Thursday's Thought

Well here we are. It's the last day of the year.

I simultaneously have no idea what happened over the last year and I have a very clear recollection of every single day. It's been a big one in my world!
I graduated my Master's. Published a book. Travelled a bit. Refrained from any major new ink. Was nominated for a Pushcart. Fostered and developed my relationships and connections with family and friends.

Counting Down

Wednesday's Word

Accomplishment

There are 365 days in a year. Well, this year anyway. With this post, I've written 359 entries in my blog. Tomorrow will be my final, meaning I've only missed FIVE DAYS! Five whole days for an entire year is not only fantastic and pretty boss, but it's also a testament to commitment.

Good old Merriam-Webster defines accomplishment as, "something that has been achieved successfully, or an activity that a person can do well, typically as a result of study or practice." I'd say that both apply to this blog and the challenge for a year.

Yes, it's true. I didn't make a post-a-day. But when I landed on this idea last winter, I knew that there would be days when I couldn't write for whatever reason. I largely tried to plan for those days and make sure that I had something waiting to post, but there were a few days where I just didn't feel like it. I don't know if that's a measure of success or not. It is contrary to the challenge, sure. But it's also a nod to the hyper-awareness that blogging for a year has created with my writing.

When I began my Master's program, writing was something I used as an outlet. I knew I had a voice somewhere inside, and I knew that I could arrange words in a pretty and pleasing way. Much the same, when I seriously started lifting, I knew I had a strength inside of me that could be brought to the surface with the right tenacity, approach and practice. I realize now that this blog has been as much an exercise in committing and seeing a goal to the end as it has been in learning to engage my creative voice with an ability to articulate and express ideas.

I think it only apt to end Wednesday's Word with "accomplishment." This is a challenge that has proven difficult, wonderful and engaging all year long. I'm pleased with my work, and I hope that it's offered my readers some sort of pause, a moment of introspection, mind-food for thought.

Yikes

Tuesday Truth

Well. It appears I've slacked off on this challenge over the last month. It's been tough, and though I'm not one to up and quit, I'll admit it's been difficult for me to find fresh and engaging content for this blog. So I've largely just ... stopped.

I know, I know. It's contrary to what I've been doing all year! I had such high hopes and noble ambitions for the blog-a-day challenge. And for a good nine months, it was really working well! I found that it was easy enough to write about things that were engaging and poignant in my life. But then after a while, I discovered that I just didn't have much to say.

I'm beginning to learn to look at my life in a series of before and afters. Before I got divorced, I was living one way. After I graduated my Master's I'm living a different way. If I consider this year from a macro perspective, it's certainly an "after" year ... as in, after I decided to write a blog a day for a year, after I published my first book, after I broke 200 on my conventional deadlift.

All said, I hope it's also a "before" year. I hope it's a year that I look at and have a handful of wonderful benchmarks to measure it against, that it is a year before a major book deal and national reading tour, a year before I begin spending the rest of my days with the love of my life, a year before I broke 100 on my bench.

I know that if this time last year, I'd been this off on my mark with this blog, I'd be pretty bummed. I never like to set a goal that I think is ridiculous or too difficult to handle. I guess I'm feeling a little kind today and I know that there were very good reasons that my blogging slowed. Things like hanging with friends, visiting family, writing new fiction have all seemed pressing, engaging and important. I guess I've been busy living. Isn't that the point of all this?

beginnings

Modi's Monday

beginnings

            after Villa at Rueil, E. Manet

in spring, she will ask

you to build her a house

of brick and circumstance

square and concrete that

keeps her safe and cuffs her

to the hearth of your love

she will sit on the veranda

sipping cool yellow lemonade

rocking in a painted pine chair

wondering the roped route that

brought you to her.

black lace

Modi's Monday

black lace

            after Portrait of Berthe Morisot, E Manet

he tells her to

cover her face and

straighten her back

point her toes like

those Russian ballerinas

that seem so graceful on stage

and so awkward on the train

cloud her eyes and

mute her smile

when she sits for him

the artist standing at

his easel, painters board

in the crook of his elbow

brushing color and

truth onto canvas the

way her spine keeps

straight her determination

Heat, Harden, Force

Tuesday Truth

Here’s a mind fuck of a truth. I have hated life for most of this year. There were long stretches – days and weeks, even months – where every single thing was a struggle. An internal fight to get up and well, life. Sometimes even just doing the dishes seemed like the biggest deal in the world, and doing dishes has always been such a joy for me! Laundry? Cleaning? Taking Loretta for a bath? All calamitous chores that required me to pump myself up so much that after the chore was complete, I was completely and totally spent. I wanted to throw the covers over my face and hide pretty much all the time, and spent a number of days doing just that. It came to my attention that living is hard work.

But know what’s harder? Not living.

I’ve been not living while living for far too long. And it’s whack. Takes too much energy and too much time to stay grumbly and cantankerous.

Hiding doesn’t do a damn thing except keep out folks who should be in, and draws me deeper into the well. Ghost told me recently that we walk through fire so that we might come out tempered. That is, of course, if we don’t melt, explode or fall to pieces. I can truthfully say that I’ve been walking through fire for a while now, and I didn’t melt. I had a few mini-explosions, but those were all self-contained and manageable. I feel comfortable saying that I’ve come out the other side of the pyre. My hardness and elasticity as a human, capable of sustaining and forging has been challenged this year. There have been some really tough moments. But I’ve found the counterbalance of my malaise; I’ve learned to neutralize the nonsense, alleviate the aggression and soften my sadness. It feels fantastic to know that I have been tempered indeed. 

Evening in Love

Modi's Monday

Evening in Love

            after Still Life, E. Manet

leave your boots by

the door and dust off

the snow from the cuffs of

your trousers. She has a

bottle of that good whiskey you

like to drink on tough days,

or good ones, depending

if there are such a thing

as winter flowers

be sure to pick some up

on your way back to the

statuesque four pillar

brownstone you’ve

worked to acquire and

she’s worked to keep

top your hat next

to her latest version of

truths written and

type-set for the world to see

you prosecute and she

articulates. Together,

the world is yours. 

