2021 Word for the Year

Friends: It took me a bit to settle on my Word for the Year this year. With all the mess that was 2020 I think we need to cut ourselves some slack. There is hope on the horizon and it looks like there is still much to wade through until we get there. That in and of itself is overwhelming. So, I am just going to do Today. I can’t worry about tomorrow or plan for next month. Worry and planning with an asterisk is exhausting.

What can I do today to move me forward? What can I learn? What can I feel? Hope? Imagine? The cliche’ is Today is all we have. I don’t know about you, but that sends me to the jar of M&Ms for comfort. What if I bend it a little…I have Today. It’s not ALL that I have, but I do have today. What will I do? What joy will I find? What will I write? What will I hear? What will I say? So many things I can do with Today.

Tomorrow, I will start over again; not with today’s plans but with tomorrow’s very own today’s plans. Building weeks into months into a year where I will again be working out a word for the year. A string of 365 todays where Monday doesn’t rush through her sister, Tuesday, to get to hump day, who skips her brother, Thursday, to get to Friday which means nothing like the Fridays before we all worked from home.

365 days of grounded attentiveness to what one can experience Today. It’s not a free-for-all like this is your last day — but a day rooted in the now. Wringing everything out of Today. And looking forward to what the rest of the year’s todays have to offer.

Fish Stories

Fish Camp 2020

The day dawned cloudy. I was up before everyone else, enjoying a cup of coffee with the hummingbirds. The sunrise was pink and purple through the clouds. I’m sure the chipmunks appreciated the flurry of trips from the car to the house and house to the car. I see them doing the same, darting here and there, except they are much quicker. We all meet up at the fly shop and get waders, souvenirs and a snack for the drive to the lakes. The Expedition, aptly named, safely snakes us up Kenosha Pass. We look for moose and catch up on each other’s lives. This is a major part of Women’s Fish Camp. The sharing parts of your story that have been tucked away for exploring at another moment when there is more time. In the sacred sharing spaces women create. In the car, around the table, on a stream.

We arrive at the lakes and all pile out of the cars, the buzzing of mosquitoes and our excitement all around us. We pull on waders and extra layers as the clouds remain and we are now at 10,000 feet. The morning was slow going while we all got our bearings, learned about how much line to throw out and tried to not hit the fish on the head with the flies. The lake was what I think of when someone says the water is crystal clear. It looked like an aquarium. We learned more about fish behavior as we could now see them come up to check out our flies and how they ate them. We pulled a few out of their mouths with excitement before we learned to skip a beat before setting the hook.

After lunch was when the real fun started. It seemed like every time you threw the line out there, a fish ate it! They were tiny little brook trout that had the gorgeous circles of a brown, and nice red bellies with white outlining their fins. A few of us, who aspire to be independent fisherwomen, removed the hooks ourselves. It’s incredibly fun to hook, land and release a fish all by yourself. Fun and confidence building. Also a significant part of Women’s Fish Camp. This tribe is a confident bunch already but it is wholly satisfying when you take on something new and enjoy it enough to become proficient. And though I would hardly call myself proficient at fly fishing, each time I go out, I feel like I learn a new fact, and master some knot, or maybe a cast. (“a” cast, not castING. Let’s not get crazy.)

We fished and fished and fished that afternoon. I stopped counting…a situation I have never experienced before! Our newest and youngest fisherwoman caught 17. The guides had a blast catching fish with this 11 year old bundle of determination. In fact, what our guide said was, “days like this are why we are guides.” Fostering joy, love of a sport and the outdoors definitely seems like a job satisfaction indicator. What I also hope the next generation sees is the power of community. And community of women. There is nothing that can’t be made better by your besties and chips and salsa.

We all gathered around the table that night in a tired, comfortable way. The talk turned to life, big and little events, love, and how we make our way in this world. Then the quiet of night settled over each of us, alone in our thoughts until sleep pulls up the blankets. It’s my favorite kind of night where the day was filled with activity, the evening filled with sharing and the night full of anticipation for tomorrow.

