One last look

Ode to 2015.

A recap, if you will.

I turned 33. My favorite number.

I knew it would be a good year.

Turns out, it would be a fantastic year.

 

I Traveled. A lot.

I snuck in a So Cal vacay with the bestie in the midst of transition. So good for the soul.  

Did a little Brazier camping in Central Cali, my original stomping grounds.

To Washington with the boy to celebrate the love of two beautiful friends. Got wedding fever.

Fulfilled a childhood dream of going to New York.

Fulfilled an adulthood dream of ordering a cosmo at an NYC bar. (Yes.)

And experienced the Horton’s on their own turf, in all their magical, chaotic glory. Love.

Rounded out the year with a girls trip to Vegas. Pure happiness.

 

I let myself be. (So much freedom in being myself.)

Experimented with finding a healthier lifestyle.

Vegetarian, Vegan, a little bacon, and lots of green smoothies.

Created a new yoga space and really dived in. Sweet, sweet space.

I wrote a ton more and people actually paid me for it!

Obsessed over Harry Bosch (thank you Michael Connelly) and Anne Lamott.

 

I celebrated love. So much love.

Watched one of my absolute favorites get married in her own backyard. Tears of ridiculous joy.

The boy and I moved out of the Healing House and made a home in a little house on the lake.

Our home. Our place. Ours.

Celebrated three years with the love of my life.

And finally traded in my boyfriend for a fiancé.

 

What. A. Year.

Overwhelming gratitude. (Namaste)

For All Time

He comes here every Sunday morning at 10:45am. Somehow the comfortable cushioned seats are always available for him. He likes the pungent smell of fresh pulled espresso shots and the whirling sound of steaming milk. They have ceramic mugs but he prefers the coffee cup and plastic lid. The ability to pick it up and walk out at any moment allows him to feel comfortable here.

He wears a cotton jacket draped lightly over his untucked maroon polo shirt, keeping him protected from the cool river breeze drifting in through the patio doors. He always wears relaxed khaki cargo pants with his favorite black leather belt.  

On occasion something catches his eye and he gets up to examine it; a new plaque on the wall or small boat on the river just outside the back window. He squints his eyes and adjusts his wiry glasses on his face to get a clear look. He wears no jewelry except the large watch on his left wrist.

He’s sensible, responsible, worked for Hewlett Packer for 15 years. Now he’s a part time technology professor in a small coastal town tucked away in the pacific North West. The coffee there is amazing, his favorite part.

He picks his head up from his phone to watch the people come and go for a while. A couple middle aged women find their way to the couch across from his seat. They exchange brief glances and he looks back down to his phone, fidgeting his feet.

He knows he should engage them and put himself out there, at least that’s what his late wife would have told him. “You need to socialize, Herbert. It’s not good to keep yourself buried in those books all day.” She always pestered him to talk, even to strangers.

Removing his coat as the warmth of his nerves was overwhelming, he looked at one of the women and as she met his gaze he panicked, set his phone down and walked past her, “Would you, would you mind keeping an eye on my things? I’ll … be right back.”

He stepped outside and gasped in the cool air, relaxing a bit. Shaking his head at himself, he looked back inside and watched the women carry on conversation between themselves for a moment.

“I can do this. Just talk, that’s all.”

He took another breath and walked back inside, thanking them for watching his belongings. The women chuckled and asked him where he was from. He answered, short and direct at first, but as the women chatted on with comfort and energy, he found himself letting go of apprehension and listening intently to their words.

They asked him about his work and his life and before he knew it he was discussing politics and technology and health care. He found himself leaning over the edge of his seat, smiling a bit, completely engrossed in the conversation.

Hours passed and more people had gathered, joining in the conversation. The group erupted in laughter and he looked around, stunned at the moment.

“She would have been so proud of me.” He thought to himself as he touched his watch, running his fingertips over the engraved words, ‘Herbert and Sherry for all time’. And he smiled.

Hashtag Novels

I am constantly reading things about writing. Articles, essays, blogs on how to blog, writing prompts, 30 day plans and calendars. I have done such extensive research on the act of writing, that one might consider me an expert.


If only I wrote as much as I read. I would have novels written. Plural. Series, if you will. Sequel after sequal. Publishers wouldn't be able to keep up with me.

