Containing Multitudes

2009-09-21T17:03:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is the autumnal equinox, and Mabon, for the Wiccan. A day of giving thanks and celebrating the bounty of the year. A day for balance and shifting toward winter and 'rest.'

It wouldn't be a proper bounteous thanksgiving without thanks. I have had a blessed year, for all the change and discomfort. I am most thankful for:

* my kids- awesomeness with legs.
* my family and friends- I could not be who I am, and happy who I am, without you. You are the earth that keeps my feet on the ground AND the moon that keeps my eyes lifted upward.
* my job- I get paid to ask questions, learn, and manifest solutions to problems. Nothing better than that.
* the opportunities for growth I've been offered-- and the courage to be crazy enough to take them. For details, see bullets 1-3. :)

Gracias, and blessings for continued fruitfulness and a little rest this winter.

2009-07-07T20:58:00.000-07:00

Tonight’s moon is the Buck moon, when the horns of the young male deer break through. Having very little connection to deer (my power animals eat deer, but that’s about as close as I come), I really couldn’t connect this moon to my life right now. I am female and have been an adult for a while- what do I care about the awkward teenage years of bucks?

The last card I pulled from my tarot deck last night was the Singer of Initiation, the spirit that brings us to the edge of a new phase in life and challenges us to prove we are ready to meet it. As I rolled this reading around, in relation to my current life situation, the buck began to make sense to me.

While I am not physically passing into an adolescent buck phase in my life, I am entering a new form and stage of motherhood that is completely different than anything it’s been for me before. Like the buck, I am not changing who I am, but who I am in relation to the world around me. My responsibilities are bigger, my role is changed, and my life will never be the same, nor as simple.

This new form of motherhood is significant- significantly difficult, significantly risky, and significantly challenging. It is worthy of initiation and test to begin. While I have not chosen this path lightly, the impact of not being ready to meet the challenge, of being held back in a previous form rather than embracing the strength of the new one, could damage or destroy everything I hold dear. These new horns, as I grow and display them, are the proof of my transition from old form to new.

May the goddess walk the sky beside you tonight, whatever your form and where ever your journey takes you. Brightest blessings!

2009-04-24T20:16:00.000-07:00

I touched the beach again- the sand was like warm silk. A pilgrimage of sorts, to a cathedral of sun and moon. I worshiped- wholly and unabashedly in the sun, respectful and reserved in the waves. It was a holy place, a sacred place, and I gave myself completely to it- I allowed the dynamic of male and female power to fill me.

The waves would swell, crest with a kiss of the sun's glitter on the edge, and collapse in a froth- violent and overwhelmed- traveling to the shore propelled by the wave immediately following- the goddess in ecstasy, each orgasm brought to further fruition by the next- BEAUTIFUL.

I was honored and awed to see it, though it was not for me. All of those in worship, knowingly or not, were mere voyeurs to a cosmic love affair between god and goddess.

Blessed be, and embrace the passion of Spring!

2008-12-16T19:59:00.000-08:00

I believe that many of my cycles of change have converged on the last few weeks, and like my 25th birthday, so much of my birthday discomfort comes not from age but expectation. 5 years ago I mourned the milestones I always knew I’d achieve by then but had abandoned not 1 year before; this year, I realized I have ultimately re-embraced those values and shut down again- things are just easier to endure on auto-pilot.

But are we here to merely endure? Does that feed my spirit and continue me along my soul’s path? No. And in the last week I have come to terms with the fact that I once again strayed the course, once again traded my journey for the comfort of others, and ultimately betrayed what I have fought so hard for by handing it over to another.

30 is too young to give up on myself and too old to expect the change to magically come to me while I patiently wait. I own this- I am my own. And the burden for my chicken-shit numbing of life’s intensity I fought so hard to earn back rests solely on my shoulders. I gave it away- no one took it. No one even asked for it. I relegated myself, my exploration, and my needs beneath those of others because they were ‘other’ and therefore more worthy.

