The Mistakes We Made

Today, we celebrate the art of public declarations.

Sometimes, just saying what you're going to do is all it takes to actually do it.

I don't know who is going to publish it. I don't know if I will self-print 50 copies and sell them out of the back of my RAV4 in Safeway parking lots.

These details do not matter right now.

What matters is I love this project. What matters is I am embracing the idea, and making the commitment to see it through and finish the collection.

Because what I do know is this: I. Am. A. Writer. And this is happening. 

I'm not writing this book to fill a spot in some publisher's marketing program, or a line on a P&L statement. And I'm not writing this book to become a household name...though I certainly wouldn't kick that outcome out of bed, should it happen.

This month marks 10 years since my first book came out, and 8 years since my second book hit the shelves.

And now it's time for my third, but this time, I am writing for one simple, true reason: I have stories to tell. And I think I'm pretty good at telling them. And maybe you will want read some of them, or even all of them, and find something worthwhile in my words.

I hope you'll come along for the ride. 

More Than Words

Like millions, I was saddened to wake up to the news of Maya Angelou's passing this week. A beautiful, profound life so well lived, and so robust with wise words. As a writer, this one of course speaks to my soul:

In terms of overall life, though, this is the one I anchor most to - and oddly enough, just shared through my own social channels less than a month ago:

I'll only know so much about how I truly made or make people feel while I'm still a part of this earth, because this is dependent on people telling or showing me this. I can and have made assumptions about how I impacted feelings, be it a stranger I never spoke a word to, and never saw again, or something who has been a staple in my life for decades or more.

The surest way for me to know is for it to come directly from the source. But do we feel safest to share how people truly made us feel only after they're gone, and unable to do anything with this information? 

That said, I also know is I can make choices that will likely lead to creating feelings that are more on the positive mark: appreciated, confident, loved. And I can make plenty of other choices in terms of my actions and words that really only have one possible outcome: negative residue, from the fingerprint to the permanent scar variety. 

The more life I live, the more I reflect on my choices past and try to make better choices present and future - to the point that part of my first and only tattoo ever, inked at the beginning of this year, includes an italian phrase that was the closest I could come to the sentiment, "Make good choices."

This is, of course, easier said than done on some days versus others.

But as I move through my days, my intent is pure. That I will make the kind of choices that create feelings of sincere care, concern, protection, inspiration, joy. That my life will be measured not by my last job title, or bank account balance, but rather by how widespread I can leave these kind of marks.

This Is How We Do It...

Sure, I just quoted a Montell Jordan song. But can you blame me? My #Project15 day was filled with two hours of volunteering with the George Middle School Girls Inc. NW group, where we talked about social media (pros and cons) and created new boards for the organization's Pinterest page. And seeing through the commitment to integrate movement, any movement, some movement, any movement into my day by dusting off my cheesy, but does the trick Hip Hop Abs DVDs. And a handwritten, real snail mail letter from my Nana (or Nina, as every other grandkid refers to her as, except me). And a lovely, if late in the evening, homemade salad for dinner.

What's not to love? 

Back in the Saddle

I've been mapping out my #Project15 goals on a weekly basis, in pencil, and when I achieve the daily goals - be it a wellness mission or a creative one - I go over the pencil in permanent marker as a visual reminder of the accomplishment. 

This past week has looked a bit... different in terms of my tracking.

At first glance, this looks like a loss. Complete and utter failure. Thankfully, a very insightful man (who I happen to be married to) just reminded me that there's actually a significant win here.

And that is this: the best part about getting super sick is how much it makes you appreciate being well. How much it drives your desire for wanting nothing but good health. And clarity. And an appetite. And exercise. God, I'll NEVER bitch about working out again. I will embrace it. Daily. I'm gonna hard core make out with the fact that my body can run, leap, jump, dance. I'm gonna move. Move. Move.  

Traditional meds are great, and I will certainly finish the antibiotics and prescription-strength cough syrup as directed, but I'm adding a strong dose of mind over matter to my routine. I'm evicting sick. Effective immediately. 

So thanks pneumonia. 'Prec the life lesson, you little rascal, you.

Consider yourselves warned, world. I'm officially back - maybe not twice as smart, but definitely twice as strong.

Finding Your Voice

I started losing my voice today. Just my physical one, courtesy of what I won't admit is a chest cold that's leaving me with, at best, a dead-on impersonation of Kathleen Turner circa 1980s.

That's not necessarily a bad thing. 

By 3pm today, I had reached my lowest point of audibility. So I stopped trying to talk, and focused on my work. And listening. Some of the conversations around me made me laugh, and even that, to myself and soundless, hurt to do so.

That's also not necessarily a bad thing.

There are other types of voices, too. Mental. Spiritual. Creative. Physical not with your vocal cords, but with you body. So sorry, Universe: you managed to wrestle one away from me today  - temporarily - but you can't have the others.

Fresh squeezed, post-work juice from Greenleaf followed by quality time with Sonja. Then on to Pound at Pulse PDX (this may have not been my best idea, in hindsight - so sayeth my chest right now).

Cap it off with a twilight walk with my 13-year-old stepdaughter, who is having very real and very valid and very challenging moments that come with the territory. At that age, the last thing you want to hear, "You'll get over it," even though you are 99.7% they will. 

You just. Want. To be heard. 

So I listened. To her voice. Grateful to let it take it's rightful place, and to be a part of it. 

Reset

The gift of fresh, healthy food. The gift of sunshine. The gift of unexpected surprises from thoughtful, new friends.

The power of the reset. 

Fuel

Sometimes, there is just this. And this is enough.

And then at the end of the day, abandoned on the tables leading up to LAX security, you find this, and it says it all. 

This is what reconnection looks like.

The backdrop for a four hour conversation with someone you've known since before you got your first period, but haven't seen in 14 years.

Me, My Selfie, and I

This is not necessarily breaking news, but "Selfie" was named Oxford Dictionary's Word of 2013. I shudder just typing that. The official definition is as follows: "a photograph that one has taken of oneself, typically one taken with a smartphone or webcam and uploaded to a social media website."

This is my attempt at reinventing the definition, or at least trying to evolve it. It starts with a true selfie, captured while sitting in my car, crossing via ferry over to Whidbey Island. I've added a photo of my main view for the weekend, and a snapshot of my writing tools and the treasures I've acquired here, courtesy of the local thrift shop. And for the record? The "Emergency Childbirth" booklet might as well be a Stephen King book as far as I'm concerned.

The intent with this combination was to potentially represent a different type of a "selfie" - visual representations of a true examination of one's self, an attempt to find the courage to dive deeper, and the trust that I'll know what do once I get there, and find what's underneath.

Even when I look at my traditional selfie, the first thing I really see is my mother's distinctive nose. And that is the doorway to a million stories.

It means a lot more to me that the level of my ability to angle my smartphone and add filters to try and make things look just right. 

Just right is boring. Just right is predictable. Just right is a lie.

The Original Tumbler

When a three and a half hour drive, north and alone, turns into five, it's the perfect time to examine all the heavy rocks in your head - the anxious ones, the insulted ones, the angry ones, the fearful ones. Tumble them back and forth. Back and forth. A few more times. And once again. And by the time you hit the ferry to Whidbey Island, your car will be first in line to enter. Your view will be this. And in just 12 minutes or so, you will have reached the other side of the water, and you will realize that your rocks have indeed transformed, and turned into #Project15 gems.