As it is, I struggle to maintain a regular habit of writing, much less a consistent blog post and not the faintest simblance of a book. Ah, the struggles of having everything at my fingertips except the courage it takes to use it. 

Courage, it seems, is not within my arsenal. Nor is discipline or the ability to spell. The mountains are high and the odds are stacked against me. (Woe is me.) How ever will I carry on? 

And so I hoist this cross upon my back and shoulder the weight that is my dream. Wishing I could hashtag my way to literary greatness. Maybe I'll make that a thing. Hashtag novels. #writing #dreamsdocometrue 

It's a Bangkok Theme Park!

Sitting in my living room, getting a little bored with the football game that's on TV, I decide to go along with today's writing prompt. I pick up the nearest book and laugh as I count the first ten words and end up on the word Bangkok. I laugh because I have the sense of humor of a five year old.

This is the first image I found when I google imaged the word Bangkok. My five year old self was totally disappointed. 

After studying the photo for a while, I find myself thinking about Disneyland. I feel like this could be an image straight out of the theme park. I wonder how shallow and westernized that makes me that this gorgeous, far off place brings to mind a theme park. 

Shoulder shrug. 

It also brings to mind thoughts of something magical and mysterious, the type of things dreams are made of. Once more, my five year old self rears her nappy head and I start to laugh again because I associate all those things with Disneyland, too. 

Toys are overrated

September 12, Toy story: What was your favorite plaything as a child? Do you see any connection between your life now, and your favorite childhood toy?

I don't recall having any particular toy that I loved more than the others. I had several baby dolls that I spent a great deal of time playing with. I had some artsy drawing and painting notebooks that I liked. I also had several hand me down items from my older three siblings. Books were always a favorite, I think. 

I was particularly fond of the doll head I got one year. You were supposed to be able to style her hair and all that. I was never any good at styling hair, on the doll or otherwise. I'm still not great at it. I suppose that would be one correlation. 

My childhood was not particularly focused on things. I guess you could say that's a big connection to my life now. I have never really focused on accumulating fancy things. I tend to value the few things I have and feel a little too indulgent when I start buying a lot of nicer things. 

A Story with a Twist

Her high school creative writing teacher told her she had a good radio voice.

"Great," she thought, "I can do radio news when my book flops."

It wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to her though, seeing as how she never wrote that novel anyway. Sure, she wrote a little here and there, submitting a couple pieces along the way. She had a blog where she haphazardly posted random rants over the years. 

Moving along in life, she ended up selling insurance and settling down in a small coastal town. There wasn't much going on besides the twice weekly newspaper she picked up now and then. Her writing became more and more spiratic. 

As the drought moved north from California, she found her well dry one day. With loads of dirty laundry, she stumbled into the only laundry mat in town. She brought her lap top with her to pass the time and as she checked her email found another Writers Digest daily writing prompt.

She thought for a while, typed and deleted, typed and deleted every idea she had. 

"Whatcha doin there?" asked a high pitched country twang of a voice.

She looked up and saw Sandra Jensen, the local girl gone big country and tried not to be too star struck. 

"Nothing really, just trying to pass the time and come up with a good story. Something with a twist." 

Sandra looked around for a moment and said, "Well, you can tell my story."

Four hour, six loads of laundry and two coffees later, she had a rough draft of the most amazing heart warming story she's ever written. The two exchanged contact information and she promised to let Sandra read the final draft before she sent it to the publisher.

Three weeks later she picked up the phone to call Sandra, excited about how the final draft turned out. After a few rings, an unfamiliar voice answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi, can I talk to Sandra please?!" 

The person on the other line broke into wild sobs, eventually handing the phone to someone else who explained to her that Sandra had died a few weeks ago in a tragic car accident.

"What?! No, that's impossible! We were working on..."

"I'm sorry ma'am. She was driving home from the laundry mat and was hit by a drunk driver. I have to now. Good bye."

She couldn't believe what she heard. The phone dropped from her hands as she realized that she was the last person to talk to Sandra that night and now she had her story, written down, and didn't know what to do with it all. 

Ten years later.....

She had taken a creative writing teaching position at the local high school and was welcoming her first class to school. The first assignment she handed out was one she herself had to do in high school: write about someone who has had the greatest impact on you.