Shopping for Change

Sweet Saturday

Weeks keep moving. We’re only something like 19 days away from the end of 2015. Where has the year gone?

This week, I’ve had the chance to really look at what I want for my next step. Earlier today, I went shopping with Willis. We needed a proper catch-up after her wedding and my graduation. It was so lovely to spend a bit of time with her. Every time I see her, I’m reminded of why she’s so boss.

In the course of conversation, she asked me of my next steps. As I rattled off my PhD plans and the schools to which I’ve applied, I realized that for all the years we’ve known one another, it’s been rare that we’ve been doing the same thing … at the same time. With her pending PhD studies beginning alongside my own, it feels like we’re starting to finally sync up! It was a sweet reminder that even though out worlds are decidedly different, we can still find ways in which we can connect.

Willis also remarked that my time in the north was “a strange time in the life of Jess.” An understatement, to be sure, but so darn true. I told her that it was needed, and that it’s clear I don’t belong in suburbia. She quipped, “Well I think we all knew that deep down.” Match point. She’s right, of course. Anyone who knows me probably had the same nugget of a thought the whole time I was there, but it was something that’s needed. Something that I had to do, as much to prove to myself that it wasn’t what I wanted, as because it offered me a chance to figure out what it is I do want.

Life can be like that sometimes. We have to work through what we don’t want to get to what makes us really shine. When I reflect on time I’ve spent in Cincinnati since returning, I realize that most of these last 20 months have been helping me pluck out the things I don’t want and replace them with things that serve me best. Of course, it’s all about balance, and that’s something I’m still learning, but it’s a nice way to be living especially given the alternative.

After our shopping, we hugged and dapped the way long-time friends are known to do. It felt good to see her, a sweet reminder that even in my solitary pursuits, I’m not alone. 

Getting Back to It

Fitness Friday
(a day late! it's a  busy time of year!)

It’s that time of year.

Cookies. Chocolate covered everything. Schedules so completely out of whack that even the most dedicated lifter might find it difficult to say if it’s “Shoulder Day” or “Leg Day.”

Last week, I returned to the gym after almost a month off. I was travelling for three weeks, and even though I had access to a gym for most of my trip, it was still difficult to stay on schedule, to keep my routine amidst the off-kilterness that being in foreign country can bring. During my trip, I pined for the gym. Longed for it. Wanted nothing more than to strap on my Oly shoes, cinch my belt tight and get to squatting. Or deads. Or hell, I rationalized with myself while sitting in German café enjoying a coffee, I’d settle for bench right now. (For the record, bench is likely my worst compound lift. It’s just so darn hard) That said, I did what I could while I was travelling – lots of plyo work, too many burpees than I care to remember and enough tuck jumps to make me think I could reach the moon. I wasn’t lifting, but I was doing something, and hoped it would be enough to help me maintain what I work so hard for day in and day out.

When I finally returned to the States, I was eager to get back to the gym. Sunday night, jet lagged and confused about what time it really was versus what time my body felt like it was, I packed my gym back with care and set it by my door. Prepped my coffee and my pre-workout food, and imagined how great it was going to feel to attack upper body with the vengeance of a woman three weeks out from the gym. I could almost feel the pure power that comes from pressing and pulling, and man was I hyped.

Monday morning at 5am found me waiting for the doors of my gym to be unlocked. I made a bee line for the first bench I saw and promptly loaded it with my working weight … from three weeks ago. Turned up my tunes and set my mind right; went to press the weight and NOTHING HAPPENED. I glanced left to right, thinking maybe I’d accidentally loaded too much. Nope, the weight was right. So what was wrong?

Much to my dismay, the three weeks off from real lifting meant that for three weeks my muscles weren’t being activated in the ways they are accustomed. My working weight from the beginning of November was in no way my working weight for the beginning of December. I am a stubborn broad, and didn’t want to accept this truth, so I tried again. Nothing.

I had to accept that in order to make it through my first day back, I had to deload. A lot.

I grumbled, I fussed, but still I stripped the bar, knowing that trying to get up a weight that I’m not ready for will only cause injury. It was deflating, and a bruise on my ego.

Either way, I made it through the sweat, admittedly at much lower weights than I was used to. That 30 pound dumbbell shoulder press that used to be so easy? See ya later. I had to go down by ten. My reverse flies that were finally starting to move up in weight? Nope. Back to the beginnings.

It would have been super easy for me to get discouraged after my first day back and to throw in the towel, rationalizing because it’s the Holiday Season, I can just go ahead and take another month off. I could have made the excuse that there are likely to be so many delectable goodies all around me for the next four weeks that any lifting in the gym would be for naught, so I may as well take a good long rest. You know, be like a bear, go hibernate, feed, sleep.

But where would that get me? I’d be worse off than I was last week.

I realized a few things.

One – I needed to get over myself and swallow my pride. So what if I’d pr’d on pretty much every single lift before my break? My weights weren’t going to be where they were.

Two – the only way to get back to it was to get back to it. I spent the rest of Monday carefully reviewing my lift logs (yes, I’m that much of a nerd) to figure out how best to approach the rest of the week, and how to do so safely without injury.

Three – My lifts were not going to get any better if I wasn’t fueling my body properly. When we take breaks from the gym, it’s easy to get into a pattern of eating semi-clean, giving ourselves leeway for an extra apple or a piece of cheese, or whatever it is. But we all know that proper nutrition is as much a piece of the fitness pie as is adequate rest.

Four – Coming back off a break was going to be hard. Harder than lifting had been in a while.

