Another Crazy Dream

Open for any of your interpretations, as always, is a dream I had a couple nights ago that is still causing me pause and ponder.

I am on a vacation with Mark and my side of the family, however this includes my mother's mother who has passed. We are staying at a two-story house that seems very open - no real rooms - and big windows looking out into hills and trees. Someone tells me to wake up everyone because we are headed to dinner - some high priced, fancy place that requires formal attire. When we arrive we have to climb this gigantic rocky hill to get to what looks like a garage. There is a platform on the floor and we are told that this is the elevator and we'll have to go up in two groups. The platform lifts us up to the next floor which is the actual restaurant and a big round dining table is set up for us nearby. I take my seat, but then excuse myself to use the restroom. When I return, some other woman is in my seat and even though I tell her this, she simply scoots her chair over and says I can sit next to her. I have no idea who this woman is, but I immediately despise her. I'm also upset because my husband isn't sitting next to me. He has chosen a seat across the table next to my brothers and is the middle of one of his three-hour stories.

We are alerted by a server that the appetizers are ready. Apparently, it's buffett style even though it's being "served" in courses. I realize that I don't have a plate or silverware. (The bitch that took my seat probably has it!) I flag down someone and ask them to bring another setting. This takes forever and I'm not even able to enjoy the appetizers before the next buffett course is ready. Finally, I get a plate but we are moved to a different table and the floor is uneven. In fact it teeters side to side so that my chin is at table level if the other side doesn't have enough weight. Someone is trying to get all of our attention so we can start singing Happy Birthday, but I've had enough and decide to leave.

I dream that I'm awake in my bed thinking what a stupid dream when I suddenly hear a voice say, "Jump in." I hear it clearly, but I don't see anyone. The name Jenny comes to mind. I don't like this voice and I tell it to go away, but there is a looming presence that I can't seem to shake. I think I'm still dreaming, but when I force myself to wake up, I have only dreamt again that I am awake and I hear the voice again - "Jump in." I ignore the voice and start praying. It goes away and I sleep until morning.

Some Space to Breathe

Exhale...

Finally some time to breathe - not much though. I'm taking a winter session course (thanks to an amazing teacher of mine) and already have my first assignment, but it's doing what I love, or what I seem to be falling in love with...poetry. It's a magical thing, poetry. I'm only beginning to learn how much. The mystery, the surprise, the turns and titles. There is so much to explore and try.

My last semester is spring 2012. I will be graduating in May (finally!) with my BS in English. I plan on continuing my studies in Creative Writing and although I've had a couple poems of mine published, my real goal is to publish a book of poetry. So, all of you writers out there should send me your words of wisdom and advice!

Now the holidays are here and it's been the perfect time to do some personal reflection. I'm in a good spot right now. Life in Mandermania is good. I feel this amazing energy lately - like I can accomplish anything. If you think it might rub off on you, come see me. I'll give you a squeeze.

Wake Up Call

These last few mornings have been especially hard to pull myself out of bed with the dark gloom and rain outside the windows. Still, I managed to get my act together and get to work on time even though I'm still thinking about my cozy bed back home, the freshly washed sheets and blankets and my nice, poofy pillow. When the sheets lose that first-washed scent, I have this wonderful lavender and vanilla linen spray I use - the stuff practically lulls you to sleep.

Anyway, I got into work and started my usual routine: turn on computer, put lunch in fridge, check my hair in the bathroom - actually I pretty much wait until I'm at work to do anything more to my hair than the quick combing I do at home - and then start reading email. Delete, delete, delete, mark as read, etc. Then comes the favorite email of the morning, a "Hello" message from Mom. Today is her and my father's 32nd wedding anniversary, which makes me proud of them and also hopeful that my marriage will be as successful as theirs has been. It also made me think of the reading I just did for my British Literature class. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley argued in the 1800's that women needed more education, which would make them better wifes and mothers, which would make better fathers and children, which would make a better nation as a whole. She argued that in order to make a marriage successful, it can't all be about sex - that eventually the relationship would be sexless and what are you left with? Friendship, of course! But how can you be friends if one of you has no education and cannot hold an intelligent conversation? Interesting, huh? By the way, she also wrote Frankenstein.

Anyway, as I read Mom's email further there was some bad news - actually quite a bit of bad news. Poor health, family drama, things not going well with so and so, and I realized that getting up this morning wasn't such a hard thing after all. I could get up. I could go to a job. I could bring a lunch and read my email and be happy for my parents who are healthy and still married and who I love dearly. So, today is good and tomorrow when my alarm clock starts bleeting at me to get up, I'm not going to grumble. I'm going to thank God that I have another day.