That night she settled into her living room couch with stacks of essays, a red pen (her favorite) and a mug a hot tea. She picked up the first paper and noticed it was written by a student named Michelle Jensen. 

Her mind shot back to Sandra Jensen all those years ago. She shook her head as if to rid herself of the memory. Looking back at the paper she began to read: "The person who has had the greatest impact on my life is my mom, Sandra Jensen."

She couldn't believe it. This was the six year old daughter Sandra had told her all about that night at the laundry mat. With tears streaming, she read the essay and knew what she had to do.

She went out to the garage and pulled out a dusty box and brought it back inside. The next day at school she waited for Michelle to get to class. With tearful eyes and a smile, she handed Michelle the only copy of a novel she burried ten years ago, titled "My Whole Life, a story for my daughter Michelle".

She's a Sleeper

My bed is my most favorite luxury. I'm in it right now, actually. I think I'll go back to sleep. Happy Labor Day! 

Rock Steady

September 4 - Writing Prompt - I am a rock.
Is it easy for you to ask for help when you need it, or do you prefer to rely only on yourself? Why?


It's never easy. I have always felt like I have to be super responsible for myself and the things I wanted or needed to do. Asking for help feels like weakness and being vulnerable is something I have had to learn how to do the hard way. To admit the need for help was embarrassing. It was like admitting failure, which I have always viewed as being unacceptable.


It could be viewed as stubbornness or pride or both. But looking back I see now that it was mostly fear and insecurity. In the few times I had to ask for help with legitimate things like rent, transportation or education, I felt utterly defeated. I literally wanted to crawl into a hole and die.


The more I am able to base my self worth on my character, on who I actually am as a person, the less I am affected in such detrimental ways by things like asking for help or admitting I can't do it all. I'm working on letting go of the idea that I should be able to handle everything alone, that I can be an island, and that I have to do everything perfectly in order to be worth anything.


I think this is why the concept of grace has always struck such a deep chord for me. Undeserved favor.


Human beings are broken, we are frail, we need more than ourselves in order to maintain. We need each other. It's always been easier for me to say that while standing alone, looking out over the masses. The struggle came when I had to walk into the midst of the brokenness and admit that I was just like everyone else.


My best days come when I am able to connect to that brokenness and just let go of the struggle. For me, it is a conscious decision I have to make every day. When I am able to get up and decide to let go of fear, I am able to embrace my life in a whole new way. It helps me manage anxiety, to be more positive, to love those around me freely, and to love myself for who I am.


It is a journey I am learning to sit back and enjoy more and more.

Beyond the 9 to 5

Social Justice issues tend to tug on my heart strings the most. Hunger. Poverty. Racism. Prejudice. 

Maybe it's because I was the only little white girl in my school growing up. Maybe it's the things I saw and the kids I met in the urban cities of Southern California as an adult. Maybe it was the struggle of finding my own way through negative bank accounts and meager meals. 

Sometimes I think we find ourselves in particular places so that we can eventually turn our own pain into passion, to fight for those who don't have the means or the platform on which they can stand up for themselves. 

I see my past as something that fuels my desire to affect change. It's not just my own experiences but also the experiences of others around me at the time, most whose circumstances were worse than my own, that weigh on my heart and begs me to do more than this nine to five. 

Say My Name

September 2 Writing Prompt: Name that…you!

Do you know the meaning of your name, and why your parents chose it? Do you think it suits you?

 

My name doesn’t have any deep family connection or meaning, which used to bother me when I was younger. I always thought it would be cool to be named after some amazing great grandmother who brought all ten of her children over from Italy and worked 18 hours a day to keep food on the table and shelter over their heads. We aren’t from Italy though, so my mom just picked a name she liked and I ended up being Amy Lynn.

 

Now that I’m older, I love the fact that my mom just picked a name she thought sounded cool (although I’m sure my mom never thought it sounded “cool”, maybe pretty or nice or lovely). If she hadn’t named me Amy Lynn she was going to name me Amanda Joy. I love her for not naming me Amanda Joy. No offense to anyone named Amanda Joy, but I much prefer to end up with a mid-level corporate job in Oregon and not on a rusted stripper pole in Kentucky.  