I regrouped. Took a look at my meal plan for the week and found places where I needed to up my carbs (before my lifts) and increase my protein (after my lifts) … and I tearfully said goodbye to a few of the treats I’d been allowing myself while on holiday, namely muesli.  And was back at the gym at 5am on Tuesday, waiting for the doors to be unlocked again. This time though, I walked in with a different mindset. Instead of trying to immediately pick up where I left off, I resolved to make the sweat the best I could make it for that particular day. I knew what my weights needed to be for all of my lifts. More than that, I knew that if I couldn’t get those numbers, I shouldn’t lose my hat. When I struggled on my dips, I reminded myself I’d been gone for three weeks. And when one of the other early morning regulars asked me where I’d been for the last month, I didn’t let it shame me.

So I worked my program every single day, carefully recording my numbers and monitoring my split. As my first week back, I wanted to make sure I got as close to perfect as I could on well, everything. Kept my calories right and made sure that my form was on point. It was a little sad walking past the big plates, having to load my bars with almost thirty percent less weight than what I’m used to, but I knew that a deload would be the only way to get back. By the end of last week, I was sore everywhere. I’m talking I-couldn’t-take-a-step sore. And it felt wonderful!

This is such a personal journey for all of us. We each have reasons why we get up every day and go sweat. For most of us, it’s to get stronger, to feel better and to stay healthy. Some regular lifters like the aesthetics that come from picking up heavy stuff. It’s easy to get discouraged when the results we’re used to seeing don’t materialize. But it’s even more important to remember that this isn’t just a one-stop sort of lifestyle. We all come back to the gym over and over to perfect our form, to up our weights, to get better, stronger, faster. So a few days – or a few weeks off – can be deflating. It’s hard to get back to the bar especially when we’re used to lifting a certain weight and feeling a certain way. But we have to remember that we all started somewhere. And really, aren’t we really just competing with ourselves? 

Stepping Stones

Thursday’s Thought 

I’ve been giving considerable though to the next step on my journey, likely because now that I’ve graduated, everyone’s questions is. “What’s next?” Sometimes, when I’m feeling less than amenable, I feel like saying, “I have no bloody idea what next. Why don’t you tell me?” but I know that won’t get me anywhere, since no one but me knows what’s next. It would be so fantastic though to just say it … once to someone!

In keeping with this notion that I don’t need to micro-plan my life, I do think it’s important to macro-plan my goals. One of the nights I couldn’t sleep in Frankfurt, I pulled out my trusty Mead Comp book and started writing out the things I want to accomplish for 2016. Once I had a reasonable list, I then started spelling it backward, and trying to figure out how to make those things happen. They’re all really loose plans – get published, win the lottery, find a man, you know, easy, simple stuff, but they’re plans none the less and writing them out not only helped me get a clearer understanding of what I want to accomplish over the next twelve months, but also a way to make that happen.,

Now that my MFA is finished, I really do need to figure out what the hell I’m doing with life. The idea of a PhD calls to me and is so appealing for a variety of reasons. But then, so is finding a writing related job, something that fuels my mind and my spirit. I also like the idea of becoming a professional world traveler, but I’m not quite sure how to go about doing it. Point is, there are so many options open for me right now. I’m the must unencumbered I’ve ever been in my life – I have an education, a car, some savings … and no children, no relationship responsibilities and no real familial pressures or expectations. I don’t know why I’ve been sweating this next step so much. It’s actually a pretty boss situation to find myself in, as much because I am free to choose my path, as because I know that the path I decide to walk will be one that is best for me. Not having to take into account the wants and needs of a partner, or considering adult stuff like who’s going to rent my house is really actually freeing. I think I’ve been fretting over this phase for naught.

Of course, I really have no idea what the hell I’m doing with life, but that’s okay! Maybe I’m not supposed to know … I have my skeleton list of goals for ’16; that’s probably a good enough starting point, considering it’s just now December.  

Macro is Better than Micro

Tuesday Truth  

Life is transitional; it’s fluid, and if lived correctly, it’s ever changing. These last two years have been fluid and still at the same time. there has been a lot of growth personally, but there’s also been a lot of settling – settling into being divorced, settling into graduate school. Returning to Cincinnati, learning to live on my own again. I’m tired of settling, and to a point, I’m tired of routine. Sure, I’ve written about the ways in which being off my schedule made it difficult for me to lift over the last few weeks. But at the end of it, does it really even matter? The chances of me competing in a show any time soon are so super slim – my time is limited and there are a million other things I want and need to do, and I’m probably not going to be on a magazine cover as a fitness model in the next three months, so what does it matter if i’ve missed a sweat here and there? 

An earlier version of me would have freaked out with Residency schedule, and then would have freaked out even more when I didn’t have access to a gym in Frankfurt. I get it in my mind sometimes that there is only one way to do something, and that way involves being so fully committed – as much to remind myself that I’m doing this, as to show the Universe that when I decide something, I stop at nothing to make it happen. That’s all fine and well and great for folks who live in bubbles where everything can be controlled down to the smallest detail. For the rest of us, who have to contend with myriad on-the-fly changes, it just doesn’t work like that. I think I’ve been so rigorous in developing and keeping a schedule over the last two years (fitness, writing and otherwise) because I knew that if I didn’t have a schedule, I wouldn’t stay on track. Props to myself for seeing that part of my personality, and I’m glad I’ve been able to stay focused. But it’s getting a little too intense, and to a point, a little unnecessary to plan out every single hour of every single day. I still love plans and lists, and I’m still going to spend the first part of my Sunday sketching out my week on the calendar, but there’s something to be said for just letting go … even if it’s just a little bit. 

tenderly reaching

Modi's Monday

tenderly reaching

            After Bon Bock Café, E. Manet

waitress lowers head to

stretch her neck, sore from

bending and bowing

aching fingers fold

giraffe animals from

starched white linen

napkins used to press

droplets of chef Miguel’s

cold asparagus soup from

wrinkled lips of

society ladies who

wear too much perfume

floral and heavy and

don’t know the difference

between being alive

or really living. 