God

Note to my readers: I hemmed and hawed about making this note, because I feel that I shouldn't have to point it out, but I know that some of us are more sensitive than others and may be easily offended. So, before you read this, know that it is entirely farcical and has nothing to do with my personal religious beliefs. It's creative writing! Okay, now go ahead and read. Hope you enjoy it!

God

He has been called so many things. God, Allah, Christ, The Messiah, The Big Man Upstairs. But who is God really? Is he a hard-working man, up at 6 am every morning, ready to toil over mundane human troubles – droughts, wars, sickness? Does he iron his own pants or does he have Peter do it for him? Maybe he doesn’t even wear pants – maybe he lounges around in cloud-printed pajamas all day, chomping on popcorn soaked in butter as he watches his latest manifestation – a magnitude 6 earthquake. This time it’s in San Francisco and as the Golden Gate bridge collapses he elbows Peter exclaiming, “Dude, did you see that?!” which makes Peter spill beer on his lap and reply, “Jesus, Christ!” To which God replies, “Chill out, Pete!” and wipes his greasy fingers on a white silk towel that appears out of thin air.

Actually, God is probably more of a diva. I bet he wears red lipstick and Gucci and has a down-right tantrum if he misses an episode of Sex and The City. He spends his time organizing dinner parties and carefully selecting the next celebrity to join the “Forever 27” club as the guest of honor. Perhaps Kate Bosworth? The menu consists of the finest caviar, succulent lobster, the most tender lamb, and juiciest duck. Yet the driest bread and woodiest wine are served with every course. When asked why, God responds with a confident smile, “Because no matter what you eat at your next meal, you’ll remember me.”

Then again, it’s possible that God actually is a woman. A woman named Tina who tried to reveal her true identity on Oprah but was topped by a seven-year old who could juggle knives while reciting the names of all 50 states in alphabetical order. Maybe if she went on a reality show like Survivor, people would recognize her and make her famous again. She would turn her tribe’s rice into heaps of mac-n-cheese and her rival’s into writhing maggots.

Or, maybe God is just a brittle old man whose tired of hearing the same prayers over and over again - “make me rich, make him love me, show me a sign.” He sits in a rocking chair, but doesn’t rock. His eyes are yellowed and milky. He smells of stale urine and his mouth is full of cobwebs. He stares silently ahead, watching, waiting, and hoping that there really is a God.

 

Coffeehouse Barbie

Coffeehouse Barbie sits quietly in a dark corner of the Pink Tulip Café. She pretends to be deeply engaged in reading the Mattel News and sipping her caramel macchiato, but she’s actually trying to build up her confidence. Tuesday is open mic night and the last time she counted, there were five people in the place – five! Three girls and two guys including the server whose real name was Chris, but everyone called Ziggy because he had a blue zig-zag on his forehead that the evil neighbor kid with the creepy, red kool-aid mustache drew on him with permanent marker last year.

Ken is on the stage right now, droning on and on about his love for Bicentennial Barbie, every line rhyming - A B, A B - love and dove, heart and smart while Bicentennial Barbie slides lower in her seat as if she were melting into a soppy puddle. Of course the rest of us know it’s really because her knees don’t bend like ours. The only thing holding her up is the stiff white netting under her shiny blue ball gown.

Ken finally takes a swift bow and returns to his seat. Now is her chance! Coffeehouse Barbie stands up and makes her majestic march toward the front. Her long, Harry Potter cape swooshes as she bobs by the others. At least I’m dressed in something regal, she thinks. She taps on the mic customarily – testing one, two, three. She starts to recite her poem, “Ode to Quidditch” when someone’s ringtone interrupts loudly with “Girls just wanna have fu-un!” Suddenly Beach Barbie springs up in her sparkly purple bikini, her bleach-blonde ponytail swinging excitedly. “Hey, everybody! Surf’s up!” she shouts. “Midnight beach party at my place!” And with one great “Wa-hoo!” everyone hops out of their places to join the fun.

With a great sigh, Coffeehouse Barbie steps off the stage and heads back to the dark corner of the café. Tuesday nights are always the same after all. Maybe someday she’ll have an opportunity to show them how talented she really is. If only she had free will, she would punch Ken and Beach Barbie right in their cheesy plastic faces. She picks up her purple surfboard leaning in the corner and wishes Ziggy a good night. “See ya tomorrow, Coffee.” “Yup,” she answers. “Tuesday all over again.”