Fuck that. I am worth my time and love. I am worth knowing. I am worth the discomfort that comes with ever seeking deeper. I am worth the effort it takes to know me. I am worth the effort it takes to please me. I am worth the effort it takes to BE me.

I renew my quest for self; I seek the physical experiences we are here to explore. Without apology, shame, or retreat. I am going to refill my well and see just where I’ve drifted off to when I wasn’t looking. I am going to be- be bold- be strong- be whole- be happy. When necessary, I’ll be mad. I will do for myself. I will fill my well. I will reacquaint myself with my dreams and desires. I will fill my well. I will embrace my own beauty for me, unabashedly. I will fill my well. I will stand my ground, and see what comes of it. I will fill my well. I will reassess all the cups I fill first out of love or obligation. I will stand tall and fill MY cup, without excuse or permission, and see just how many people fall away because their jobs were returned to them and how many join me on this greater quest of self-expansion, inspired and respectful.

I am a child of the universe; I deserve to respect myself and must honor that greater connection. I will seek to know me, even when it is uncomfortable. ESPECIALLY when it is uncomfortable. I will find and fill my well, and at once see the true landscape around me. Come spring, I will know where exactly I need to point my leaves- and my roots. I will better know all parts of me, and in that expand through them. Blessed be!

2008-12-07T20:27:00.000-08:00

Even Isis grieved; even the strength to defy death does not harden a woman’s heart.

History is full of strength, of men who charge into battle with swords high and emerge from the other side covered with their opponent’s blood, victorious, righteous, and unchanged. This is not the strength of a woman; a woman is not left untouched or calloused by the experiences she triumphs over. She is stronger, but by that she is soft, sensitive, in tune with those around her. This ‘weakness’ is the source of a woman’s strength, not it’s undoing.

A strong woman is not rigid; she is not an impenetrable wall, a fortified citadel for you to triumph within or compare yourself against. A woman’s strength is that of a tree, flexible when needed, mutable and regularly changed, but fixed enough to stand impervious while the fates of men are fought and decided. A woman’s strength is fluid, organic, and does not preclude her from pain. It is not her armor or her weapon- it is the quality of her heart.

Challenge or roughly handle a woman’s strength and you will be excluded from it. Value a woman’s strength on the scale used to measure men and she will meet your expectation, hardening her armor and sharpening her sword. But do not be fooled; she has not bought into your values or your war. When her heart tells her it’s time, she will sheath the sword and pull the armor from her delicate skin; she will stretch her roots and branches toward the water and light she needs, and leave you to your field.

Even Isis grieved; but Set never had his throne because of it. A woman’s strength, and will, is driven by her eternally perceptive heart.

2008-11-28T21:04:00.000-08:00

I want:

to know who I am when everything is said and done
my own space
to disagree with someone and be okay with it
to stop censoring myself, especially in my own home
to define myself outside traditional roles
to be happy; to laugh
to be part of something bigger
to know I can succeed on my own
to feel beautiful, inside and out
the ability to just let go
to inspire others
to write things that mean something
to be happy singing
to not be "just" anything
to keep doing things that scare me, and stop being afraid
to just listen
to be in the moment
to keep the TV off
to be thankful for what I have
to know that I can't be everything to everyone- and accept it
to stop waiting for others to make me happy
to make my own decisions; to have an opinion
to be me all the time, in all my permutations
to contradict myself; to contain multitudes
to sit alone in a room and feel complete
to be moved; inspired
to just be
to lose myself in something beautiful

2008-11-14T05:34:00.000-08:00

Last night was the Beaver Moon, when the animals finish gathering their wood stores and disappear underwater and into their hidden lodges for the winter. I’m not the only person for whom water is a metaphor for emotion and dream, and so I think a great deal of this moon revolves around that, and the home that dwells in the center of it (the physical self).

Given that the two nights preceding carried terrible heavy dreams, I believe this impact has only grown with the moon over her last cycle. The beaver’s internal clock begins to fall out of synch in the winter; it is believed that this happens so that there is time for all family members to leave the lodge to eat, but with heat recovery time between, to reduce the chilling impact of their wet return on the pocket of warmth they all depend on for survival (about 60 degrees).

