized very quickly in sweating through a workout that that which I hate most is where I needed the most training, and burpees were public enemy #1, as far as I was concerned.  The only way to beat them was to perfect my execution of them.  It's still a work in progress, but you get the idea.

I'm taking this approach to writing fiction, but more specifically written dialogue.  Practice practice practice.  Lucky for me, I have a blog as a perfect, and very public place to do just that.

I have spent many a night lately, as is evident by Little Wonders' explosion of random typed word-vomit posted, exercising various aspects of the art of writing.  I have scribbled notes on receipts, scraps of paper, and in several spiral bound notebooks tucked in corners of my home, car, and purse for years.  In the absence of pen and paper, I am grateful for a rather writer-friendly phone collecting my ramblings in electronic form.  I can't get enough, and honestly, it's about time I worked my way towards organizing this collection.

This is my explanation for what may seem like a blog full of words and posts lacking purpose as a whole.  Essentially, you are subjected to my self-assigned exercises.  I hope you find some enjoyment, if not amusement, in my nonsense.

And with that, I will leave you with last night's little assignment.  Five minutes spent creating an exchange between two beloved characters...

"Glow" 

(Another excerpt from a novel I have yet to write.)

He grinned and gently brushed her cheek, reveling and reeling in the residual waves of their love made. 

“You’re glowing again.”

Even in the shadows of the pre-dawn darkness, her smile shone in response. “It’s like the moon, my love, merely reflecting light from another source.”  She gave the sweetest sigh with a tender, blissful kiss. “It’s what you do to me.”

She snuggled into the crook of his arm as he found his way to the space beside her, like the final pieces of a puzzle connected.

“Oh no, love,” he whispered, taking in the honeyed scent of her skin. “It is all you.”

“Maybe,” she conceded with a wicked little giggle. “But then you are certainly the flint that sparks the fire within me.”

Of Injuries and Scars

I quietly sat on the x-ray table, lead vest heavy across my belly and spotlight aimed at my troublesome right knee. The tech making polite conversation as she gave me directions, "Turn this way, just a bit," and "Hold this up. Now, be very still."

I silently obeyed, holding my breath as she stepped behind the window and snapped the shot.  As still as I was, my mind careened around all the possibilities.  Another injury. 

It hadn't been but a few months since I was sitting in that very room with a similar limb affliction; one right shoulder, overworked and under-rested.  At least this time, there was actually an identifiable incident.  I had been reaching for a kettle bell mid-workout, between the running and the squatting.  I hadn't even touched that darn bell yet.  I merely stepped and reached for it, twisting in just the right way.  Or I suppose I should say, "just the wrong way," as there I sat.  It's silly really, and believe me, I felt the ridiculousness of it all in telling the doctor as he examined my angry knee.

I listened intently as he went over the diagnosis; a simple sprained knee to be cared for with a brace, some rest, and anti-inflammatories.  But there was more.  There were "abnormalities" visible on the x-rays. Well, who doesn't love to hear a doctor say that lovely fear-mongering word- "abnormalities?"  He explained the existence of what appeared to be some sort of calcification on what he felt was a knee far too young to allow such a presence.  I was left with a promised follow-up from the radiologist, and a possible orthopedic referral, dependent upon their closer examination of the x-rays.  Of course, I don't remember the exact details of his medical monologue.  It's funny how I always believe I will remember every word, but as soon as I step out of the office, my brain is wiped clean with the exception of all the questions I wished I had thought to ask.

In the few hours that have passed since the appointment, I've teetered back and forth between a high-spirited optimism and plan for a quick recovery, and a disheartening pessimism of being held back from the activities I love for any length of time.

It's a minor injury.  No surgery required.  What a relief!

Minor though it may be, it will still keep me from my routine.  Workouts are my sanity, my remedy for more than just a calorie burn and muscle toning.

Yes, but five days' rest is nothing.  And then I'll be back at it, rebuilding my strength slowly, smartly, but surely.

Unless this calcification business is more.  Then what?

Then, I'll work with it, and stop trying to fight against it.  I can accept my knees never permitting an inverted lotus pose.

Ugh... I was planning to start my YTT this week.  Lotus pose?  I can't even do child's pose right now.

But, my body needs rest.  I'll rest it, and then start next week.  That's the benefit of choosing a program which allows practice and study in my own time.

And round and round I go.  No, really... I am this insane.