Mandertherapy

Listen up, readers! I have some Mandertherapy for you that I also recently shared with a co-worker of mine. She's easily stressed, frazzled, overwhelmed, whereas I am quite the opposite. It takes a lot to stress me out or run me down. I go with the flow, the mojo, the okay - let's go. So, the lovely lady tells me about a difficult client she is working with and asks for my feedback. I give and she then asks me, "Mander, how do you not worry about something like that?! Doesn't it make you want to pull your hair out?" To which I ask the following questions: Dear friend, is this something you have any control over? (She shakes her head no.) Have you provided said client with all possible options, answers, advice and/or instructions? (She confidently says "yes!") Well then, I say, why in the world would you waste your energy on someone elses problem? Don't you have enough of your own? "Huh!" she replies. "Yes, I do. I guess I never looked at it that way."

You see, friends, if you have no control over something, why spend valuable time and energy on it when it will repay you with nothing? That time and energy can be spent on something much more fulfilling. Even if you spend it on learning from the situation for your own personal gain. Doesn't that make more sense? Let it go and get going!

Inspiration

Tomorrow is the last day of my first week of classes and I must say, I am extremely excited about this semester. I have fantastic instructors who are wonderfully inspiring and I can't wait to really dig in. (I'll remember I said that when mid-term comes around!) Even the class I was expecting to be brutal is interesting because of the professor's teaching style. I seem to go through these cycles of inspiration and then blankness, but I'm hoping I can keep the momentum going.

I feel really good lately. I've been doing a lot of reflection and self-evaluation and although I'm a firm believer that you can never totally achieve happiness - as humans, we always want or desire something more - I   am   happy! I feel motivated and ready to tackle anything. I hesitate to admit that out loud (or in writing rather) only because I'm afraid I'll cast a spotlight on myself for bad luck. Here I am! Come and get me! Everything is going way too smoothly for this to be my life. Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself, but I've set some goals and I plan on reaching them. Wish me luck!

Gravity

Me - I've never been a big fan of gravity. I'm not a grounded girl. I'm not practical. I think with my heart and generally, the world as I see it is much different than the world as you see it. For all I know, my blue is your red and my purple is your green. The thing is, gravity seems to get a lot heavier as you get older. My favorite saying lately seems to be something along the lines of how being an adult is overrated.  I suppose it's one of those lessons that adults always tell you when you're still in high school, a bored, know-it-all teen who can't wait to graduate and get the respect and freedom that he/she thinks is deserved - what do these adults know anyway?! My life is way different than theirs ever was! Ha! Now I hear myself repeating those same lessons to the teenagers I know - "Don't wish away time. Enjoy your high school years. There's plenty of time for all the other stuff."

Working in a college environment seems to magnify the gravity of my life right now. I'm going to school full time this semester - trying to finish my baccalaureate degree that I didn't finish because I wanted to be that adult and get married, get a job, start my "real" life. I may not look as adult as some other adults in classes, and by no means do I think that 30 is old, but geesh! I see these young girls and they look so innocent and perky. Some of them look so panic-stricken about being in a new environment with new people and it reminds me of when I used to get those same flips in my belly. Even roll call was torturous! Now I'm more afraid that I'm going to be looked at as that adult lady in class that is always participating and butt-kissing because she's older and soooo uncool! She doesn't have to worry about what the boys will think of her - she has no idea what it's like!

Ah, yes. My imagination is still thriving. My feet still aren't touching the ground... well, maybe my tip-toes now. Still, I'm fighting gravity until the end - mentally and physically. I'm hoping to grow in my writing and reach new heights. Hopefully, I can lift some of you up with me. Hope you enjoy the ride. :)

Return to the Blog

Oh, blog, how I have neglected you. For quite some time now I've spent my hours absorbed in work or books. It's time to get back to creating my own gripping reads! So, as short as this is, it is still a committment that I mean to make. More time for words and word art. More time for reflection, analyzation, creation and all the other good stuff that comes from writing. It's time to return to the blog!

The Things I Remembered...

The things I remembered, I remembered because of color.
Because of the cinnamon trees and yellow sunlight, because of
black waters hiding unknown things in its depth, because of
the brush strokes that made the paint thick and the cheek blush.

The things I remembered, I sang out loud because I felt lost or
confused, or even in love. Because the chords of the song were
attached to my heart and the way he played the guitar made me cry.
I sang to the corn fields and to the humming of the lawn mower.
I sang to the mourning dove outside my window.