Taken one step further, I have spent a great deal of this last month more fully exploring my own emotions, psyche, and spirit, both day and night. I have had to be careful, however, to not bring that experience too heavily on the rest of my family and compromise their comfort. In this cycle, I have realized the full impact of my being away gathering resources, and more so the impact of how I re-enter my family’s lodge. It is not hard to compromise the warmth here and leave us all more vulnerable.

For most of the last cycle, I’ve been learning how I fit into a complicated, subtle, and scared professional environment, and have spent a great deal of time bouncing my thoughts (and by extension, parts of me I am and am not proud of) off new people in my life. I have exposed more of my whole self (not just the professional side) than I would normally, through these conversations, and this has given me pause when I’m alone, exploring those same parts of myself after the fact. I’ve spent a lot of this cycle in my head. And like a dip in an icy pond, it’s been refreshing to turn inward again, but also very uncomfortable at times—especially in my dreams. And given that we have only started winter, I believe there is a lot more time left to spend in those icy waters in the coming months.

Like bears and beavers (and other winter averse animals), it is time to turn inward for a little while, and explore the complexities of a smaller and more intimate inner space.

May the goddess walk the sky beside you, if you share this winter journey. Blessed be!

2008-09-14T21:48:00.000-07:00

Tonight is the harvest moon, and for all the writing on it, I find the symbolism a bit too literal for a jumping off point, and my space a little too dark to feel thankful for the ‘bounty.’

One thing, however, is new to me, and intriguing. Apparently, the amount of daylight lost each day decreases briefly around the harvest moon, slowing ‘time’ and providing not only a brighter bit of moonlight but a little more daylight (relatively speaking) as well.

I don’t know what I’m harvesting right now, but it’s truly painful. And the extra ‘time’ provided to do so feels almost mocking. It feels like all the things I’m waiting for (a visit to my ocean, a break from the kids, news on a new job, a lightening of spirit, even my cycle) are all delayed, with time stretching longer than usual and making things unbearable.

Tonight’s meditation has brought a little insight, however, for better or for worse. Part of the harvest is the moving indoors- - with the last bounty pulled from the fields, there is the trading of gardens and orchards for kitchen and hearth. Historically, this would be the beginning of a time for rest and rejuvenation. And I think this is part I find most distressing, and until now I didn’t know why. I don’t feel at home- at home. I don’t find strength, or rest, or rejuvenation here. I don’t find ‘here’ a place of comfort. I don’t find ‘here’ home at all. In fact, I am often a stranger here, chastised and spent, with needs that aren’t met and generally assumed ignorant or excluded from things. For all my efforts I am without a home.

I’ve written here before about the role my home has played in my peace of mind and sense of well being. I am most sound when I can tidy my mind through order in my space, honoring the internal with external ritual. And I thought I was moving toward resolution, patiently watching for the pieces of my new prayer to present themselves in my new space. But how do you find a prayer for yourself in a place that isn’t yours? I see now that perhaps I squandered the summer with my efforts elsewhere, and am now sowing a disappointing personal harvest as a result - one of my most enduring emotional thorns is now all I’ve gathered from the fields- The last ‘home’ I had is now 1 year passed and 1500 miles away and I fear I will never see feel like that again. We have made family decisions, and I personal sacrifices, that will perpetuate the feeling of ‘otherness’ in my own life. As harvests go, this one is not exactly good for eating over the next 6 months.

Unfortunately, tonight’s moon has offered only questions, no answers. My deepening depression keeps me from reaching out to others, even those who own the space I so much need to reclaim. I am tired of having to ask for myself, my needs, to be recognized. I am tired of every twinge of pain I feel touching back to the move. I am tired of feeling like I’ve given away everything of myself to be here, in a place that does so little for me and makes me feel so small and disconnected. I am tired. And no extra daylight, no brighter moonlight seems to help. I only hope that the next month, and next moon, are a little more forgiving.