In the end, all I could think was how maybe I've made a mountain of this minuscule thing.  A minor injury.  I've allowed it to make me feel broken.  I don't like feeling broken.  I don't care for exposing any fleck of my fragility, physical or otherwise, though I am quite aware of each flecks existence.

The truth is, my fear isn't about this injury or its subsequent recovery.  It gives life to a much more personal and emotional issue deeply rooted and boldly growing from old scars split wide open by setbacks like this.  Clearly, they are wounds that never really healed.

Many, many years ago, I gave up far too much far too easily, and it haunts me still.

One memory rubbed raw and resurfacing most recently, is that of my rather brief stint in the Air Force; four weeks of boot camp training followed by two months of "Medical Hold," only to be sent home for migraines. This is a story many friends and family know, though I've always told it differently than it actually happened.

The basics are the same. I had been aimlessly floundering after the chaos of life led me down an unplanned path. In an attempt to pull myself out of the muck and find any sort of purpose, I proudly joined the U.S. Air Force.  The day after Christmas in 2000, I traveled to San Antonio's Lackland Air Force Base from Houston.  I missed the initial TI verbal assault on the incoming buses, courtesy of a day long paperwork delay, but I was settled into my flight with all the usual "pleasantries" by the 27th.  I learned quickly and became the perfect little wall-flower, despite having the first bed just outside of the Sergeant's office and an easy target for a last name.  "Homer" had brought me nothing but grief since The Simpsons' debut in the fifth grade.  Fortunately for me, it went unnoticed amongst the 59 other girls in my flight.  By week 4, I thought I was golden, but the changes in diet, exercise, and sleep began to take their toll, and my occasional pre-Air Force migraines struck with a vengeance.  It wasn't ever long after Reveille that a daily monster would take hold of my poor pounding head.  I couldn't think straight, and suddenly "the perfect little wallflower" was missing marching calls and standing out like a cactus in the bare desert.  It wasn't pretty, and no one thanked me for the numerous extra "motivational push-ups" we were having to do in penance for my errors alone.  After several days in a row of brain torture and worry, I finally requested to go to medical call. The clinic doctor granted me a referral to the neurologist and an unwanted ticket to leave my flight for the "Medical Hold" Squadron until a diagnosis could be made and everything sorted out.  With this, I found my boot camp graduation delayed and my reserved spot at Shepherd AFB for my next phase of training given to another recruit, though I wasn't fully aware of it at the time.  Once again, my life's plans were shaken.

My first neurology appointment offered a migraine diagnosis, only pending MRI results to rule out worse possibilities.  And so my waiting began- waiting on appointments, waiting on paperwork.  Just a whole lot of "hurry up and wait."

A few weeks later, while making my way by bus to the base hospital, Wilford Hall, for my MRI and follow-up appointments, I passed the marching grounds where graduation preparations were in order.  My breath hitched.  It was my original flight's graduation day.  My graduation day... but not.  I maintained the military bearing as I was expected to display, but my heart broke right there on that shuttle bus as I watched the graduating flights march to the field in their dress blues- the uniform I was measured for, but never received.

It is here where the difference in the story I allowed people to believe and the actual truth diverge.

Perhaps it was riding on the emotional low of that bus ride when I felt my decision was made.  At my appointment that day, the neurologist made the official diagnosis and explained that migraines were typically a "no-go" for acceptance into the military.  He was, however, willing to make an effort to make a case for me to return to normal training along with a prescription to help ease the headaches. The choice was mine. Of course, I had certain anxieties about Warrior Week and other aspects of returning to training, but I truly couldn't see past those graduating flights marching all over my altered dreams to even consider amending the timeline to still reach my goals.  At that moment, I just wanted to go home.

And so, in the great disappointment of my imagined failure, I chose to truly fail by asking that doctor to send me home.

It took another 8 weeks for the paperwork to be properly gathered, but the decision had already been set into motion.  By the time I was reasonable enough to fully comprehend what I had done, it was too late. I told my family and friends that I wasn't given a choice, a fact most are reading for the first time only now.  The shame of disappointing them yet again with the truth of my ever-wavering resolve was too much to bear.  I couldn't shake my adopted role as a quitter, even if only I knew the truth, and it was my own fault.

I let that role rule me for decades, always letting that girl in the mirror forever harp on how I never finished anything I started.  So many times, I proved her right.  Then, little by little, I learned how to be louder and stronger than she was, taking one goal at a time, however small, and celebrating the hell out of it.