The things I remembered, I painted on my bedroom walls. The words
from a song that shaped my life, the images of things that sparked
emotion - stars, angels, flowery shapes all in gold acrylic. Because of
the path my life was leading, and the path that lay ahead.

The things I remembered, I remember still. In times when my faith is
challenged and in times when my ambition is unfaltering. I remember them
in my actions and in these words. Because they are unforgettable, because
they are my story. Because my story is not yet finished.

Sarah Skeen Photography

I have always appreciated excellent photography, but was recently inspired specifically by Sarah Skeen's photography to create my first slideshow of her work put to music. Sarah has a keen eye for intricate detail in everything from the new fronds of spring ferns to the fragility of a fading animal fragment. She captures images that evoke a variety of emotions, while maintaining a clear and carefully planned frame. I'd like to share this with you, but also encourage you to check out her Etsy shop at http://www.etsy.com/shop/sarahskeenphotos.

Enjoy...

Strange Dreams

I am usually pretty good at decifering the meaning of my dreams when I remember them, but I have had two in the last week that I can't put my finger on unless they are just a culmination of the books I've been reading and other media my eyes and ears have absorbed. Maybe you can help me out.

The first dream started inside a house I did not recognize. I must have been sitting on the floor or a very low couch because the big picture window to my right seemed above my head, yet I could still see out of it. There were pine trees and sky, nothing else and it seemed like a gray, dreary day. (I suppose I could connect that with the gloomy weather we've had lately.) The inside of the room was dark and the only other person I "sensed" being there was my father. He was also to the right of me, but I never saw or looked at him. It was quiet in the room and I felt like we were waiting for something. Then, I looked out the window again and there was an owl perched on the branch of the closest pine. He was huge and had very prominent brown feathers with a bright red breast. He looked right back at us while he perched. I pointed him out to my father, "Look at the owl!" as another one flew in and purched on a pine farther away. The owl closer to us started to fly away, but hovered at the top of the pine just like a humming bird. I could even see the buzzing, flittering action like a humming birds tail. That was it. The End

The second dream began inside a huge, old theater. The kind that should actually be spelled theatre because it has those antique, ornate, dark carved walls, with ceilings as tall as the sky and long velvet drapes hanging everywhere. I was seated on the right of the room, waiting for something to begin, although I have no idea what, when all of a sudden the lights went out. Everything was pitch black with only hazy light streaming in from some high (there's the high windows again) arched windows behind and to the left of me. All of a sudden, amongst whispering (nobody seemed to be making much noise) there was the rumbling of a train in the distance and then growing louder until it whizzed by those windows and finally made that peeling sound of metal grinding against metal as it stopped. That's when people started to worry. Everyone near me started talking about "the Hands, not the Hands," some of them even trying to crawl under seats and hide. Not me! I got out of there. Next thing I know, I'm in a dark, wet, street running away - the typical dark street and sidewalk you would see in some horror movie.

I guess I must have escaped and made it home because the next thing I know, it's the morning after and I'm sitting and talking to a guy who apparently knows how to ward of these "Hands" and protect myself. He showed me a garment that had some sort of talisman weaved into it, then he showed me something that caught my interest even more - jewelry. Each ring or bracelet was different. Intricate designs decorated each piece, carvings, crosses, some pieces had metal that was completely twisted into the most graceful shape that perfectly wrapped around your finger. He slipped one on his finger and said, "Here's how it works. When a Hand is near you, you must bind their arms in front of them and get as close as you can to their face. Then, when you are sure they can't move, you say the word of release. Each piece has a different release word. This particular one is hike." As he said the word, this tiny little creature with legs everywhere creeped out of the ring, searching, crawling up and down his arm and, finding nothing, vanished. I soon found out what that little bug was looking for. A Hand came crashing into the room, lunging for me and I immediately grabbed for another ring sitting on the table next to me. We struggled, and I remember thinking while I fought with him that he was very attractive. Finally pinning his arms, I leaned toward his face, released the grip of my right hand and brought it to his face saying, "Strike!" Another creature appeared from the ring and crawled onto the Hand's face immediately racing toward his forhead where suddenly a small opening was appearing as the Hand was writhing, crying out to let him go. The bug pushed into the opening and it closed up behind it. Then, with less than a small woosh, the Hand disappeared and a new ring pinged to the floor. I picked it up and stared, amazed. The guy that was there with me told me how well I did and that I would be a great fighter. I had similar run-in's with these "Hands" for the rest of the dream until I woke up.