#tickingclocks

Sunday Summary

Wow, o wow. What a week.

Coming off of pretty much three weeks of continuous travel has been difficult. I not only returned to Dental World and real life, but I also got back to the gym this week. I don’t know which has been harder – transitioning back to teeth or the bar. Either way, this week has left me spent. It’s been something of a reality check after spending time at Residency and then in Germany to remember that yep, I have bills to pay and the way that I’m doing that is in the land of molars and incisors. It’s also been a swift kick in my ass to get me motivated.

I realize I can’t keep doing this – can’t keep trying to exist between two opposite and conflicting worlds. Bukowski did it; he was a letter carrier all the while writing amazing stuff. Hemingway was a copy writer for a while, Johnson is a professor. I get the need to keep a day job, but more and more I realize that I can’t keep with a day job that doesn’t in some way stimulate and engage my creative side. It’s making me mad! I need to find something that will not only engage my spirit, but will also pay the bills.

I know, right? Join the rest of the club. Thing is, I’ve been doing some investigating and I see how I might be able to make it work. It won’t be the same sort of consistency as Dental World, but it will offer me a bit of freedom that I don’t have now.

All this week, the only thing I’ve wanted to do is sit to pages. My heart has pined for it, my head full of delicious lines of poetry, snippets of narratives that are just waiting to be written, words that need to be on the page! When I finally had a chance to sit down on Friday, I lasted about forty minutes. I discovered, all too quickly, that my mind was spent, my body exhausted, and my fingers not nimble enough to move. It was a sad night.

But also a telling one. If I’m to make it as a writer, that is – if I’m to pay my bills and have some loot in the bank, then I need to become accustomed to this wrung out feeling of super tired. It’s a hustle, just like anything else. It’s not a slow dance; shit moves fast, and the only way to stay up is to stay up.

So Saturday night found me sitting to my screen, a nice piano concerto playing in the background and a peanut bread baking in the over. I’d have much preferred to read or play on the internet, but progress doesn’t happen when one lollygags. I best get used to this feeling; it’s the only way.

Here’s to another week in the books. There are only a few left in this year! Time is flying so fast; soon, there will be snow on the ground and I’ll be on the hunt again for that shovel. 

Earned Letters

Sweet Saturday 

In a heated debate recently, someone said to me, “Well at least I didn’t have to go to school to learn how to be a writer.”

It was early when this insult was hurled my way, and my mind wasn’t working as quickly as it normally does, so I found myself at a loss for what to say back.

I didn’t go to school to learn how to be a writer either, but I can see how one might make that assumption. An MFA program has far less to do with growing a seed of talent and more to do with learning how to work with deadlines, writing crap, recognizing it’s crap and then rewriting it until it shines, and learning about theory and craft.

I have always been a writer. It has been at the very core of my being for as long as I can remember thinking about my being. Trying to make a career of it, to actively push for publications, enter contests, write this blog, all of these things are scary as shit. There’s a lot of competition out there, and there’s always going to be a better writer. And it’s subjective as all get out! What one editor or publishing house hates, another might love … so there’s no metric to the success, no formula that one can follow. It’s most certainly not like the corporate scaffolding that so many folks maneuver to earn and achieve higher titles and larger salaries.

Maybe that’s the stem of the insult – maybe because this gig does take so much shameless self promotion, so much pretending to believe in oneself, promoting one’s work, maybe it seems like I took the easy way out. It’s easy to lose validation as a writer when the rejection letters roll in daily or when someone says something like this to me. I’ve come to terms with the rejection letters – they’re just a part of this life, and at least someone is reading my work! But this insult has stuck with me and tried to burrow into me in a very real way. Sure, I didn’t need an MFA to tell the world I’m a writer. But I did need the discipline that comes from having fifty pages due every three weeks, from knowing I’m accountable to someone, somewhere for my words.

I’m sharing all of this because this argument came on the heels of my Pushcart Nomination. I stood there confused, listening to reasons why I don’t know what I’m talking about with regard to being a writer, thinking to myself, “Yeah, but I just got nominated for a Pushcart … and even if I don’t win, that has to mean something, right?” Unfortunately, validation only holds value when one wants to assign worth to a particular accomplishment. So for me, the Pushcart nomination is huge – it shows me that the world sees me. But for others, it’s just another “thing” that I “learned” to do in my MFA program. I guess that’s okay; it’s all a matter of perspective.

But it’s really sweet when these kinds of perspectives begin to offer me glimmers into the true nature and core character of folks. Raw moments of truth like that are rare; now, not only do I know where I really stand, but I know how I’m viewed and to what esteem I’m held. 

Tracking Routines

Fitness Friday 

Between Residency and my trip across the pond, my lifting schedule has been so whacked out, it’s a wonder I remember how to squat at all!

This week has marked the return of my schedule in all its glory and infamy and o my stars, I couldn’t be more excited. On Sunday at my layover in O’Hare, I was planning out my week, deciding on which day I should be doing what lifting sequence, and o my stars, how excited that made me! It’s been a challenge for this schedule-driven human to be so far off of the daily, normal routine for so long. That said, it’s been a good exercise in remember that everything isn’t all schedules and datebooks, and that living life is far more entertaining and exciting than just planning it.

So this week also saw the return of progress photos … not that I’m too pleased about what these images show, but they’re a useful tool in helping to see the minute changes that begin to occur when one has been away from lifting for so long. Obviously, I know enough to know that the changes aren’t going to be immediate, but just getting in the gym and sweating, lifting heavy shit and putting it back down does enough for my psyche to make me think that there’s been a change. It’s all in my mind, I know, but it’s effectively helping me to push through the wall.