That nagging reflection is gone, but she is sadly not forgotten.  It is her ghost, her shadow I fear in moments of sprained knees and slightly-delayed yoga teacher training, knowing old habits are so easily resurrected.  I might be 36, but apparently 21 year old versions of myself still rattle me.

Still, I won't quit. Broken, sprained, calcified, torn, delayed... whatever.  I'll rest.  I'll get back up.  I'll continue moving forward, ever wiser, ever better.

Snow Blind

I'm currently reading The Wednesday Sisters by Meg Waite Clayton.  I inadvertently read the sequel, The Wednesday Daughters, first while on Christmas vacation, but enjoyed it so much I couldn't stop to wait until I could find this one.  So, backwards I went, finishing the second first, then finding the first at the library this week.

The "Wednesday sister's" encourage each other to chase their dreams of becoming published novelists through the sharing of weekly writing assignments.  Though only on chapter 6, I think it is a brilliant practice, and having dreams quite similar to these ladies, I have been inspired to participate.

Today, I took an object (our snow covered fire pit) and wrote this fictitious little ditty about it, imagining it would come somewhere in the midst of a novel I have yet to write.

Snow Blind (An Excerpt from a Novel I Have Yet to Write)

I take a deep breath and follow a single flake, the fluffiest I can spot, as it falls from the sky, floating gently, changing direction ever so slightly, and I flinch as it tenderly hits the window.  As if this miniscule cluster of ice could hurt me somehow, or even reach me through the protection of the door.  It’s absurd.  When did I become so jumpy?  

I follow another, determined to hold my gaze, like a child in an intense round of “Made You Blink.”  With another breath, I lose sight of the second, and then the third, my frustration surfacing.  The fourth attempt is a success.  The flake sticks to the window, and I hold fast, but still I am unsatisfied.

“Quit while you’re ahead,” I whisper to myself.  Willingly, I obey and abandoned my insanity, giving in to the need to simply capture a moment of rest here on the floor at the backdoor.

It isn't long before my mind wanders off again.  Staring out into this blustery, blowing snow is as mesmerizing as the dancing flames of a summer’s end fire in our backyard pit; the ones we built just before the chaos of fall swept in.  I remember the last one vividly.  Fire-roasted and kid-blackened hot dogs, your favorite potato chips, fresh scooped watermelon, and s’mores.  You all laughed and agreed; I make the best ones, even though I never eat more than the remnants of melted chocolate and marshmallow sticky on my fingers.  I’d found the perfect ratio of graham to marshmallow to chocolate, made most efficiently for enjoyment at just the right ooey-gooey temperature.  Not too hot.  Not too cold. 

I catch myself smiling again at the very silliness of my own nonsense and obsessive behavior.  A perfect s’mores recipe? 

But it was a good night.  With the kids tucked snug in their beds, we enjoyed the fire’s last embers and a beer in our comfortable silence.  My hand in yours, you led me from the dying warmth of the fire to the kindling & passion of our bed.

A tear slides down my cheek.  That poor fire pit seems to have disappeared beneath more than just the two feet of snow now stifling its glow and memory.   As my mind drifts like the tumbling snowflakes, I wonder how we got here.  And how do we find our way back when we’re both wandering lost and snow blind?

The Broken Heart's Jar

This isn't my usual thing, but it's something that just came out one day, and I kind of liked it.

I broke something today-

Something that didn't belong to me.

I held it tenderly close for so long, 

As long as I could.

Was it years?

Decades?

Surely longer.

Though now it seems it was mere minutes as I look upon its pieces 

Unintentionally shattered at my feet.

I don't remember ever feeling stronger,

Or so completely powerless.

And now I'm left staring blankly at the inevitable, heartbreaking destruction of it all.

But then, that must be the way of it.

As you grow in your own strength,

You release the burdens others place upon you;

To stand tall in the confidence you have painstakingly built.

I carried your "could haves," "should haves," and "would haves"

Day after endless day,

Always making more of it than you meant.

And in the end, 

It was my heart and my life

Or yours.

Southern Snow

Be gentle when teasing those of us south of the Mason-Dixon for our Chicken Little approach to snow!  Of course we close schools & shut down businesses for a couple of inches of the white stuff!  Obviously, the very mention of a blustery two foot accumulation will send us dashing to the store in a panic to strip its shelves bare of milk, bread, eggs, water... and wine.  Snow and icy covered roads strike tremendous fear into the darkest corners of our souls.