Phew! So, do you think am I totally mad? What does it all mean? Is it just a random creation of my brain or is my subconscious trying to tell me something? I'd love to hear your interpretations. Maybe there are pieces of the dream that mean something and other "fillers" from current events. Maybe I've read one too many fantasy novels. Either way, they both stood out to me enough to question them. I try to write all of my dreams down when I remember them. In fact, my sister-in-law gave me a journal for Christmas two years ago that I use for that purpose. I love journals! But that's another blog...

My First 5K

I'm not talking about money here. My sister-in-law has talked my other sister-in-law and I into preparing to run our first 5K this year. Right now that goal seems impossible. I am not good at running. I've never been interested in running. I like to walk, enjoy the scenery, just get some fresh air. Now, I find myself seeking advice on training to be a better runner. A co-worker has given me challenges to try on the treadmill to build up endurance. It's tough! How many of you out there actually like not being able to breathe? Not me! The first time I tried running on the treadmill, I felt like I had just put on my legs for the first time. It is unnatural to me to be moving on something that is moving. Shouldn't one of us stay still? I suppose when the weather finally breaks, I will be able to run outside, but for now I'm trying to keep track of my progress and push myself to get better.

I've started my training using a half walk/half run method. I walk for two minutes, run for two minutes, alternating between the two at a comfortable speed. My biggest pain so far has been my shins and it turns out that if I run at a slightly higher speed, the pain lessens. From what I've been told, the impact is greater on your shins at a slow jogging speed. It's like stomping in place - not good. I've also been using the ellyptical and recumbent bike for additional cardio exercise. The biggest thing I've learned so far is that rest is just as important as exercise. Your muscles need time to recooperate and actually get stronger when given rest in between workouts.

My next step will be running at more extended intervals, gradually increasing my speed and endurance. It's a whole new experience for me and I'm actually surprised at how good it feels. Not only am I getting much needed exercise, but my body is feeling the other positive effects as well - better breathing, better sleeping, better appetite. I think I like this. Now off for a run...

My Apologies

Dear Readers,

I'm so sorry if you had to see the public bashing one of my dear neighbors decided to post. Apparently I don't live in as nice of a neighborhood as I thought! This comment has been deleted. I will not tolerate negative or personal digs here. If you would like to make a mean-spirited comment, you are more than welcome to email me directly with your complaints. It is inappropriate to make such remarks publicly, especially if you are coward enough to do it anonymously. My apologies to those of you that come here for the right reasons.

Sincerely,

Mander

Country Bumpkin

I miss living out in the country. Being surrounded with nothing but cornfields, wheat, or soybeans. Having a clear view of a sunrise and sunset. I miss the quiet. The country is so serene and wide open. There is no thrum of traffic at night. Instead you hear crickets and katydids, or the belly of a bullfrog croaking. You can see stars for miles without another building jutting out into your view. The deer are comfortable being watched from your picture window while they graze and their baby fawns skitter about. A herron ocassionally decides to perch poolside - a midway stop to the next pond.

Our current residence is in a nice neighborhood. We're just outside of a village in a fairly simple, mature housing track consisting of three connecting roads just under a mile long. The average yard is about half an acre to an acre in size. The properties are divided up, sometimes by nothing more than a row of bushes. Others only by a contrasting shade of green lawn forming a line between the Smiths and the Jones's. Silence in our neighborhood is non-existent. There is always a dog barking, or a lawn mower buzzing, kids playing, cars driving by. There's constant noise and motion. Because it's a mature development, the trees are full grown and lush during the summer. During the fall, the roads are beautiful kaleidescopes of color. For the most part, every house is well-kept, preened and pruned. It really is a nice area... but it's not private. If I stand out my back door and call my dog inside, my voice carries like I'm yelling through a megaphone. I'm paranoid about being naked in my own house because I'm afraid a neighbor or passerby will catch me in a window. Even I can see activity through my neighbors' houses, wether I'm on a walk or getting the mail. In fact, I know that the house across from us has a tv that's always on upstairs - always. In the middle of the night, it's on. How do I know? Because if I get up to pee in the middle of the night, I can see their window through my window on my way to the bathroom, and there's the tv on, flashing through whatever show is on at the time. The other weekend, my husband was peeking through the blinds at the neighbors because a sheriff's car had pulled into their driveway! Of course, then we start speculating as to why the sheriff is there, coming up with all kinds of ridiculous reasons. Like I said, no privacy.