And tomorrow came early! Sleepy fisherwomen piled in the cars again to head to the river and to another day of discovery. Flows are low right now as we wait for the reservoir to fill before they release the excess. The fish are holding in places we don’t normally look for them…like right under our feet when we slowly wade into the magic of running waters. I catch one on my second cast. This often happens. I’m paying attention early, before the water, the birds and the trees can distract me from the subtle tug indicating a fish is trying to eat my fly. Our youngest fisherwoman continues with her streak and catches 3 before we break for lunch. The river has invigorated everyone. Even though we are tired and the sun has made us summer drunk, we are eager to get back out before the water gets too warm for us to fish. Not much else happens as the fish are apparently telegraphing warnings of fake, sharp flies to each other. The day ends as we wait for the last two of us to make it back to the cars. True to the magic of fishing, here they came with grins from ear to ear. The last fish of the day was the biggest and caught by a first-timer. The fishing fan club has one more member.

I really couldn’t ask for anything more. Women’s Fish Camp was my dream to introduce women to fly fishing and share the joy of being outdoors while reveling in the power of women in community. I am one of many self-appointed Ambassadors for Women in Fly Fishing, sending diplomats out over 3 states now! When I try to describe how fishing with my girlfriends makes me feel, I cannot come up with any sort of eloquent, succinct sound bite. I would say it feels soulful. It feels like peace. My heart is full, my burdens light. The water carries away discontent. The conversations are like geese preening to better insulate themselves from the cold. I savor these moments, try to store them up to insulate me from the rough patches I will face when I’m doing my best to adult in this world. Fishing adventures are a few of the moments that make up a great life. Thank you to the women who share this great story with me. I cherish you…and those little trouts.

About That Writing…

“So, how’s your book coming? I bet you are getting so much writing done!” An innocent and kind inquiry from many a person who either is simply trying to make conversation or truly wants to know how I’m doing. It’s not coming people. I am not getting so much writing done. The world as we know it is changing minute by minute right now. Mental health experts have given us all permission to have varying degrees of immobility, lack of concentration, anxiety. What if my writing is not pertinent to current events? What if I don’t have anything meaningful to add to the important conversations we are having as a society? It feels like hubris.

But to be honest, writing was a bit of a struggle pre-pandemic, pre-nation-wide social justice awakening, too. This blog is languishing, mocking me. I know (because the all-knowing internet tells me) I need to write SOMETHING or just take it down. But are those really the only two choices? Aren’t we learning the lessons right now that the binary options are not the entirety of our realities? There is endless advice out there for writers struggling to write. And it all boils down to what worked for that particular writer, in that particular circumstance. My truth is, the struggle is part of writing. I am finding my way through it. It becomes part of the story, my story. I certainly spend my share of time reading how other writers write. What time of the day? For how long? What to do if you are stuck? There is an answer for everything on the internet, just ask it. It turns out, those tips are the most helpful for me by identifying things that do NOT work for me. The ‘get up an hour earlier’ crowd, the ‘stay up a couple hours later’ people do not know me. I am neither a lark, nor an owl. I guess I am just regular and really like my sleep. I am no less dedicated to my story because I don’t follow productivity advice.

I have found a head empty of to-dos and worries leaves space for my creativity. And, there is no universe where that condition exists persistently enough to get a book written. So, here we are. I don’t know my answer yet. I just keep coming to this keyboard and keep thinking and writing. One sentence at a time. Eventually, my story will flow from my heart to the pages. It may not have anything to do with the world as we are knowing it now. But that is another great thing about stories. They take you out of your reality and into another one; they help us view the world through a different perspective for a minute. Stories are how we make sense of our experiences, our lives. Stories help us know one another, and ourselves, better. Even if it is one sentence at a time.

It’s April

Here’s yet another post on a blog about how we as individuals or as a community are doing during the pandemic. Basically, we are all surviving minute by minute, hour by hour, and day by day. Some of us are filling our days with tasks, work, school or projects long put off. Some of us are in a space between reveling in doing nothing and unable to do anything. And all of that is a-ok. There is no pandemic protocol. We will just get through this the best way we know how and come through the other side.

