Joy and Peace

I've been listening to Joni Mitchell's "River" a lot lately. Part of it is that I like the song. Part of it is because I think it's funny that my mom always said that Joni Mitchell was "the girl who sang the blues" in Don McLean's "American Pie." Pretty much everyone else in the world thinks it's Janis Joplin. Why the disparity? I never asked my mom, but I think it's because she hates Janis Joplin and REALLY hated that people said she looked like her (although, when she was in high school, my mom really DID look A LOT like Janis Joplin).

The thing that has struck me about "River" through all these listenings is that it mentions "songs of joy and peace." I hadn't ever really noticed that that's what most Christmas carols are about, but it's true. Joy and peace. These are two things I've spent most of the year trying to chase down. At times, I've been very successful. At other times, not so much. But, the fact that I've tried to chase them down is the most important thing. Right?

Let's back up to a week ago Sunday. I was visiting my friend Shawna and when I left, I forgot my purse with my wallet and cell phone in it. I didn't realize this until I arrived home (about 45 minutes away). I had about a quarter tank of gas at that time, so I knew I'd need to put some in. I scraped together $10 for gas using the lucky dollar that had been in my car for the last seven years (my mom won it on a scratch off ticket and told me to keep it in the car for luck), $7 coins I had left from my birthday trip to NYC, and $2 in quarters. I arrived at Shawna's house and she commented on the fact that I was smiling. "What else am I going to do?" I said.

Three days after I spent the lucky dollar? I totaled my Shiny Blue Car. (I loved that car.) It had snowed that morning and coming down the giant hill by my apartment on the 1-mile drive to work, I lost control, slid down the entire hill, crossed a usually heavy-traffic street, into two parked trucks. Car totaled. Me? Totally fine. No air bags to contend with, no soreness, no scratches, no nothing (except a little emotional trauma -- it was seriously scary). I know it probably has nothing to do with the lucky dollar, but it still freaked me out when I made the connection many hours later.

My co-worker Amy gets scratch tickets for Christmas, but gambling is against her religion. She left me a scratch ticket with a $1 win in her mailbox so I'd have a lucky dollar to put in my new car. My grandboss James did a bunch of research and even went to the dealership with me to test drive my car.

And so, six days after totaling my car, I purchased a new (to me) car. It's a 2008 with less than 25,000 miles on it, and it has all-wheel drive. The Black Pearl (that's her name -- in honor of her color) and I took to the road yesterday to come home for the holiday. So far, so good.

During the drive, I thought about Mom and how she's been sitting on my fridge since regionals in September. I need another misadventure soon. And I thought about Joni Mitchell as I listened to "River" when it came up on one of my mixes.

Joy and peace.

In about an hour, I'm meeting my high school journalism teacher -- who is, without question, one of my top 5 favorite people on the planet -- to go for a walk. Her father died very recently, of lung cancer. It's hard to believe it's been 14 months since I was in the same position with Mom.

The last 14 months have been all over the map -- some of the best and most beautiful experiences of my life, some of the bravest things I've ever dared to try, and some of the saddest, most painful days I've ever lived. But even those days have taught me so much about joy and peace -- that they are things you have to actively seek, that they are always there, that even if you have to live in the sadness sometimes, there is ALWAYS a day when it will feel less sad (and it, like the sadness, will come when you least expect it).

This Christmas when I wish people joy and peace, it means so much more than it ever did to me. And I mean it with all my heart.

And so, I wish you joy and peace. And if you need it, a river to skate away on....

Small Acts of Kindness

Remember my friend Nora's video? She won the contest, and her video is THE video for Guster's song, "Bad, Bad World." (You can read more about the awesome stuff related to the video on Nora's web site.)

A friend of mine gave me a gift certificate to an AWESOME sock company for Christmas. I placed my order earlier this week, and my socks arrived yesterday. Today, I found a really big package of socks from the same company on my doorstep. This seemed odd. When I opened the package, I discovered a packing slip with the contact info for someone in Washington (the state)! It was about $100 worth of socks.

I sent an e-mail to the woman, telling her I'd received her socks and would be shipping them right out to her. She e-mailed back and said she'd send me a check to cover the costs of shipping.