So at Res, I did my best with the time I had available to sweat and lift. I got in more cardio than any real weight training, and even that was lackluster at best because I was fighting a cold and frankly, there really wasn’t a ton of time for me to lift. It occurred to me that this has likely been the longest break I’ve taken from lifting and fitness related activities since I started graduate school. I really can’t recall a time that I was so far off my routine and schedule for this long.

Dang.

That means for two years, I’ve been pushing my body pretty darn hard. Okay, not elite athlete hard, but hard enough to have built a solid base, to have made significant changes in my physique, and to have almost mastered a Burpee (haha, just kidding. I can’t do a burpee for shit. They suck and they always will). The point is that sometimes it’s easy for me to get so focused on the end result (even if that changes based on my particular goals at the moment) that I forget what I’m doing is pretty solid, and that my commitment to fitness and to lifting is one that is now so deeply rooted in my core being, I feel it’s absence when life is so hectic that it can’t happen the way I’m used to having it. 

Small Acts

Thursday's Thought 

Put your heart, mind, intellect, and soul even into your smallest acts. This is the secret of success. – Swami Sivananda

Sometimes at the gym, I look over my work out and try to decide how hard I should be pushing myself for a particular set. This tends to happen with frequency on my squat days. As much as I love building my booty, squats are hard and my hips get tight. Recently, I was looking over my planned session and someone asked why I was studying it so intently. I explained I wanted to decide how hard to push myself. My response was met with horror and the response that I should push hard every set, every rep, all the time. 

How novel and foreign of a concept for me! I’ve often lived out my days parceling my energy so that I have enough to do everything I want to do. But there’s wisdom in that statement for sure. If I push hard on every set, approaching every set like it’s both my first and my last, then I will find success in every single one. Sure, it might be harder to start, but eventually my body will adapt and I’ll find a new center, a new middle, and a new end. I am doing myself a disservice if I don’t push hard all the time, every single time. So that’s what I’ve been trying to do this week. It’s been difficult, and a bit challenging, but I know it’s the right thing to do. And what’s more, it makes me a stronger person for it in the end. 

Rounding the Corner to Home

Wednesday's Word

commitment - the state or quality of being dedicated to a cause or activity

Much like other words that call to mind one's intent in pushing forward with a particular action, a commitment is something that often evokes a strong sense of intention and focus. When the calendar flipped over from 2014 to this year, I made the commitment to write a blog post a day ... for the entire year. On January 1st, it seemed like a lofty goal, something that would keep my focus and help me remember that my craft should be at the forefront of every day. Now that the year is winding down, I'm beginning to reexamine my commitment with particular respect to intent.

I don't know that I exactly intended for this blog to end up being a sort of online, progressive journal. When I reread the entries from this year, I realize just how much of myself I've tapped out - every single day. This has not only brought me a greater understanding of myself, but it has also shown me what I'm willing to share and what I'm not. There has been so much that has happened this year that I haven't shared on these pages, namely because I am a cagey kind of broad, and I don't share things easily. Or at least, that's what I used to think. Now, it seems that there's a certain and decided level of sharing that I'm willing to offer.

Not only has this exercise in staying committed to writing a post a day helped me understand more about myself, but it's also reinforced the idea that when I set my mind to something, I can get it done. Sure, there were a few days (weeks, months) where this blog was the very last thing on my to-do list ... and plenty of days when I wanted to just call it and not write at all. I ended up missing a few over the course of the year, but it's been less than 7! So that means I've been writing with dedication and focus for 48 weeks this year. Not too shabby considering I've also finished a thesis, written a novel, finalized a chapbook and done a bunch of other stuff too. I'm not sure what this blog is going to look like for 2016, but I know that I've grown both as a writer and a human from this experience. If a commitment is typically accompanied by a statement of purpose or a plan of action, then I think I've succeeded in meeting my goal for these posts.

Circular Conversations

Tuesday’s Truth 

Last Friday, Efed and I stayed in the entire day. We didn’t go to the market, to the café, or even to the free library that’s in her hood. Instead, we sat on her sofa (or lied on the floor) and talked about everything that we’ve needed (well, almost everything) we’ve needed to discuss for a good long while. Topics ranged from my eating stuff to expectations of adulthood that we had as children, and culminated with a really frank and open discussion about my mother and our parents. Grief is a weird thing. It comes in waves, presenting itself sometimes silent and prodding, and other times harrowed and loud.

It feels like I’ve been grieving my mother for almost twenty years. Between the fission that occurred when her life separated from mine when I was a teenager, and her actual death just a few years ago, there has now been more time in my life that I’ve been without her than I’ve shared. I don’t know if that makes me want to villainize her or idolize her; both are equally possible given my frame of mind, and if that sticky thing called grief is being quiet or making a symphony.

Undoubtedly, Efed was closer with our mother than I ever hoped to be; the connection they shared is one that is so vastly different from what we had. As the firstborn, and six years older, Efed has been witness to realities that I was too young or too blinded to see. Because of it, her grief is so much different than mine. It’s stronger; more real; more impacting. Where I knew that Gail was gone for a good ten years before she actually passed on, Efed kept up a viable and vibrant relationship with her. As a result, I’ve always felt that my grief and my longing was less than hers.

Our conversation Friday reminded me that grief most certainly isn’t the same for everyone, and manifests in different ways. Where Efed has lately not wanted to talk about her, all I’ve wanted to do is to get to know my mother, posthumously, of course. It’s as if now that it is so incredibly final that I can’t have her in my life, I’m greedy for all the details I can cobble together about her existence. Because Efed is my only resource for that information, conversations like the one we had on Friday are likely to be more frequent than less. I guess that means I’m going to be taking a few more trips across the pond. Not exactly a bad thing, considering I’m coming to terms with how not to freak out. 

reaching

Modi's Monday

reaching

            after The Big Trees, Paul Cezanne

free to master lassoing her

his orbited power an influence

even when the winter wind spreads

farther than she can run, alone

her forest of emotion felling like

logs set to be made into

tables for lovers and replanted with

saplings of prospects, together their

limbs affixed with connection,

rivets of remembering

sitting by that Ohio River in summer

when they were new and the world was fresh. 