I have been reading. I read Sarah Bessey’s latest, Miracles and Other Reasonable Things, and Glennon Doyle’s Untamed. I don’t know these women, but I love them. Both have said things that I find comforting, motivating, and illuminating. It’s like two friends, one sits with me at her kitchen table and we have tea and talk through hurts and wonders, and the other is my happy hour companion giving me a rousing ‘Oh hell no’ pep talk. And both of these women could interchange those roles. There’s a wholeness there too, another lesson, that we are more than a singular ‘type’ of person.

I have been writing, too. Yesterday I submitted an essay to a journal. Whether it is accepted or not, I have written it and moved it forward. I moved forward. It felt powerful. It felt true. That is all I can ask of myself. That is enough.

I also began the journey of the sourdough starter. Like everyone else looking to fill time right now. I love baking. Baking has rules. It’s precise. You get the same result time after time. Bread, however is another thing entirely. Especially cultivating your own yeast. Time and temperature, mixing, kneading, proofing and baking. Things can go sideways in any of these steps. I feel a little like a mad scientist, taking notes, adjusting this and that. The overall requirement of this project is patience. There is no rushing wild yeast to do their thing. I just go along and trust the process. Feels a bit like a metaphor for what we are all doing in these moments. And life. Mix the ingredients, place in the right environment, give it time to develop, and you have an amazing loaf of bread. And life.

It’s April now. March’s month of a million days is over. So we are moving forward. Hoping you all have books, bread and maybe some wine to keep you company. And if you need a project that may or may not reveal something new about yourself, try a sourdough starter!

This is the one I tried:

https://www.thekitchn.com/how-to-make-your-own-sourdough-starter-cooking-lessons-from-the-kitchn-47337

Real

The Velveteen Rabbit. My all-time favorite fairy tale. The idea of not being REAL until you are loved is the essence of our mortal journey on this earth. Imagine the poetic justice of becoming worn, lumpy, with loose joints, eye falling out, face rubbed off, and discovering that is the exact state you are trying to achieve. Imagine the path to REAL is through being loved. I think it is true. The skin horse is so wise. He explains to the little bunny that real isn’t how you are made it is how you become. It takes a long time, he says. Once you are real you can’t become unreal. “It lasts for always.”

The boy loved the bunny to real. The precious boy who took the bunny everywhere. Shared his adventures and kept him snug at night. The bunny was real to the boy, but no one else. Then, all of this love shared between the boy and the bunny invited in magic. A fairy was able to make the rabbit real, REAL. Forever.

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And through some magic, fate, or luck, I have a person who is my skin horse, my boy, and my fairy. Darling, you have loved me to REAL. It wasn’t how I was made, it was something that happened to me. I became. And now I am real for everyone. Best love story, ever.

It lasts for always.

Velveteen Rabbit

Meaning & Monet

Postcard of Monet’s Frost at Giverny, 1885

I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with people staring at paintings on a wall. We all have audio devices in our hands telling us the stories behind Monet and his paintings. The backstory has always fascinated me. In literature classes my favorite part was the dissection of context; the era, the politics, the cultural norms. The backstory lends a richness to the piece, like having a conversation with the author about why she wrote what she wrote the way she wrote it. What was the author trying to tell me? There’s the story, and then there’s the STORY. It’s the best parts of being a detective, a Grounded Theory researcher, and a Gladys Kravitz. What did all these words really mean? What is happening here?

I recently saw the Monet Exhibit at the Denver Art Museum. I admit I did not know very much about Monet and his work. I knew I loved his snow series, but I had no idea how obsessed he was with light and changing light. Monet would paint the same scene over and over at different times of the day and different times of the year, to render the scene as it changed. The narrator in my ear tells me Monet was tormented by snow saying white has so many pinks, purples, blues, grays…I wander off in my mind wondering what was inside him trying to get out. Why when he would walk by the same grain stack everyday he would think, ‘no! that’s not it! I don’t have it yet.’ As I come to the end of the exhibit, there is a quote posted on the wall:

Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.