I wrote back, "Don't worry about the shipping costs -- consider me an elf helping get your presents where they need to go!"

So she wrote back, "I will certainly pay your act of kindness forward. I have things to mail at the Post Office on Monday and I will pay for the person behind me in line. Thanks for reminding me that this world is full of really wonderful people. All the best!"

See. It isn't such a bad, bad world.

Tomorrow is World AIDS Day

I've worked in HIV services since I was 20. (I'm not all weird about my age; it's been 11 years.) I didn't really expect to be out of a job by now, but it would've been nice.

Have we come a long way in treating people with HIV, so that they can live longer, fuller lives? In many cases, yes.

Have we come a long way in prevention, to make sure others at risk stay healthy? In many cases, yes.

But it's hard weighing those facts against the amazing people I've known who would have done more amazing things if their lives hadn't been cut short. (And, yes, the same can be said for people who have lost their lives due to cancer or tragic accidents or any number of other reasons. Death sucks. And, it happens to all of us sooner or later. I just happen to have been touched more by this disease than others, because I've worked in this field for so long.)

It's also hard weighing the advances in treatment and prevention against the places where people still don't have the access they need and deserve -- and I'm not just talking about developing nations, but right here in the U.S., too. Some of the national statistics are startling and sobering and just plain sad.

The point of World AIDS Day is to make sure that people don't forget -- about this disease, about the people who are living with it, about the stigma that still exists -- and make sure people are aware -- of the risks, of the availability of tests, of treatment options.

Even if you've never personally been touched by HIV, tomorrow is a day to remember and be aware.

Bad grammar makes me

One of my favorite t-shirts reads, "Bad grammar makes me [sic]."

It makes me sad how many people don't get it, but it doesn't surprise me. Most people don't give a shit about grammar. And, that's okay. There are lots of things that other people hold sacred (football, beer, bacon, old people) that just don't interest me.

The thing I find interesting, though, is how many people seem to worry that I judge their spelling and grammar. Really? I mean, first of all, do I seem that mean? Do you really think I'm going to publicly shame you or think less of you if you write/say/spell something incorrectly? Really?

I am passionate about writing and communicating in general, which means I'm a complete and utter grammar geek. I love words. I also paid attention in my English classes. I have a ton of grammar and usage books, and I consult them often. Does it pain me when I see someone using really, really bad English? Yes. I hate emoticons because they are a misappropriation of punctuation. Really.

I try to refrain from correcting people unless one of the following applies: 1. he or she asked for me to proofread, 2. he or she is a good friend that can handle me pointing out an error without becoming offended, 3. I am absolutely sure there is a mistake and it's related to something really important (like the draft of your wedding program that hasn't gone to print yet).

Sometimes I can't help myself -- for example, when my sister sends me texts or posts on my FB wall and DOES NOT USE ANY PUNCTUATION AT ALL. (Yes, the caps there are intentional.) Look, I'm not asking that she use CORRECT punctuation, just SOME punctuation so that I know where one thought ends and another begins. It makes a difference. Plus, it could literally kill me. When I read, I breathe like I would if I was reading something aloud. (This may be a very weird quirk only I have; I've never asked if anyone else does it. I admit it's strange.) If you do not put commas or periods in the text you type (and if you type a lot of text), I will basically hold my breath until I get to the end. This could lead to dizziness or even death. Do you really want to be responsible for that? (And, yes, I realize that I would be up for a Darwin award if I died because I didn't breathe while reading a really long text from my sister. So it goes.)

I am not a great speller. I'm an okay speller. I use spell check. I use dictionary.com. I also have a pocket dictionary (and a pocket thesaurus and a pocket style book) that I carry in the tote bag I bring to work every day. Will I mock you a little if you accidentally spell something completely inappropriate or just plain funny? Yes. I also expect you to do the same when I do it. (Because I do and I will and I'm okay with that.)

I'm pretty good with the basic rules of grammar. There are a lot of things I still look up. And there are rules that I knowingly and intentionally break. (Um, hello fragments.) I rationalize by saying, "Well, I know the rules I'm breaking, and I'm choosing to break them for stylistic reasons." Is that any better than someone breaking the rules because they don't know them? I don't know.

I often say that my e-mails read like I speak and my spoken grammar is atrocious. By my standards. Many other people disagree.