 

Amy means “beloved”. A name is a powerful thing, isn’t it? I have spent my whole life trying to figure out how to embrace who I am. Being able to accept love wasn’t something I could handle. That didn’t take away from the fact that I was surrounded by love, but to see myself as loveable was different. It’s why I stayed with people who didn’t care about me and treated me poorly. It’s what blinded me and kept me from seeing my own worth.

 

I look back on all those years of struggle and loneliness and wandering and know that at the core of my being I was beloved and didn’t know it. But it was in my name, it was there all along. My name suits my journey and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Take 2 of 365

If you have ever read any of my blog posts, you’ve heard me lamenting my lack of writing discipline and whining about how very much I want to BE a writer. It’s pathetic really but I’m at it again with, hopefully, a little less whining and a little more discipline.

 

I stumbled on this 365 days of writing prompts ebook and got the bright idea to write for 365 straight days. I know, brilliant. Also, not the first time (or person) to have this idea. I got about three posts into “Project 365” a few months back. You can guess what Project 365 was supposed to be. So this is take two (of an unnumbered amount of takes to come).

 

Who knows, maybe this will lead to a killer book deal and I’ll end up rich and famous. Or maybe I’ll struggle through all 365 days and finally just toss my lap top off the roof. Either way, here it goes. Feel free to check-in when you’re bored and see what’s happening on the blog front. Or if you’re really obsessed with me (I know who you are), feel free to follow along daily.

 

I make no promises of enjoyability or even use of legitimate words. So read at your own risk. You have been warned.

One Small Step

Every major journey begins with one small step forward, right? Well I've finally summoned up the courage to place one foot in front of the other. Knock on enough doors and one will eventually open. Seek and ye shall find. Think positively and it will be. Yada, yada, yada. And on and on and on...

Now that I've shaken out all the cliches.... I'll get to the real stuff. I've recently started writing for, albeit on a probationary period, a tech web site called The Tech Maniacs. I'm excited for the chance to share my craft and see my words posted out there in cyberspace (on something other than my own blog)!

You can check it out at www.thetechmaniacs.com.

Thanks for all the support and positive vibes, my faithful little readers! 

Another Tuesday Morning

It is utter chaos.

I had to stop in between each of the first four words of this post.

It… “No! Stop! Put the cup down!”

Is… “Don’t stand on the chair, sit… sit down… yes, on your bottom. Thank you.”

Utter… “Oh my gosh, please stop pushing her chair! RELAX!”

Chaos…. “Where are you going? Yeah, let’s not just get up and walk out the front door, sweetie.”

I have to laugh. He’s wearing his pajama shirt backwards with matching shorts and a superman robe. Getting up from his bowl of what has to be terribly cold oatmeal by now, he very purposefully puts on his socks and shoes and proceeds to open the front door.

Up to this point I have been satisfied with spectating but I suppose I should caution the four year old boy that walking right out the front door by himself would be wildly inappropriate at 8am in the morning. Or any time really, but whatever.

“Hey, where you going?” I feel the need to use improper grammar with children, like they understand it better.

He simply looks back at me and points outside.

“Yeah, let’s not just get up and walk out the front door, sweetie.”

He shuts the front door and mumbles, “I’m gonna go get my mom.”

Probably a good call, kid. This babysitter might need some help.

It is really just another weekday morning. The coffee began brewing at some point in the dark hours, the kids are roused and prodded to get dressed, hurry, eat, hurry, brush your teeth, hurry, and off to school they go. The little ones beg for breakfast, then leave it to mush on the table, apparently never as hungry as they think they are. Babies begin to cry, cups spill, trash cans go unemptied, clothes strewn across the floor, while morning talk shows play to a missing living room audience.

And thus the day begins.

It is the quintessential portrait of life, is it not? We rush about, hustling to get up, get out and get on with it. In the meantime, we leave behind a mess that eventually we come back to, clean up, then mess up again. It’s an endless cycle that breeds frustration and tiredness. At some point we stop, look around and question why, why continue with any of this? Is it worth it?

It is in those moments of broken inquiry when I realize that this mess, is life. And in all of its chaotic form I begin to see beauty. I begin to see that as hurried as I can get and as messy as my life can be, there is something bigger than me, something larger than my feeble disasters. There is a reason I continue to answer “yes” to the question of “is it worth it?” There is a reason why I always come back to the mess, clean up and move forward.  