Claude Monet

Clever, exhibit organizers, very clever. Sometimes, a tree is simply a tree. But is it?

I am reading about and for writing a lot these days. Something clicked as I read Roy Peter Clark say in Writing Tools, “Whether we want them to or not, readers examine the work of a writer to grasp a sense of our mission and purpose.” Even when the creators admonish us not to, we still do it. No one knows the story behind Hotel California even though there are several theories. When asked, Don Henley said it’s about transitioning from innocence to experience, and nothing else. But we don’t believe him. We continue to look for meaning, even when we are told there is no meaning. And we do it because we find connection in the meaning. Whether it’s the creation itself or the meaning we as consumers have assigned to it, we seek the connection. Even though in literature I love to know the backstory, for a movie, especially one that has told a beautiful story, I don’t want to know anything about the backstory. The story is the story as it has been rendered on screen and that is that for me. We can find meaning and connection through the story itself or the interpretation of the story or both. Every creative effort has a story. Hidden or in plain sight, subconscious or conscious, a piece of the author’s/creator’s truth is in the work. Is it necessary the consumer know what it is? Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s just about enjoying the story. That, to me, is the beauty of creating. The facets of the work are both and, not either or. So, dig in and try to make meaning, or simply enjoy the story in front of you. In all ways, a truth has been shared. We have connected.

Perhaps Monet’s story was love. And all his paintings were about the love of light…in the morning, in the evening, in summer and in winter. It’s not necessary to understand the backstory to connect with the love of light. Monet said so.

Forward 2020

Well, January, here we are again. A stunning number of things have happened since the last time we met. I spent the year of 2019 in discovery. And I liked it. I won’t bore you with the details. I found many of the discoveries were just me facing my truths. A big one is my inertia. I’m a thinker. I love to sit and think. Often this translates to writing, but not always. And almost never when I want it to! Thinking is relaxing for me. I sort out the day, my feelings, to-do lists, plan my days and get excited about what’s coming next. Before I know it, it’s time to move on and my to-dos aren’t getting to-done. This lack of execution is not new and hardly unique to me. It has never really bothered me until I stopped working full time. When I was working I had reasons creating wasn’t happening. Busy. Remember, busy? Now I have the luxury of free time. Unstructured free time. Time that meanders from this to that, exploring, revealing, and not to-doing. I enjoy meandering, meandering creates space and breathes life into ideas. And now I would like to meander to somewhere. Produce something. I don’t want to get lost meandering and lose the gift of time to create.

So, this year will be about moving forward. Even an inch. Moving forward towards the to-dos that mean something. I’m writing a book. Did you know that? I am! In the days, weeks and months of 2020, I will be moving forward in writing. Even if it’s a paragraph at a time. And while I don’t do resolutions, I am asking myself each day, “Did I move forward today?”

In my meanderings the other day I saw a quote that felt like a framework for forward…

And that is how change happens. One gesture. One person. One moment at a time.

Libba Bray from The Sweet Far Thing

One moment at a time. This is how I shall move forward. One moment at a time.

Shout out to Anne Lamott and Irish Whiskey for writing inspiration.

The Magic of Santa

Texas Santa and Donkey (2018)

It’s the first day after Winter Solstice and two days before Christmas Eve. Why is this time of year so filled with magic? It must be the dark, the twinkling lights, the “thrill of hope”. I’m enjoying my sparkling Christmas tree, and my old friend, Pecan Santa. Every year his face smiles at me as I unwrap him from his foam home. He is a Texas Santa carved from pecan wood. He reminds me of my home. He is not cliche, yet he still carries the magic of Santa.

When he stands with his partner, donkey, I see the spirit of Christmas. He looks like he would have helped Mary and Joseph find a place to stay. He might have been the midwife. He had all the animals in the barn pay attention and behold the miracle of the birth of Jesus. Then he would have gathered his pack and his donkey and quietly gone about his Christmas Eve work.