Whatever.

I find it fascinating how intimidated people are by grammar. Language is hard. We all make mistakes. The only time I think less of someone who has exhibited poor spelling and/or grammar is when he or she should know better. For example, a person hired to do communications work who has three typos in her out of office automatic e-mail, because she didn't take the time to re-read it or click the spell check button. That's just lazy and sloppy. And annoying. (See, that fragment has way more weight BECAUSE it's a fragment. Am I right?)

It annoys me when people talk about me being smart, and I've been trying to figure out why. It's not like it's a bad thing to be smart. (I always say I like people who are smart and funny.) I finally stumbled on the answer: it's not something that makes me proud. It's just something that happened out of the box, like having blonde hair and blue eyes. (While I like both of those traits, I'm not particularly proud of them either.)

I'm proud that I have a talent for writing. I'm proud of myself when I do something I didn't think I could, when I face my fears, when I do something kind for someone else. I'm proud that I work every day at being a good person. I'm proud of how honest I am, even when -- especially when -- it's not the easy or fun thing to do. I'm proud when other people think I'm funny or brave.

I'm not proud of being smart. I'm not proud of knowing more grammatical rules than the average person.

I just love words and written language and communication and the connection to other people those things make possible. I like rules, which is why I like grammar (even if the rules are exceptionally wacky a lot of the time).

I should probably stop telling on myself

But I can't help it. (It's the lack of self-discipline again, I think.)

There was an episode of Buffy where she says, "I feel an attack of dumb blonde coming on." This always irked me because she wasn't a REAL blonde. I am.

And, unfortunately, I have these attacks sometimes.

Take today.

It's time to do my quarterly data analysis at work, so I opened up my ginormous spreadsheet and, for some crazy reason, I had apparently password-protected the main worksheet. I don't remember doing this, but I'm the only one who could have. (And, there's absolutely no reason to do it, which just makes me crazy.) Since I didn't remember doing it, I also didn't remember the password. I tried every password I have ever used. None worked. So, I had to copy what I could into a new worksheet, delete the password-protected one, and now I have to update all 8 gazillion references to that worksheet throughout the rest of the workbook. It took me 20 minutes to do it on one worksheet; there are five more in the workbook. Awesome. That was Dumb Blonde Attack #1.

I was telling my cube-neighbor about it this morning, and then we got to talking about the fact that it's Election Day. I was annoyed that even though I changed my address with DMV (on a form that specifically mentioned voter registration, too), my request for an absentee ballot was denied. I'd have to vote in person for the first time in many, many years. We were lamenting about the candidates and how crappy this whole election season has been and our fears about the race for governor (since it will affect us as state employees as well as residents of the state). I said, "There should be a test you have to pass before you can vote."

My cube-neighbor said, "Isn't that how they kept African-Americans from voting back in the '50s?"

"Not literacy tests," I said. "I don't care if you can read. I care if you know the issues and are informed."

And so, I wrote on our little in/out board that I was "performing my civic duty" and went off to get myself registered and to vote.

After standing in line, filling out another form, producing my rental agreement and license, I was cleared to vote. I went up to the little old lady and collected my cards. She said, "Make sure you turn the white one over, because it has two sides." Well, duh. Of course I'd check! Did she think I was an idiot?

And then I stood in front of the little voting cubicles and I was stumped.

Let me back up for a second to defend what I did next: Like I said before, I haven't voted in person in many years. And, in Portland, the set up is different. The voting areas are more more like partitioned cubes. It's very clear how you get in and out of them.

So, I stood there, looking at people's legs beneath the curtains, and I couldn't figure out how you got BEHIND the curtain (because it looked like one continuous curtain -- really, it did). So, I go to the little old lady and I say, "This is probably a dumb question, but how do you get behind the curtain?"

She looked at me like I was too stupid to live. And lifted up the curtain.

Oooohhhhhh.

That would be Dumb Blonde Attack #2. Which is a lot for one day.

I told this story at work twice today (at lunch, and then at our staff meeting). Both times, I laughed so hard I made myself cry.

I toyed with the idea of doing a dramatic reenactment -- maybe even with my gnomes or quarter machine monkeys -- but I don't think I'll have the time to get that quite right, especially if I plan to meet my NaNoWriMo goals. Sigh.