This all has prompted me to start looking for a different home, which causes so many other decisions that have to be made. We've been so lucky to have village electric - CHEAP electric and moving out to a more secluded area means less public amenities, not only electric, but possibly water, sewer, cable even! Oh, for the love of Pete, what will we do without cable?! Nevertheless, my search has begun for a 3+ bedroom, 1 and 1.5+ bath, 2 car attached garage home, complete with master bedroom and bath, fireplace, back deck, updated kitchen and at least two acres of land out in the country. Phew...really, I'm not asking for much. I just want to go back to being a country bumpkin.

Sundays

I think Sundays have always been my favorite day of the week. As a child, it meant heading to church and then Grandma and Grandpa's for an early dinner. Usually all of the Aunts, Uncles, and cousins would be there as well. Besides eating and chatting together, my brothers and I, along with all the cousins would entertain ourselves outside, no matter the weather. If it was winter, we'd skate on the frog pond out back, if it was any other season, we were out splashing in mud puddles, playing house, running away from the boys and the garden snakes they had collected, or pretending to be cheerleaders with branches from a flowering bush (that I can't recall the name of) as pom poms. We were so adventurous and imaginative. If we weren't running around, we were playing cards or a game of Sorry with Great Uncle Jim, my Grandpa's brother who was always excited when he got someone to play with him.

Sundays have changed since then. Both Grandma and Grandpa have passed on to their next life.  My parents are grandparents and I am an Aunt. Still, the day usually includes good food, thanks to my talented husband, much needed relaxation and time with family as often as possible. There's no schedule, no routine. It's just a day to regroup and prepare for another week ahead. It's the one day of the week that I feel absolutely no obligation to do anything. It's a day that brings back fond memories and offers a sense of comfort. It may be the day before starting another busy week, but to me Sundays will always be sacred.

What's your favorite day of the week?

Things to come...

A sudden gust of wind swept through Feena's bedroom, causing not only the homework on the desk in front of her to swish swiftly to the floor, but each of the six glowing candles she had placed around the room to simultaneously extinguish into fingers of smoke. As much as she tried to ignore these repeated occurrences in the past two weeks, they always had the same effect. Her heart was racing and she'd been holding her breath, finally letting her lungs release the panic trapped inside. Not wanting to give in to the twisted path her life was suddenly taking, she ran for the door and slammed it shut behind her. Tugging at her shoulder-length, black hair, she tried to steady her breathing. She knew she wouldn't be able to ignore it. The longer she tried, the worse her head would throb until she was in excruciating pain. Reluctantly, she went back into the room and slowly made her way to the bedside drawer. As she pulled the worn leather journal from the dark, intricate golden scroll work caught what little light shown through the bedroom window. Sighing, she plopped herself on the bed and untied the velvet strings that fastened the journal closed. Her fingers trembled as she pinched the ribbon marking a page and pulled it open. Just as she feared, another new entry appeared. Dated in the past like the previous entries, it began, Thursday, May 9, 1824. Caleb and I have discovered another carving today. I fear that it appears to be even more malevolent than the last.

Friends

Everyone at some time or another needs a friend to talk to. The term "friend" has always bothered me though. It seems too vague a description. I have over 300 "friends" on facebook, but am I in constant contact with all of them? No way! I haven't even seen some of them since high school. Some of them I've never actually met in person, we just became friends because of a common friend.

The definition of "friend" seems to vary depending what resource you use. Some define it as simply an acquaintance, others someone you have an affection for, someone who you know, like and trust, someone who is supportive, etc. Realistically, there are huge ranges or degrees of friendship. Don't the more important friendships deserve a different word then? I think they should. It doesn't seem fair to call a friend that I have not seen in years the same as the friend I see at least twice a week. They are both my friends. Oh, he's just a friend. Hey, friends, how are you all? Ehhh... <squinching> Even adding "best" or "close" friend doesn't seem to do justice. There should be some greater hierarchy.

In Mandermania, "friends" would simply mean anyone who is not an enemy. Even strangers may be friends if they have no opposition to one another. Perhaps they would be referred to as something as simple as "fa." They're just fa, someone you know, but not well. Then you would have those that you connect and interact with more closely - the friends you check in on and care about, know more personally. Those would be called "fa-la." Last but not least, you would have those rare friends you trust completely and have a true affection for. Their the friends you consider part of your family. Those, of course, would be fa-la-las, as in, "Oh, yes! We're fa-la-las!" and the person asking would say, "Wow! They must really be a great friend because you practically sang a song when I asked about them!" =)

Writing, writing, writing...