Ensuring we all still believe.

In magic, in love, and in each other.

“He exists as surely as love does”

Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus

Going Home

West Texas Windmill my favorite icon of ‘home’

In my heart, home is definitely a feeling and not a particular place. Places can evoke that feeling, but when I really think about the place and what feels like home about it, I come up with the people who inhabit those places with me. We just returned from our annual trek out to West Texas. It always feels so good to be back in Texas. I feel some ephemeral connection with Texas. The land, the attitudes, but mostly the people – my people. Our tribe of people also make the trek from Central Texas out to West Texas and we meet up for a weekend filled with all the things we like to do. We run, we eat, we drink, we tell stories and we just be. And if we are lucky, the girl tribe gets to slip off on our own for some time to share what’s happening in our lives since the last update.

This time together, time that I covet and yearn for, is home. We walked together through a vibrant garden, with walkways lined with shimmering glass pebbles and patches of green grass. Native Texas plants filled the spaces with surprising blooms and leaves that gave the feeling of lushness in what is undeniably a desert. The talk was easy like it always is, each of us taking turns talking and weaving our stories together with similar experiences and support for the deserts that life throws at us. These moments are home. I’m not really sure how to explain it, but the love, strength, and restoration I receive from these women soothes my heart and buoys my spirit. After time with these women I am ready to continue on, keep forging a path, keep doing life with a strength and passion that had been parched…but is now replenished with native species, ready to flourish. I treasure these moments of going home. I treasure these women I share home with. I treasure this life I lead where even in a desert I am home.

The Unkindness of Strangers

Ah, Nextdoor. The neighborhood site that, theoretically, should bring neighbors together. And I suppose it does…bring people together to be unkind to each other. I’m not a fan because of the drama factor that goes into many of the posts. Clearly, I still use it, because I do want connectedness with my community. And if you have not checked out the Twitter account, Best of Nextdoor, you are missing out on some belly laughs!

I am routinely disappointed in humanity when I read posts on Nextdoor. Recently, there was a thread in my neighborhood about a family camped along the side of the road that leads to this subdivision. The road is a National Forest road. Completely acceptable/legal to camp in this location. The posts began as questioning the legitimacy of the family being in this space. Once it was discovered they were indeed allowed to be here, the posts then devolved into judgment. About who they were, what were they up to, why would they choose there to camp? One neighbor even stopped to talk to them and posted the results of her investigation on the thread. A description of the family, their dog, their son and his bb gun. The neighborhood detective said of the father, “he was respectable”. She then described how she told them of other places to camp, and what she looks for when selecting a camping spot. I was stunned at the presumptuousness. Mind you, this is a community that heavily relies on the “don’t tread on me” principles. Apparently, except for, if we don’t like what you are doing.

After I fumed a day or two, I realized something about this brand of unkindness. It comes from a place of fear. It did seem odd to camp near a subdivision. So naturally, it must not be right. The camping family was seen having a camp fire. In Red Flag conditions. In a forest. I get it. It is frightening to think one person being irresponsible could burn down a neighborhood. And I will give the neighborhood detective credit for actually talking to the family. And I will give her negative credit for making that family feel like they were doing something wrong. That they could be making better choices. Choices she would make.

I also realize this has been going on forever. Judging a person’s clothes, hairstyle, church they go to, foods they eat, who they vote for is not new. But it is old. Instead of identifying people as ‘other’ what if we looked for and celebrated different? What if we welcomed everyone? What would Nextdoor look like if we brought marshmallows to the campfire? We can bring fire extinguishers too. Welcoming everyone doesn’t mean abandoning one’s own sense of self, but it does provide opportunities to lighten up and enjoy moments we might not have experienced if we write people off as ‘other’. What if Nextdoor could become the path to connectedness that we need in this world? One neighborhood at a time. I’ll bring the marshmallows!