But do you understand why??

It’s true that winter storms occur infrequently in the southeastern states, but our reason for the tizzy is about much more than just not being accustomed to it. Cities, like Atlanta, are not equipped to handle a Snow-pocalypse, as we all witnessed last year, nor would it be in their best interest to prepare and budget yearly for a team of snow plows and the like for such weather!  The further south you go, the less likely it is that snow shovels, salt, or any other snow-battling weaponry will even be available to find at your friendly neighborhood Wal-Mart or Home Depot.  Why would they stock their shelves with such things in the unlikely event that a blizzard would strike that year?  Also, though I’m no engineer, I’d be willing to bet that the construction of the buildings and roads of our charming Southern townships considers warmer weather in its structure planning for safety rather than cold, possibly making them ill-suited for plunging temperatures and the destructive powers of ice.

Yes, we know you northerners laugh at us for having a slightly higher ambient temperature and an inability to drive in ice and snow.  Although, I must point out the false confidence in your own winter driving abilities often astounds me with its disastrous endings. Perhaps news coverage of such accidents is the source of our southern fear. In any case, we don’t mind being the butt of your jokes.  In fact, I always find a good little giggle in the sad truth of your winter memes.  

Just remember, when temperatures soar to the not-quite triple digits this summer and your area issues an extreme heat advisory, striking fear into your own hearts, the tables will turn and we will all have a good laugh on you.

Wait. Quietly.

This is no small thing I seek.

And so I will simply do as I’m told.

Wait.
Quietly.

It was in the stillness of an evening a few nights back that these words came to me, reverberating in the deafening silence as a critical answer to a question I’ve been forced to ask.

Waiting isn’t foreign to me. I am a military wife. We are forever and always waiting on something. In fact, I’m fairly certain “hurry up and wait” is the unofficial motto every military family has displayed in fridge-magnet form or cross-stitched neatly on a pillow. If not, we should. And though I’m typically not so keen to just wait, and certainly not patiently, this particular time, the words echoed through my body with the soothing warmth only peace can offer- a sensation these restless bones haven’t known for far too long.

Still, I questioned.

No, it wasn’t the “wait,” but the “quietly” that tripped me up. So, what did I do? I went straight to the online dictionary for the cliché writer’s definition search...

quietly- adv. 1. Making no noise or sound, especially no disturbing sound. 2. Free, or comparatively free, from noise.

Quietly. Not still. Not patiently. Not even silently.
Wait quietly.

Ok. My mission, should I choose to accept it… free from expressive noises of great excitement or grievance, I will move through my days in productive pursuit of the tasks at hand and tackle each one with a content heart. I will live and love each moment… and I will wait. I will wait faithful that in its time, this seemingly non-answer answer will work itself out. I will allow that initial peace to fill me and replace the sneaky doubt that creeps in with the passing of time.

I have my work cut out for me.

Wait.
Quietly.

Mission accepted.

Domino Toppler Extraordinaire

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

I don't get that question much anymore, because, well... I'm 36. Grown. But don't you know, it still applies!I wear many of those proverbially hats people are always going on about. First and foremost, you can label me the typical wife & mother, of the "stay home" variety. We'll throw "tattooed and sometimes scandalously clad homeschooling momma" in there together, just to be more specific, and because it's fun to see the look of surprise on people's faces when slaying their vision of the stereotypical, sheltered homeschool type. That makes me a teacher, too, though I tutor more than my own spawn. And because that's not enough to keep my two hands occupied, I've passionately adopted the title of small business owner, times 2, making gourmet jams & jellies with my best friend, and building my own little branch of the most fabulous health & wellness company 'round these parts. Together, these make up only a small portion of the dreams I'm setting out to realize. My desire is to be the the most eclectic combination of all these professions, as well as yoga instructor, farmer, and writer. Interesting fusion, right?

Its a mouthful of an answer, too, so I've invented a better, all encompassing title, however vaguish it might be. For the sake of simplicity, and because I doubt the defining of who I am will stop with merely these fine adventures, I've chosen to designate my pursuits and achievements under the title of...

Domino Toppler.

That's right! I'm gonna set those little dominoes up one at a time, and then I'll knock 'em all down, insuring that each falls right into its perfect place, creating the flawless masterpiece of the run. I'm fully expecting crazy looks when entertaining anyone who dares ask what I do, but at the very least it would be an interesting conversation & far better than the "jill-of-all-trades" response. 