It's good to laugh at yourself, and I'm glad that I can. I certainly have plenty of opportunity....

I lack discipline

I always have.

I was lucky to be smart enough to be able to make it through school with very little effort. I could sight-read (which is the dumbest term EVER -- of COURSE you read by sight!) well enough that I barely ever practiced when I played the flute. I have always, always, always been a procrastinator. Without deadlines and someone to hold me accountable, I would never accomplish anything.

I'm a big skeptic of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) -- during which people attempt to write more than 1600 words per day to end the month with a novel-length manuscript. Maybe it's because I don't think you can force creativity. Maybe it's because I don't know how anyone can write that much per day. Maybe it's because I just can't imagine sustaining that kind of momentum and having the kind of discipline it takes to sit your butt in the chair and do it. Every day.

I met my friend Ben a couple weeks ago to review the work we'd most recently sent each other. He encouraged the daily writing thing. I told him I've never (NEVER!) written on a daily basis. I write when I feel possessed to write or when I have a deadline. Yeah, that's pretty much it. But, I did write almost every day last week (and without a specific deadline or being particularly possessed by an idea or phrase or word). It felt good. And, then I stopped for three days. (That was dumb. Very, very dumb. ...And typical. See title above.)

But. I know that I CAN do it. When my mom had to start radiation two years ago, things weren't looking so good. I decided I wanted to give her a complete copy of my novel for Christmas, so she could read my book before she died. In six weeks, I completed the draft I was working on (which was less far along than the draft I am currently working on).

So, this NaNoWriMo, I'm going to try to work on my novel every day. Screw the word counts -- my goal is to just do SOME writing every single day.

Now we circle back around to the title of this blog again: I. Lack. Discipline.

My shrink says I need to reach out and tell people what I need, when I need it. I don't like doing this because it makes me feel needy and annoying. But, Amanda Palmer says that nothing is impossible if you ask for help.

So, I am asking for help.

I need cheerleaders and task masters. I need people who will encourage me throughout the month, and others who will prod me (in a not-so-gentle way) to make sure that I really am working on the book every day this month.

In exchange, I'm happy to slip your name into the story somehow and I'll include you in the acknowledgments if I ever get it published. (Or, I'll bake you cookies. The choice is yours.)

Now, to accomplish today's writing....

Surreality

I'm sticking with the one-word blog titles for now because, well, I can.

I just pulled myself from my warm, cozy bed, stumbled through the dark apartment to the office and woke up my computer (and the screen was blindingly bright in all that darkness, let me tell you) just so I could write about insomnia. Not mine, my narrator's.

Yeah, that's just weird no matter how you slice it.

I realized earlier in the day that my narrator's best friend hates her (the narrator's) sister. Or at least she really dislikes her. This came as a surprise to me. I figured it out based on two snarky lines of dialogue in two separate scenes that I'd written well apart from each other. (It's especially interesting because this character is not particularly snarky in general.)

I also spent a good chunk of time this evening looking for a scene I'm sure I've written. I can't find it anywhere -- it's not in the notebook of longhand notes, not in the stacks of printed bits of scenes I have strewn all over the floor and the desk, not in any of the documents in the folder labeled "pieces" on my computer, not in the old version of the book, not in the older version of the book. No where. But, I'm sure I wrote it. I can picture the text on the screen. ...Or did I? (I usually don't just toss a scene entirely. If I don't like it or it no longer works or whatever, I usually hold onto it in a folder or SOMETHING unless it's so badly written it embarrasses me. This does not seem to be the case with this scene I maybe didn't write after all.)

So, it's almost 1 a.m. and I have to get up around 7:15 to go to work. I am a girl who needs her sleep. (Like, I should get 10 hours every night. I don't, but I should.) And yet, here I am writing about writing, when writing about my character's insomnia gave me insomnia.

My life is really strange sometimes.

Instructions

Over the course of the last few years, dozens of people have told me that life doesn't come with instructions, and the early death of a parent certainly doesn't. That observation is both trite and unhelpful. I really didn't think I was the only person who missed the giant user manual that comes free from the hospital when you're born.