Airport Musings

Sunday’s Summary 

Writing Sunday’s Summary from a plane is a strange sort of occurrence … not something that happens often, but something I’d like to encourage to happen for more frequently.

Whew! What a week. Still hungover on words from Residency, I don’t know that I was really functioning properly on Monday and Tuesday. When I woke up Wednesday morning and realized I was leaving for Germany, my mind sort of went into overdrive. For the first time in a long time, I hadn’t planned out exactly what I was going to pack, to take, or what my expectations for the trip were going to be … I knew I had a certain number of tasks to complete before I left for the airport, and that a few of those included preparations for my trip.

So I had to run to Meijer for some last minute purchases for Efed … and I had a slight moment of o snap, I’m so not ready to leave the country. I was sitting in my driveway letting Loretta warm up, reviewing all of the things I needed to accomplish in the next two hours. After I’d had a mini-meltdown, I realized that stressing about the items on my to-do list wasn’t going to do shit except make me more anxious. So I did what any reasonable person in my situation would do – I cranked the tunes, and opened all the windows, and drove to the market aiming to find a renewed sense of purpose.

Okay, maybe I didn’t discover my life path at Meijer in Hyde Park, but I did realize that situations are based on expectations. Instead of walking into the store frazzled, I made a point to smile (like real smile with teeth and all) to everyone I saw. I stopped and chatted with the Starbucks girl about holiday stuff and her kids (I’ve never met her in my life, but it seemed like she wanted to tell me a story, so I obliged). I said Good Morning to the store clerks.

All of that effort probably took an extra five seconds on my part, did nothing to delay the master schedule of the day, and everything to set the tone for my trip to Deutchland. I could have been salty and stressed about not being prepared, because I could have done that Meijer trip earlier in the week, but I didn’t, so there was no sense in sweating it.

Maybe this lesson is all part of the ever changing fabric of my approach on life … instead of trying intensely to control every single thing in my life, I am shown repeatedly that it makes more sense to be flexible, smiling, and inviting.

#spaldinglove

Sweet Saturday

So right before I left for my #transatlanticthanksgiving, I started a group on Facebook comprised of my Spalding family. Wait, let me back up.

Residency is always such an amazing experience in part because I’m surrounded by like-minded folk who are so kind, so genuine and so incredibly present. The beauty of a low residency graduate program is that for two weeks twice a year, all of us are able to leave behind the pressures and responsibilities of our non-writing lives and come together to discuss craft, theory, practical application of writerly skills, and to vibe with one another. But our schedules are always intense, and it always feels like there are a million conversations started that are left unfinished. Snippets between lectures, in elevators and hallways never seem to find a way to circle back into the zeitgeist of conversation. And while I’m always excited to have these sorts of talks, they always leave me feeling like they’re incomplete. As I attended my last residency, I was rolling this idea around in my head, trying to find a way to ensure that didn’t happen. Sure, we’re all connected on Facebook, and some of us on Instagram, but the realness of the conversations we have at res never seem to translate to the digital realm. Or at least, they don’t for me. Of course, I try to keep up with everyone but it always feels like there’s something missing.

So last week when I returned home from res, I had a pile of bills waiting for me (expected) and I also had a wonderfully sweet postcard from Premo. I’ve written often about my love of mail, particularly of postcards, and so it was incredibly thoughtful of Premo to send a postcard to me while we were both in Louisville. That small act got me thinking. Reading the card and knowing that Premo took a few minutes out of his already busy day to scratch out some words to me brought me back to thinking about how to continue the kinds of conversations I, and my fellow Spalding students, have grown to expect and to love.

I turned the postcard over in my hand a few times and then did what I always do with new fun mail – I proudly affixed it to my fridge. Then I went about unpacking my life from the last two weeks and sort of forgot about the idea I had in wanting to continue the Spalding conversations.

I know I can’t be alone in loving mail. I also know that along with my writing friends, I really enjoy the way it feels to scratch out something onto a piece of paper. I spend so much time in front of screens, and if I’m being really honest, I rarely handwrite anything at all. So. I woke for Dental World one day last week at the ungodly hour of before dawn, and thought about that postcard Premo sent. It occurred to me that it would be so easy to find a group of like minded writer folk who love mail. So I started a group on Facebook with my Spalding family with the intent of sending postcards to one another. It’s simple really – a group of almost one hundred of us (current students and alums) have exchanged real life mailing addresses, and have all committed to sending a line or two here or there, just something to keep the inspiration going, to serve as a reminder of why we do what we do, or just to say hello. My thought is that these sorts of occasional moments of sweetness that we’ll find in our mailboxes will do much more than keep the Muse speaking to us. Maybe this sort of non-digital communication will help us all remember that we’re humans first, and not just personas that are always behind screens. I’m hoping that the zeal and interest in this project won’t wane after the initial excitement, and that it’ll end up being another part of the fabric of what it means to be a part of the Spalding family. Truthfully, I was quite surprised by how many people were so interested in the idea, and the stack of twenty vintage postcards I’d brought with me to write out were so quickly out of my hands and into the mailbox that now I’ve realized I need to re-up my supply. I’m not complaining though. If it helps create community, if it helps to foster the creative spirit that lives so readily and easily while we’re all in Louisville, then it’s totally worth the ten bucks or whatever I end up spending monthly on sending out little notes. There’s something to be said for the beauty of Spalding’s program. It really is one of a kind.

#plyofitness

Friday’s Fitness

Between Residency in Louisville and my #transatlanticthanksgiving keeping with my gym schedule the last two weeks has been a challenge. At res, I fought a cold pretty much the whole time so my Coach clipped my sweats … pretty much the whole time. It was frustrating to not get in the usual two hours to which I’ve become accustomed as much because exercise and fitness are a part of my core being as being there’s little as relaxing for me as a serious sweat! But the tapering off has been a good practice in remembering that I don’t always need weights to exercise, and that sweating while traveling is not only totally possible, but also really effective!