Further more, the one thing I've learned in life, and will be passing on to my unsocialized weirdos, is this... I define who I am, and I don't concern myself with the likes of titles others bestow upon me.

Dear Dr. King, I Stand With You

How great the courage to fight hate, frustration, and pain with love, patience, and light! 

As the sun rose setting the frosty morning ablaze with color more than warmth, I contemplated the comments and quotes posted in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, and I was reminded of a journal entry of my own reflection from June 2015...

"As a child, a teen, and even as a young adult, I spent so much of my time seeking love and searching for evidence of others love for me in their actions and; their words. I offered my heart freely, maybe even too much, but I realized there seemed to be error in my offering. My focus always came back to how or how much I was loved in return rather than how I was loving others. It always left me broken-hearted and the relationship worse for the wear. While I certainly believe it, like all things requires a balance of both, because loving yourself is important, too, if not paramount, I do my best to love differently now. I strive to love people for who they are, where they are, and in the ways that I am capable, with no conditions and no expectations of reciprocation."

I can only hope that my actions reflect daily this very expression in every relationship- with family, friend, or, stranger- for I believe this world would do well to remember that respect and love can be, and should be given no matter the differences that exist between us in religion, political view, lifestyle, culture, or any other station. I stand in honor of Dr. King today and everyday to say that I, too, am sticking with love.

Fancy the Orchid

She was hidden behind giant leaves of green in the back corner of the department; a shelf of discounts that had lost their bloom. I caught sight of her, my favorite flora, and saw beyond the sunburnt leaves and lack of flower. Though certainly not in need of another of her kind, I scooped her up instantly, examined her, and placed her in my cart.

My husband playfully rolled his eyes at me when I brought her home and painstakingly debated which spot she would fill. I know he doesn't get it, nor do my children, who giggle and tease me. "How many do you have now, Mom?" But I can laugh with them. It is joy she and the others bring, even in the wisecracks.

Mere weeks after her rescue (because I am quite dramatic after all), with tender care & filtered light, this healthy girl is recovering beautifully with new growth- leaves, roots, & even an elusive stem. Her leaves still bear the scars of neglect, but soon no one will be able to see past her blossoms. And when those have bloomed & faded, she will still have a home to thrive and flower again in her time.

Love the Sting

Don't you love the very feeling of being alive? I have found that thrill this week in a few unusual places; ones that are generally points of complaint for some people, as my Facebook Newsfeed will attest, but at the risk of sounding completely off my rocker, I thought I'd share this and maybe challenge you to check your perspective, too. 
This week, I dove figuratively face first back into my typical health and fitness routine. It was back to a better controlled regimen of food consumption and intense, sweaty exercise after a vacation of choices that *mostly* reflected my lifestyle changes with a few not-so-much that left me feeling sluggish. It pains me to even admit it, but I am still learning on my journey to better health awareness after all. This trip only reminded me of why I have made the changes that I have, and reinforced my feelings of not "missing out" when I choose not to indulge in foods my body no longer craves, like fast food and donuts. So, I'm back home with lessons learned and ready to practice them... off to the gym I went, well fueled and ready to kick it into high gear.
Two days and three intense workouts later, I awoke this morning with every muscle in my body tingling with that delicious, post-awesome-workout soreness. And YES, I find it delicious! I wouldn't dare have you think I'm complaining... it is one of the best feelings in the world to me and far outweighs the pains I had while being overweight. With every gentle stretch to loosen up the tightness comes a twinge of soreness, and with it a sharp reminder that I am alive and that my body is capable of amazing things.
Don't like my example of working out? Well, I've got another one for you! How about the bitter cold winter that has rolled in with the icy daggers we like to call wind? Can you find the the joy of life in it? Go take a walk outside. Meander around the neighborhood or take a stroll in the park. It will most certainly leave you chilled to the bones, but love it or hate it, does that cold not leave you feeling so alive? Even if you find it miserable, the sting on your exposed face and the numbness in your fingers and toes- the very craving of warmth is proof of life, is it not?
Ok, so maybe I've gotten a little carried away, but my point is this... I refuse to take one bit, one second, no matter how mundane or painful, for granted, and I hope you don't either. Life is too short to do anything but appreciate the fact that you're living it, so find the joy and live it well.