To survive all of this, I had to find a way to make something positive for myself. I had to find something to learn. Otherwise, the weight of being motherless would have crushed me. It would have made me forget how to breathe and how to think and how to love. I would have lost myself.

What did I have to learn?

• To not give up on the things you want before you even try to get them.
• To not let fear stand in the way of happiness.
• To not leave so many things unsaid.
• To take the time to tell people what they mean to me, to make sure they know.
• To focus on the importance of remembering, of love, of embracing adventure as a means of chasing down joy.

What did I do?

• I took my mom’s ashes on adventures that I thought she would have liked, so I could still feel close to her and I could share things with her. Most of the friends who have participated in these adventures never even met my mother. That has taught me that a lot of the time, people will do things you would never imagine they would do, if only you ask. It has taught me about the kindness and generosity of my friends. It has drawn us closer.
• I tried to face my fears in very visceral ways – trapezing and riding waterfalls.
• I’ve made an effort to show people that I care about them, to let them know what I think of them, to let them know when I’m thinking of them.
  
• I’ve tried to inspire others by sharing the things that inspire me.
• I made up my own instructions, my own rules, and then I branded myself with the most important ones in the most obvious places I could find.

The tattoo on my right wrist came first, so I’ll start with that one. I got it the day after Christmas, and I put it on my right wrist because that’s where I wear my watch and I knew I’d be looking at it all the time.

The letters DFTBA stand for “Don’t Forget to be Awesome.” It’s my favorite saying, taken from the Vlogbrothers and Nerdfighteria. The blue rose has so many meanings. “Blue Rose” was my mom’s CB handle when I was a kid. It’s there to remind me that you have to take risks and go after the things you want, that happiness takes work, and that you should never settle (no matter how afraid you might be).

The left wrist got tattooed on the first anniversary of Mom’s death. She had a picture of a seagull from the book Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach tattooed on her collarbone; I chose an image on the opposite page. The word “Love” is there to remind me of this quote:

But then the day came that Chiang vanished. He had been talking quietly with them all, exhorting them never to stop their learning and their practicing and their striving to understand more of the perfect invisible principle of all life. Then, as he spoke, his feathers went brighter and brighter and at last turned so brilliant that no gull could look upon him. "Jonathan," he said, and these were the last words that he spoke, "keep working on love."

(Which is, of course, where the title of this blog originates.)

Make sure the people you love know it. Let them know that you think of them. Let them know what you think of them. Don't wait. Don't expect happiness to just fall into your lap -- work at it, go after the things you want, take risks. Keep working on love and never, ever forget to be awesome.

Music

I write. Even before I could write, I told stories. (One of the best things anyone ever said to me was when my older sister pointed out how I used to tell stories before I learned to write -- and how she and her friends used to ask me to make them up for them.)

But, I think in pictures. Most of my writing comes from describing the images in my brain.

And, I need music. I can't think (much less write or do anything creative) if I don't have music playing in the background.

I love making soundtracks -- for road trips, for particular periods in my life, for the stories I'm writing, for friends. A friend of mine once told me that a friend of hers told her that every time you hear a new song for the first time, you evolve. I don't know if there's any actual science behind that, but I love the idea. I love sharing new music with people and hearing new songs for the first time.

And maybe all of this is partly why I was so psyched when my friend Nora asked me to participate in her project to make a video for Guster's "Bad, Bad World." (I normally avoid having my picture taken at all costs. Nine years later, my sister still rants about how I'm not in "any" of her wedding pictures...which is an overstatement. I'm in some. Just not a lot.)

So, please go here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BfBmHiMoNd8
If you have a YouTube account, sign in and "like" the video by clicking on the thumbs up. (If you don't have a YouTube account, stop being a slacker and create one. It takes less than two minutes.) You should help Nora win, because she is awesome, because her idea was awesome, and because it's one small thing you can do to decrease world suck.

Shortly after I helped film this video with Nora, my grandboss (that's my boss's boss, get it?) sent me the link to this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=REo7VnlenOA with the lyrics to the song. He said some of the images and lyrics made him think of me -- and it almost made me totally lose it right there in my cubicle when I read his words, the lyrics, and listened to the song.