I suppose that in the eye of these storms there is the hope that my presence here will have made a difference. A hope that the kids whose lives I’m a part of will grow into adults who carry a little extra love in their hearts that they got from me. A hope that my co-workers will move on in their careers and one day reminisce about the good old days we had of working together. A hope that my friends will become family, and that my family will become my friends. A hope that my end game is one of love, positivity, encouragement and acceptance.

To begin with the end in mind, I’ve been told, is how to go about leaving a legacy. I understand now that it is the only way to not give up in the middle, at the height of the conflict, when the struggles seem the heaviest. I try to make it a point these days to take my gaze just out beyond today and think about what this moment might look like in another lifetime from now. It becomes so much easier to smile and let go of the little things I clench so tightly in my grasp. It becomes easier to love and support the ones around me, to just be present.

It becomes easier to appreciate the mess.

 

Dude Looks Like a Lady

There was a moment in the interview with Bruce Jenner when Diane Sawyer says, “So, Bruce Jenner is reemerging as…”

He finishes her sentence by saying, “Myself.”

Something in his simple response resonated with me in a powerful way. I’m not transgender and in no way know what that’s like. I was born with lady parts, I like them that way. I identify as a woman. I am a woman. But I have not always been myself and even now struggle to be me. I understood in that moment the fear, the courage, the power in reemerging as “myself”.  A part of me longs to be the one being interviewed, sitting there on the couch, reemerging as myself in front of everyone; in front of the world.

I learned at a very early age how to read people and I could quickly determine who and what they wanted me to be. I became an incredibly talented chameleon. Being a part of a prominent family in a religious world dictated my identity. Every moment of my life was on stage and as such I naturally became an actress in all facets of my life, both personal and otherwise.

I became the person I was supposed to be but never identified as her.

There is a fear that people will think I’m changing, that I’m becoming someone else, and they will draw all types of conclusions and assumptions as to why and how. And in part they will be right; I am changing. I’m connecting to the person who has always been covered up and disguised. I’m removing the façade. I can’t blame them for not knowing that person and for identifying this change as what’s fake.

The process of getting to know myself is scary. It means letting go of the safety shield I’ve held up between myself and others, or even between myself and the self I project into the world. It’s kind of a psychotic mess that can scare you out of grappling with the grace and shame, the honesty and embarrassment that needs to be dealt with. It is a vulnerability that is foreign to me.

The process, though, has taught me self-love and acceptance, and that those things aren’t selfish or self-indulgent but are necessary if I am ever going to be genuinely alive. I am growing in my understanding of grace and kindness. I believe that one can never truly extend to other people what they are unable to extend to themselves. Once we are able to connect to our hearts and love ourselves, our love for others then comes from a deeper, more authentic place, our words are naturally more kind and our eyes see more than the masks held up in front of a face. It is the antidote to pride.

Underneath the face of arrogance and perfection is a deep pool of insecurity that will drown you if you aren’t careful. I have become good at treading water but it’s exhausting and I’m trying to swim to shore and rest, exposed to everyone as myself. You know the feeling of spending all day on a boat and then laying down in bed that night, you still feel like you’re swaying with the waves? Living life in that realm is a strange experience, the sense of uneasiness and being a little off balance. I’d imagine it takes a bit for that feeling to go away. It is all a part of the process. And it’s one I can’t rush or control.

Bruce Jenner is a woman and I think that freaks a lot of people out. There was a time when I would have been so compelled to bang on the pulpit of morality that I would withhold grace and love, the very things I’m called to give freely. I’ve realized though that it’s not about being transgender, or gay or male or female or black or white or atheist or anything else that allows you to label someone as unlovable. It is about coming together as human beings and allowing each other to be themselves; people who are inherently flawed but unconditionally lovable.

Call me idealistic, but I wish we could all sit on that couch and reemerge as ourselves. I believe the humility and vulnerability it takes to do that would rid the world of pride in a heartbeat. But we can’t force anyone onto that couch. It’s hard enough to get myself there.

And so it’s down this journey I continue, stumbling along and figuring it out as I go. Reemerging as myself.