2008-06-18T12:54:00.001-07:00

Tonight's moon is the strawberry moon, and a search for its symbolism fittingly revealed little philosophy and a great number of events. Who wants to be inside reading with a moon like this? Action appears to be the theme of this June moon.

The strawberry moon is relatively straight forward, being the time of the strawberry harvest. It is a time of rapid growth and fleeting fruit. Since the last Strawberry moon, I have witnessed the rapid growth of a newborn baby to a toddler full of life, light, and attitude. I have watched a shy and hesitant toddler bloom into an articulate and engaging little boy. I have witnessed Rob grow as a musician, as a husband, and as a father. I have experienced an insane amount of change, transforming and transplanting almost everything in my life. And through all this, I have experienced a challenging stretch of personal growth, finding unknown inner strength, my breaking point, my voice, and a few more steps on the patch toward being a whole person.

Yet all this change seems haphazard, and successful navigation of it outside my control, Like the frenzied growth of a strawberry patch. Only by happenstance have I arrived here intact and a better version of Jade.

One source I could find pointed to a Coyote mother as teacher and anchor through the Strawberry moon's time of change, and I couldn't help but wonder who my Coyote mother is. In last year's Strawberry moon, it was Nettie. While I waited for Sophia's arrival, a change that already manifested for me and was about to, unbeknownst to all of us, rocket our family into a year of nothing BUT change, Nettie moved me to act. She helped move me to the ocean, to the field, to my kitchen, and to the Goddess. It was in those moments of simple action that I was able to harness and experience the change that swirled around me.

In the ocean, I drew Sophia's name on the beach and let her know that I was ready for her. I conquered my fear of early labor and allowed myself to visit the sea, miles from my midwife. We collected sand and water and said our thanks at the frothy hem of the Goddess's skirt.

In the field I was moved to laugh, to eat, to satisfy and manifest my vision for Sophia's pregnancy. I was moved to embrace my round body's strength and desire and take pleasure in the earth that had grown such a beautiful and healthy baby.

In my kitchen I was moved to capture that fleeting perfection, to find a natural stasis that would allow me access back to that field after the moment had passed. In my kitchen I connected that moment in my life with that of many women before, harvesting the peace and bounty of one time for the unknown to come.

And with Nettie's help, her calm presence and stability with the one thing that scared me most about going into labor, I was able to give myself wholly to the experience of birth, communing with the Goddess and finding that well of strength it took to move Sophia into this world.

So I take that lesson of action in this Strawberry moon and wonder where it will manifest. So many changes have found us in the last year, and I know there are more waiting for us. Dylan has an incredible big year ahead, with a world around him expanding at a pace none of us can fully comprehend. Sophia has ahead of her the patch Dylan took last year, but filtered through her wind-in-the-face personality. For me, I don't know. For now I'm just tending my home, my family and my garden, enjoying the moment of summer bounty.

2008-06-03T15:11:00.000-07:00

Last week we had a heck of a wind storm, and when I got up in the morning I noticed that the makeshift gate for the chicken coop had blown down. The girls, obviously pleased by this, were scratching around the yard, looking for some tender 6am bugs. (early bird, you know....)

Already dressed for work, I stepped into the backyard and rounded up the ladies, careful to keep the hem of my slacks out of the garden dirt. With the girls secured back in their run, I returned to the kitchen to finish getting my coffee.

While I puttered around the kitchen, I thought about how silly a pre-work chore chicken catching is, and just how much I like our "farm" chores around the yard. There is something very right about caring for the animals and plants as the sun rises, slow and intentional sustaining of the things that sustain us. I wandered through my thoughts for a bit, and found myself slowing down and enjoying my morning routine. Which is quite an impressive thing at quarter of 6 on a Wednesday.

It kind of made me sad- first, for the speed that the rest of my day would take once I left my kitchen and started toward work; second, for the years I was in such a hurry to get somewhere or be someone that I would have been irritated, not amused, by such a humble morning space. It's odd, really, how fast we expect life to move, and how much we feel we don't have time to do simple things. How much time would it take before we had time to spare?