I've been trying to do some writing for most of today and I haven't accomplished much. Usually when I get stuck, I make a collage. Collages help me think -- don't ask why; I don't know.

Tonight, instead of making my typical collage, I played with some lyrics from some songs I've been listening to a lot. I don't know what I'd do without music; I don't want to know.

Here's my texty alternative to a collage:

It's empty in the valley of your heart. I am still not getting what I want. I'm coming apart at the seams. The sun, it rises slowly as you walk away from all the fears and all the faults you've left behind. There's no turning back for us tonight. 'Cause I need freedom now, and I need to know how to live my life as it's meant to be. Are you looking for an answer? It gets so lonely. I'm here. Hold on to me. I'm right here waiting. It's too late to save me. You're too late. Doc, there's a hole where something was. Things aren't the same anymore. Some nights it gets so bad, I almost pick up the phone. I could really use a friend tonight. I cannot live, I can't breathe, unless you do this with me. Please stay until I'm gone. Well, I'm a wreck, I really can't explain it. I can't explain a thing. I'm so lost. I'm barely here. I wish I could explain myself but words escape me. I wish you could remind me who I was, because every day I'm a little further off. I keep telling myself I'm not the desperate type. Wish that I was as invisible as you make me feel. I would gladly stay an afterthought, just bring back some nice reminders. 'Cause I have other things to fill my time. You take what is yours and I'll take mine. Now let me at the truth, which will refresh my broken mind. I'm a loose bolt of a complete machine. But I will hold on hope. May you dream you are dreaming in a warm, soft bed. May the voices inside you that fill you with dread make the sounds of thousands of angels instead. And I'll find strength in pain. I swear I didn't mean for it to feel like this, like every single inch of me is bruised. I wanna have the same last dream again. The one where I wake up and I'm alive. I'd promise you anything for another shot at life. I'll know my name as it's called again. Boycott love. It only takes a heart to be heard. You will be fine.


The songs quoted are:

"(Coffee's for Closers)" - Fall Out Boy
"7 Minutes in Heaven (Atavan Halen)" - Fall Out Boy
"The Pros and Cons of Breathing" - Fall Out Boy
"Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes" - Fall Out Boy
"GINASFS" - Fall Out Boy
"Astronaut" - Amanda Palmer
“Nobody’s Crying” – Patty Griffin
"Bruised" - Jack's Mannequin
"Soundtrack for Our Movie" - Mae
"Almost Everything" - Wakey!Wakey!
"Check Yes, Juliet" - We the Kings
"Save a Place" - 1969
"The Adventure" - Angels & Airwaves
"Not Now" - blink-182
"Stockholm Syndrome" - blink-182
"The Cave" - Mumford & Sons

Butterflies

The words below I am completely stealing from a blog written by Jamie Tworkowski for his organization To Write Love on Her Arms:

i am impressed by people who are honest and kind. i am inspired by moments of vulnerability, moments of confession and compassion, moments where someone makes it clear that they are a person in need of other people and someone else makes it clear that the first person is not alone.

....Be loved. Be known. Love people and know people. Be so brave as to raise a hand for help when you need it. Make friends and make sure they know they matter. Be loyal to them and fight for them. Remind them what’s true and invite them to do the same when you forget. If you do some losing or you walk with someone else in their defeat, live with dignity and grace. It is a middle finger to the darkness.



I was talking to my shrink yesterday about my oddness, which some people even call crazy. (It's nice to have a licensed clinical psychologist who has been assessing you for a year and a half confirm that you, most definitely, are not crazy.) She said my whimsy is very life-affirming. She said this several times. (In fact, she agreed that I'm a lot like Luna Lovegood.)

I never really appreciated butterflies until I visited two butterfly gardens in the span of a couple of weeks last February and March. In the second garden, two separate butterflies landed on me (one right on my DFTBA tattoo). So, now I equate butterflies with peace and love and a connection to those who are gone (mostly because of a legend a volunteer in the second butterfly garden told me). And that is why I've been making origami butterflies lately -- why I cover them with inspiring words (many stolen from Jamie's blogs) or hide important messages inside them. I'm using the butterflies as my messengers, just like the Blackfoot Indians saw real butterflies as messengers to and from the spirit world.

Reading Jamie's blog this morning made me think of butterflies....