 

Written Dreams and Aspirations

I got up from the kitchen table one more time, leaving the white screen to itself. I thought about going out for coffee but decided I should just make it myself. Save the money. Who knew if this would work out anyway. I would probably end up selling insurance for the rest of my lousy life.

I went back to the computer, coffee-less. “What do I know about the writing life?” I thought to myself.

I got up again. The wooden stool is so uncomfortable, maybe more so than the blank screen.

The thought of going back to work made me sit back down. As painful as it was, it was still better than florescent lights and sales pitches.

Surrounded by books and magazine articles written by other people, I searched for inspiration. I read through some old pieces I had written over the years, embarrassed.

Staring down at the little oak table, I studied the lines in the wood; the way they flowed seamlessly through the planks, making mesmerizing designs. I thought about the words I wanted to write, how they would flow like those lines, making intoxicating images in the mind.

I put my hands on the keyboard and lightly tapped, wondering were to begin. Did I really want to do this? Did I really want to take this on? What if I couldn’t finish the project? What if this story was too much to follow through on?

The questions taunted me more than the blinking curser on the screen.

I got up again. Pacing the floor from room to room, I decided, to hell with it, I went out for coffee.

The mile long drive seemed longer than usual and all the cars moved at a glacial pace. Somehow the coffee shop I went to every morning seemed unfamiliar now.

“Hey! You must be off today. I love the sweatshirt!” The barista was surprised to see me in so late. Yes I’m off today, yes I’ll take my regular.

Part of me wondered if I should order something else now to signify a new beginning, something different, something somehow unrelated to every other day of my life up until today.

A wave of panic suddenly took over me. I pulled the last four one dollar bills out of my purse and hoped the next time I wanted something there would be more money coming from… somewhere.

The ride home was excruciatingly slow. I spent the whole time reprimanding myself for throwing away money and wasting precious minutes. How can I make a living off words I cannot write, buying coffee I cannot afford, using gas I do not have?

My mother’s voice rang in my ears about being wasteful.

I sat down and willed myself to write what ended up being the worst 600 words I have ever written. But it was written and it was movement. Movement in a direction I had wanted to take for a long time.

Drinking that coffee, re-reading my agonizingly amateur work, I knew I had a long road ahead of me. But I smiled. I smiled at the journey before me, knowing that it was exactly where I wanted to be. No, where I NEEDED to be. Where I was meant to be.

Take a moment #project365

New years resolutions. Goals. Visions. Things to do better. Things to do more of. Things to just get done. 

It's overwhelming. It's busy. It's stressful.

When's the last time you took a moment to just stop? Breath. Inhale deeply. Exhale deeper. Unclench your jaw, relax your shoulders, sit up straight (yeah I see you slouching). 

When I give myself permission to relax, even for a moment, it seems to make everything feel a little lighter, my smile comes more naturally and I find a deeper sense of fulfillment instead of dread and resentment. 

Maybe it's just being quiet, stepping out side, going for a walk... Whatever it is, find it and embrace it. When I give myself permission to do that, I'm able to look outside of myself, connect with others better, and enjoy the moment. 

Here's to starting off the new year by embracing a quiet moment and being grateful for where you are. 

Project 365

Hey there! Welcome to Project 365. It’s a new year and I am very excited about what it will bring. I’ll be turning 33, which happens to be my favorite number, hello good luck! Fingers crossed. I’m looking forward to continuing this journey, focusing on being good to others and to myself.

Over the last year I’ve really tried to cultivate a more positive attitude within myself. I have focused on nourishing my body, challenging my brain, and finding more honesty in my emotions. I have learned that a balanced self is a happy, healthy self. I have also learned that in cultivating those things in myself, a desire to share those things with others naturally blooms.

I believe we are all on this journey together and although my experience might not mirror yours exactly, there are shreds of truth in all of our stories that ring true for everyone. It is my humble hope that in telling my stories, in this funky written blog-ish form, that maybe something will encourage or inspire or bring comfort to someone out there. Now let’s all hold virtual hands and sing Kum Ba Yah.

But really, friends, I am excited to see what direction this year will take my journey. I’ve got several new books lined up to read, a challenging 30 days of Yoga exercise, and this sweet new blog project to share it all with you! What are you most excited about this year?