The most common advice I've been given to become a good writer is to write something every day. It's one of the reasons I've started this blog. The challenging part becomes what to write about. I'm interested in creative writing, so naturally I'd like to write something that is unique every day or find a different way to describe something that seems very normal. Have you noticed that good creative writers do not write the way we speak? They use descriptive language, they try to avoid cliches, they incorporate as much of the senses as you can so you can "see" what they're writing about. It's much harder than you think - try it. Grab a scenic picture from a magazine (or just one you have handy) and write down the best description you can about it and then put the picture away. Have someone read your description and roughly sketch it on a piece of paper. (Forget about the art skills - they just need to draw a rough idea.) Compare their sketch with the picture. Was it close? (If you are trying this, do not read on until you've finished!)

Congratulations if you did well. Do you feel like you thought of everything? How about:
The time of year?
What do you hear?
What does it smell like?
What is the temperature like? Is it hot and dry? Humid?

Another great piece of advice I've been given is to take note of details. Not just any details, but distinct, odd, or unique details - details that will capture the reader. This can add so much more believability to your writing. It can also add intrigue and curiosity. Collecting distinct details can even give you an idea for a character. For example, let's say you see someone who seems to stand out in the grocery store because they are wearing silver rings on every finger. That may be a character trait. Or, let's say that you're envying a co-worker's black high heels and to top it all off, the bottom of the heels are bright red. Another great detail! One you may not be able to just conjure up while you're free-writing. How about an intricate drawer knob or door handle, the beaded pull on a lamp, a bruise on an apple that's in the shape of bird, a stranger walking by humming a tune that you haven't heard in ages - they can all contribute to creative writing! The possibilities are endless and we all know how eager we are to share weird sightings and occurrences with friends, so why not write them down! You never know, someday they may be a part of the next best seller.

A Mandermania Addiction

I have an addictive personality. When I really like something, it's hard to stop from indulging. I have always loved reading, but my latest addiction is reading books that are part of a saga or series. (Is there a plural for series? Seri? Serieses?) I suppose the Twilight Saga by Stephenie Meyer really got the ball rolling, but before that was Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes. After Twilight I was hooked on Stieg Larsson's Girl with a Dragon Tattoo, then Richelle Mead's Vampire Academy, and now Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time.

There is always a sense of accomplishment when you finish a book, but when it's really good, don't you find yourself wondering about the characters and wanting to know more? It's why I enjoy reading so much. It leaves so much up to the reader's interpretation. Yes, the speaker gives you descriptions - tall with brown, straight hair and emerald eyes. A dimple in only the left cheek. But, ultimately the reader forms an image of what that translates to. One that can really change the more you find out about the character. Have you ever read a book and then went to see the movie only to be totally disappointed that the love interest looked nothing like you imagined? Or that it left out your favorite line or scene?

I'm hooked on sagas because there's more. I don't just get a taste and then have to give it up. I get to follow along on the next part of the journey, especially in the case of The Wheel of Time since there are 14 books and I'm only on number 4! I get to a part now and just shake my head and think, Light! Perrin, what were you thinking?! It's another world to wonder about and compare to reality. It brings out the "what if's" and "what's to come?" For me, there's the whole other aspect of studying the literature and how the author came up with such a great plot or character. Where in the world did they get their ideas and resources or the names for the fictional things and places? It's amazing! Maybe someday I'll have my own Mandermania series out there for you all to read. Until then, happy reading!

Not Just Any Ditty

I wish I knew how to play an instrument. My grandpa was amazing with music. He could pick up any instrument and play it like he'd been born with it in his hands. My father and brother play guitar and some of my favorite memories are sitting around with my parents and brothers singing together. Music has always been a huge part of my family life. To this day, getting together with my father's side of the family means good food and good music. It doesn't take long for an aunt or cousin, niece or nephew to start begging for a song. The group forms it's semi-circle, ready to clap and sing along. Most of the songs we all know by heart and those we don't still find us making up our own and laughing at the results. The night grows later and we all seem to have a hard time pulling away and acknowledging the inevitable end to such fun. Alas, the players fingers are raw from the strings and their voices come out like croaks instead of trills.