On Monday, Coach designed this crazy ass every minute on the minute sweat for me. It ended up being fifty minutes of work, and by the time I was finished, I’d done 200 squats, 200 Russian kettlebell swings, 150 burpees, 150 pushups and 300 rows. For the record, at minute 30, I was sure of a few things – 1, I was going to die and 2, my Coach gives me too much credit for thinking I could do it and 3, there might be something wrong with his brain. Ha, I’m kidding (only about the third part). I made it through and all five rounds and holy whoa, it was pretty hard. But it brought to mind the kinds of sweats Voyin and I used to do, and so I’ve kept that in mind while considering how to keep up with my fitness while I’m overseas. Today, I’ll be replicating Coach’s workout to some extent. I don’t have a gira with me, but I am going to do an every minute on the minute sweat with squats, pushups, and the like.

Fitness doesn’t always have to be about deadlifts and bench press. Sometimes getting back to the basics, reverting to good old body-weight sweats is a great reminder that there’s more to life than just lifting. I’ve spent the better part of this year being so focused on my lift numbers that I’ve forgotten, in part, not only how much I love working out, but that it can be fun! Of course I say that now in the comfort of this cushy airplane seat. Ask me again tomorrow how the sweat went and I might have something different to say. That’s unlikely though – somehow my Coach always seems to know when and how to rekindle the kind of fire I need to get me back to where I should be.

Chmok and Pebbles, Back at it Again

Thursday’s Thought

Well I’m on a plane. And there are no snakes. Ha. Terrible joke, I know. My time is all wonky … my body feels like it’s midnight, but the flight attendant just served me coffee and wished me a good morning in German, so I really don’t know what’s going on.

I’m about an hour outside of landing in Germany to spend the holiday with Efed. I’m beyond pumped to spend time with her, and even more excited that we to see each other on Thanksgiving. I don’t remember the last time this happened.

I know that I might be missing a serious opportunity, what with it being Thursday and all to write about the folks and things for which I’m grateful … but I feel like that’s so overplayed, trite, and there are likely going to be a million blog posts throughout the country about that very thing. Besides, early this year, I devoted an entire month to gratitude and I think I do a reasonable job of writing about being thankful and aware of my blessings pretty frequently.

Instead, I’d like to write about this trip.

For the next few days, I’ll be logging posts from the Fatherland while Efed and I explore Christmas markets, a questionable hip-hop club, various museums and little shops, and the area surrounding her flat. Even more than the geographical exploration, we’re going to explore what it means to be adult friends and adult siblings.

My older sister and I have spent our fair share of time fighting. There have been epic battles in a few different cities in the world, and while they’ve been gruesome and sometimes bloody, they’ve always helped us grow closer. On the way to Stonehenge one year, Efed and I made a vow to stop coming at one another sideways … and now, three years later, I am happy to report that we’re doing a pretty good job. There are still moments that I want little more than to wring her neck – either because she’s saying something too real and I can’t process, or because she’s being an older sister and I can’t process. Point is, each time we come together, we find a way to see one another in a new light, to appreciate our quirks in a different way, and ultimately to learn to love each other a bit more. She might still roll her suitcase down the street one day, and I might eat Grippos while I’m tired, but we’ll do those things from a different place.

Socha

Wednesday’s Word

Socha –

            The hidden vulnerability of others

            From the Czech, statue

Another fantastic word from our pal Koenig.

It’s so easy to judge oneself, to look critically at all of the reasons why we’re awesome and why we’re not. It’s much harder to recognize that these traits exist in other people as well. Often, I can readily and easily find fault with myself for a litany of reasons. When I realize that these same issues exist in those I hold near and dear, my mind sets to a tizzy. Fronting on fronting is something I do frequently. If I apply enough lipstick over and over, listen to CRE Cru's new track loud enough and look like I don't give a fuck, maybe I really wont. Too bad that never works. I am a woman of emotion, even if I keep it buried deep, and don't show it often. I'm just like everyone else - scared to show I'm vulnerable, that there are squishy places inside of me that keep me scared, up at nights wondering if the choices I'm making are the right ones - or the wrong ones. 
I look to my flock of friends and see success. Happiness. Respectable folk with capital careers who appear that they're happy. That there's nothing that keeps them up at night. That they're stronger than me. It's easy to presume they have it all figured out ... I'm judging them from a distance. Just like when I’m out driving and the middle of the road seems like one small point far off on the horizon, sometimes it’s easy to see others as being just perfect. I realize that’s not the case but it’s hard to remind myself of this on occasion. Maybe this is one of the reasons why it’s easy for me to keep my distance from people – if I don’t get close enough to anyone, then perhaps they will view me as I view them. Shit logic, to be sure, but my logic all the same. 
Residency always reminds me that it's okay to be vulnerable, open, and welcoming. That the world really isn't full of shit humans (well, not all of them) and that there are just as many fantastic ones out there. Closing myself off, keeping resting bitch face on all the time, and not being receptive to the joys that life has to offer doesn't do shit for me. It just makes me a girl with a bitchy face. I think I'd rather be open. It's scarier, sure. But it's honest. 

Growing a Friendship

Tuesday Truth

I missed my Sunday Summary a few days, hungover as I was on words from Residency. It's going to take a few days to process all of the awesomeness that ensued, but suffice it to say that I came out of it more complete and fulfilled than I have been in ages.

Adult friendships are hard to facilitate and even harder to maintain. My time at Residency reminded me just how important and vital these connections can be. I'm eternally grateful that Premo made the trip from Florida to be a post-grad assistant and that we finally got a run in together! (Even though it was on the treadmill, haha!) He and I shared good conversations ranging from rhetoric and theory to laughing at silly shenanigans. Though we keep up over email and text, seeing him in the flesh did me good.