We have microwaves, dishwashers, clothes dryers, and robot vaccum cleaners, tools to do things faster and unsupervised, to remove ourselves from the mundane- to free us to other things. But what other things, though? What are we doing with that time?

My morning chasing chickens, my afternoons hanging laundry, and our evenings tending the garden remind me that the mundane is not something to categorically avoid. The mundane, when embraced, is often the only part of my day that replenishes my perspective, connecting me to the people and world around me. Sometimes, in this mean and hurried world, shooing chickens back into their house is just what I need to move everything else into its place.

2008-03-20T21:17:00.000-07:00

The equinox is a time of balance, with the scales tipping tomorrow toward light, growth, and activity. We see the sprouts of what incubated dormant all winter, and we have the planning and promise of summer. For me, the balance between these two seasons is a turning point.

The things we planted last fall were rushed and haphazard, like a dropped box of mixed seeds. I don't yet know what we planted, or where, and I don't know how these things will fit into who I am or where I am going. It's still to early to tell, and there is some thinning that will be required.

Summer, however, carries the promise of planning and planting, of intention. We are to a point in the year, in our life, that we must conscientiously decide what seeds to plant in our garden, in our children, and in ourselves. While cause and effect are ever present forces, we are in the position to decide our causes. To live intentionally, conscientiously; to manifest growth, joy, and beauty.

Blessed be!

2008-03-10T11:35:00.001-07:00

All of us, even those who are not attached to any formal religion, have need of that which silent prayer satisfies. It is the need of gathering one's inner resources. –Felix Frankfurter

I used to pray. Not the kneel by the bed with hands folded kind of prayer- more the silent gathering of resources. I had my ritual. Every morning once the sun rose, I would open all the curtains (and windows, if it was warm enough). Top to bottom, front to back, starting near my alter, I'd welcome the morning sunshine into our home. I'd get my cup of coffee and ring my great chimes, which hung in the living room. Once counter clockwise, to clear our space, then once clockwise to bless it. I'd stand near the storm door if it was warm, drinking in some beautiful (summer) Oregon sun and fresh air, then I'd go on with my day. It wasn't much, but it centered me.

When things got too harried in the house, I'd smudge before everyone came home. Cedar counterclockwise, sweet grass clockwise, chimes to carry the intention to all the spaces I might have missed. This was my home-grown silent prayer.

I haven't prayed in 7 months. My alter, chimes, and herbs were in a box for 6 of them. Now my chimes are hung, but instead of being centered in our house, they hang on the edge in the sunroom. Their music no longer touches every room. My alter is still packed somewhere with knick knacks. My herbs are buried under orphaned remnants of hurried packing. My prayer was an organic part of my day, the space we lived in, the way I worked. I needed an external ritual for my inner space, and now that we've moved, my prayer is gone too. I start over.

This space will not accommodate that prayer because it didn't grow here. This rediscovery process will just be part of re-planting my roots. What grounds me here must grow here, and become entwined in this new space. My new prayer will be born of time and space- it will meet needs I didn't have in Oregon, and abandon those that did not move with us. It will be a natural extension of my old prayer, connecting these two places, but be unique to here and now, moving beyond that place and supporting me as I move beyond the person I was there. I just have to be patient and wait for it to grow.

2007-12-23T21:51:00.000-08:00

Last Night's moon was the Long Night moon, and we celebrated it in a snowy mountain, glowing pale blue by the full moon, sharing light and food with my brother and his family for yule.

It was this, the lighting of candles and feeding an adult relationship with my brother that made me think of Long Night as a dark and cold night, full of fear and discomfort, waiting for the light to return. And indeed, things do look terribly dark right now. Our house in Oregon has been on the market for almost 4 months now, and it could be as long or longer before it sells. I fear overstaying our welcome with my in-laws, and already feel vividly the strain of not having our own space. Work is not what it should be, and I am not the person for the job, or environment, that I have. But I am the provider now, and a job hop doesn't seem like a good idea right now. Strain with my mother and terribly profound grieving for Oregon, where I found my peace, strength, and center, round out a deep deep depression. Indeed, things have never been so dark for me.