Music is a cure-all for me. No matter what sort of emotion I am feeling, I can always count on music to aid or contribute to my sentiments. It's fuel, a driving force, it's a calming aphrodisiac, it's a lamenting dirge to wallow in, and I love it all. I was actually named after a song. Amanda, by Don Williams, and when my parents sing it to me, my heart swells. Still, my favorite song is the one they wrote together. Naturally, they call it "Our Song" and it goes like this:

Well, I've been sitting here, thinking of you,
and the days to come
And what'll I do when they get here?
And what'll I do if you're not here beside me
To show me the way, and to hold me
And hear you say, it's all right dear,
There's nothing to fear, it's all right dear
You're safe here - by me.


And I'll say, dear, let's get married
And we'll move away from here
Have children to hold to
And children to scold to
When they're bad
We'll be good
And we'll do what we should
To show them our way


When we're old and we're gray
We'll look back and we'll say
Remember the good times
And remember the bad times that we've had
Isn't it sad to go that way?

John E. Kingdollar, 1978

I love you Mom and Papa! xoxo

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My Heart is My Home

At the risk of sounding cliche and mushy, today my husband came back home from traveling all week for work and I was so excited to see him. We have been together for over 15 years and married for 9 this May. I've heard many refer to their significant others as their best friend, but I often wonder just how "friendly" they are toward one another. I can say without any hesitation that my husband and I are often best friends and worst enemies. The reason being that we know each other so well that we can't slide anything past the other. I know the difference between when he is utterly silent because he's happy and when he's biting his tongue because he's furious. He knows that when I say something is "fine" that it is absolutely not fine and I want him to ask me how I really feel. We both hate being apart and prefer to do things together, whether it's something as mundane as grocery shopping to the more exciting vacations and sight-seeing.

He fell asleep on the couch across from me tonight and I watched the comforting rhythm of his chest rising and falling. This is one time that my husband is actually at peace. When he's awake he is always moving. He's a planner, a worry-wart, the one in the relationship that stresses about the little things. So when he sleeps, he looks amazingly different. The clef on his brow that he constantly furrows is soft and smooth. His long eyelashes are any woman's envy. Hi body is relaxed and vulnerable, not all tense and perched forward, anxious. He's truly relaxed.

It's not often I have the opportunity to see him sleep. Being as active as he is, he's not a napper. Myself, on the other hand, I can will a nap whenever I have the spare time. Have you ever watched your other half sleep? I know we've all had the experience of awing over a slumbering baby or a nest of kittens all curled up, but what about your spouse? Something changes when they sleep. What never changes for me is how much I cherish him. He has become a part of who I am and when he's away my home feels empty. He is my heart and today my heart came home.

Summoning Spring

As some of you may know, New York can be notorious for a frozen, thirty degree day followed by a sunny and sixty degree day. Today we were blessed with beautiful sunshine and temperatures in the mid-fifties. Being mid-march, it would be foolish to assume that spring has arrived. Still, the sound of mud sucking at my boot heels on squishy ground and the bright green fronds of crocus and tulips pushing through the thaw always excite me. The air smells different. The colors outside are changing from gray and white to browns and greens, the sure signs of a season resurrected. 

My mother pointed out the forsythia behind their house tonight, "See how there's just the faintest tint of color?" "The pussy willows are showing too," says my father. Just these small observations make me eager for warmer weather. Spring. Newness. Birth. Suddenly I feel this need to prepare, to be ready. Is this why we feel the urge for spring cleaning when the weather breaks? We're like mother birds preparing our nests, discarding the old and preparing for the new. Are we ready? Is it time to plant? Bring out the lawn chairs, the picnic tables, the grill - thank God for hamburgers and how did we manage through winter without potato or macaroni salad?!

The most prominent observation with this particular change of season is the clear and blatant cycle of life. From a frozen, stark, empty earth - one similar to death - springs new life. The cycle begins again, as with everything. Perhaps it's meant to be a reminder. One that is so obvious that we never seem to notice except to start making plans for the next season. This too shall end, my friends. This too shall pass...

Autumn Campfire

A congregation of fiery flames – the only source

of light in this church of starless night.

Smoky incense of cherry and cedar,

embers pulsing red and orange.

Wood cracks and pops, falls into

vanishing heaps of gray ash, erasing

a history, a life, and I wonder about

my own life and ashes.

Ashes scooped up and heaved into

mounds in the brush near old friends – the ash tree,

the willow still whimpering,

the crab apple dipping heavy branches and

offering bright fruit as homage. The silent

morning after bringing blessings of

rain and a small whisper of smoke.

First published November 20, 2010 by Eunoia Review