Of equal merit was the time I got to spend with my Annie. It's rare that a person comes along in a life that so inherently gets me. Annie does just that. When we were introduced last May by the illustrious Roy Hoffman, I saw in Annie everything I see in myself, and I knew we were kin. As with Premo, Annie and I have managed to keep up with one another in between residencies.

I knew I was excited to see these two folks, but I didn't realize just what their presence in my life means until I got back to Regent and started thinking about residency. Both of these individuals are beasts in their own rights, and both are stand-up humans. That I can call them friends is pretty fantastic. I hope that I offer them even a small fraction of the light they bring to me.

#spaldinglove #spaldingmfa #annierocks #primopremo

mahogany table

Modi's Monday

mahogany table

        after Flowers, Paul Cezanne

heirloom bureau, fake and paneled

tucked between AC window uint and

pretend bay window gives a show, every Sunday

console of concern, his affection

stands seminole between blank and

mahogany, rich chocolate color aching for

spilled dressings and droplets of

good French wine, in summer

they will die but he brings flowers

anyway blossoms of white and blue

florist paper crinkles in hand as

Gettin' Hooded

Sweet Saturday

Want to know a secret? I’ve never walked at a graduation. Ever.

I have a GED, so that high school event was out. I skipped my undergrad conferral because it didn’t feel like I’d accomplished much. And here I am on the precipice of completing my Master’s degree and guess what? I have to walk. I made a promise to Premo last year that I would walk, even though I don’t see the point. Sure, it’s cool that I’ve made it through this part of life, but I still don’t feel like I’ve done much. Is that weird?

I’m an over-achiever. I like setting my sights so high that I get scared at the thought of completing my goal. In 2013, when I decided a Master’s in Fiction was the next step for me, I remember sitting in my northern lab thinking, “Holy fuck, what am I getting myself into?” and “How am I ever going to do this?” because the mere thought of an advanced degree bristled me.

I guess in some ways, it still bristles me. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to walk. I almost feel like I’m not worthy of the Master’s hood. Truth is, this entire degree has been a lot of fun. Shhh! Am I supposed to think that? It really has been a great exploration into learning about my process and craft as a writer, and it’s given me great insight into how I manage multiple pressing expectations. Admittedly, I know I haven’t given my family and friends enough of my time, but it’s because I’ve been so focused, so narrow minded on producing my best work. Two years has birthed a chapbook, a novel, two short story collections, this blog, and a number of publications. Seems like a lot when I tap it out, but is it really? Mozart was writing full-on symphonies when he was six. I’m fixin’ to turn 33 and well, I guess I won’t complete that thought since comparisons do nothing to advance one’s purpose.

Anyway, the point is that I am going to walk. Saturday at ten to six will find me with the rest of my Spalding class in our very official robes, walking in a very official processional to the front of the room where we’ll sit and listen to snippets of readings from our classmates. We’ll listen to our class representative give a speech which I expect to be hilarious and touching. Look out at the audience while we bend to receive the Master’s hood. Turn our tassels from one side to the other (someone please tell me which side to start on, I have no idea) and generally feel accomplished. Ghost and Efed can’t make it since they’ll both be overseas, but that’s okay. I’m walking to honor a promise, to mark to the Universe that I’ve completed this, and that it’s on to the next one.

I’m going to roll after I get hooded (damn I love saying it like that!) instead of staying to celebrate. This entire event is bittersweet to a point. But it’s also really freaking awesome to know I’ll be able to put some new letters behind my name.

Chalk and Spit

Fitness Friday

This about sums up my expectations for life.

There’s something that I get from lifting that I don’t get from anything else. I’ve been considering the reasons for why I’m doing what I do and I find that the deeper I delve into this world of chalk, Oly shoes and spitting on the floor to get good grip, the more my reasons change.

As I’ve written, the beginning of my lifting journey started with the need to eat. Eat to train, not train to eat. It was helpful to keep the momentum going, and I could see discernible progress pretty much immediately. When we were younger, Ghost dabbled a bit in boxing. The kid was (and is) fit as shit. I watched as he went from trim to beasty in a short span of time, and always wondered two things. Firstly, I wondered what drove him, and secondly, if it was something I could do too. Back then, I was running and not much else … I hadn’t even discovered my love of yoga and the passion that ignited in me. Ghost bricked up so fast, and it was amazing to see how his self-confidence changed just as quickly.

I think men and women likely lift for different reasons. The root, of course, is to be healthy. But the nibbles of real truth – the actual reasons that we push weights are probably on opposite ends of the spectrum. My theory is (with Ghost, at least) that he started lifting and boxing to ensure that he was capable of defending himself. Living in ghettos and frequently being the only white dude undoubtedly put a bit of pressure on him to develop and maintain a level of strength and fitness. Most meat head stories are just the same.

Women are different, or at least I think we are. I see cardio bunnies on stair steppers and the mills running and running, trying to achieve some level of leanness that is showcased so often in the media. They run or step, dripping sweat and expending calories, all trying to achieve a level of thinness that they think men want to see. I don’t know that these women are even happy doing what they do, but they keep at it because social pressures suggest they should.

I lift because I want to know I can. I don’t even know if that makes sense … but every time I step into the gym, I put myself in the mindset that I’m there to fuck shit up. To push myself as far as I can, to dig as deeply into personal resolve and extend beyond what I think I can do. I wrote last week about knowing that I’ve gained mass over the last six months and the struggles that I have with seeing something different in the mirror. It’s a mind fuck for sure, but I’m to the point that I’d rather lift heavy and be a few pounds thicker because that means I’m stronger, more capable and further on my way to being a beast than being thin and rejoining the ranks of the cardio bunnies. No offense, bunnies, but I like having a booty. And I’m on my way to liking food. Food is good.