So I keep wondering when the trend will turn, when the sun will return and I can feel warm joy again. I thought first that this is what Long Night moon means to me right now. And while it's hopeful of a new turn next month, it's still a dark space to dwell in.

As I researched this moon, however, I found a more hopeful interpretation.

Long Night moon would be the time, in more rural communities, of rest and waiting. Today, of course, there is as much or more work this time of year and no natural lull when winter falls. The ground slumbers, the fields lay fallow, and men rest, waiting patiently for a spring they cannot rush. The coming year they cannot know. They can only rest themselves for the effort that lies ahead. We must wait and accept the time it takes for the seasons to turn.

And in this thought, I think I have found my answer. I cannot force Spring. And while it is dark and cold and painful now, I must accept and endure it because it is the natural motion of these things. I can merely light my yule candles and wait for the warmth of the sun to return; I can and must rest for Spring, and the back breaking labor that comes with it.

Blessed Be, and bright holiday wishes for whatever you choose to celebrate!

2007-01-03T21:00:00.000-08:00

Today's moon is the Wolf moon, which obvious jokes aside, I don't get a strong sense of. It is supposed to refer to the hungry wolves howling in January- quiet a different image than that of yule's abundance. I guess that's how January feels to a lot of people; they hear their inner stomach grumbles after the abundance and gluttony of the holidays.

I have a different kind of hunger now though; aside from the ravenous pregna-appetite, of course.I feel empty emotionally- my stores are depleted and I have begun to hoard the very last crumbs that lay there. I do not know how to replenish, and like the wolves, lament and fear the possibility of perishing from want. I am going to the coast at the New Moon to do some work releasing the hurt I have had such difficulty moving past- I hope that in the course of that process, I can also get a glimpse into what it would take to feed myself a little as well. Plant a few seeds, if you will, providing myself something nourishing to look forward to in the near future. Blessed be.

2006-08-08T22:15:00.000-07:00

Tonight's moon is the Barley moon, a night to contemplate the cyle of life. Tonight also ends the first full day after confirming our miscarriage. It seems appropriate then that the full moon in all her round mother glory is obviscated by clouds tonight.

We have, in an instant, touched both life and death. While our baby was little more than a growing bit of life, I shared a few weeks with another spirit and that does leave an imprint. I do not believe her spirit is lost. I believe she may choose to return in a more viable vehicle, if that is part of the larger plan-- because of this, I dont grieve as deeply as I expected I would.

My grief is not tempered by a lack of time or the logic that an embroyo is only half a person. I grieve only for the loss of the dreams we shared, as a family. I grieve for the loss of being pregnant and sharing my space with another wonderful human being who has chosen to be our child.

And while this grief is real and whole to me, it is not all consuming. It merely points me to the future when the opportunity and dreams will again be ours to share.

In this, I realize that this is the peace that people's faith provides them in times of crisis. In affirming my beliefs on my journey to an outward faith, I feel that I have connected to that greater strength and that infinite wheel.

This is the first time in my life that I have been comforted fully by my faith rather than suspicious of it, testing it. For the first time, I have found my spiritual center and a place of peace. Blessed Be!

2006-03-15T16:16:00.000-08:00

Today, I think complexity is an unavoidable part of age.

Common, and not so common, events in my life have reopened old emotional scars and resurrected fears I thought I had buried deep enough. But, for once in my life, I feel that the phrase "think before you speak" is just the tip of the iceburg. I think some of what I'm feeling should never be spoken at all.

When we are young, we say what comes to our mind. We do not care what others will think because we have no comprehension that what they think will be any different than what we think. As we get older, we watch what we say, ever cool, for fear that what we let slip will be turned as weapons against us in the terrible war that is modern adolescence. We find ourselves, and open again, convinced that those around us will accept us for who we are.

I don't know what happens next, however, because I'm still stunted and learning how to open. However, I realize that words are very delicate and dangerous things, even if they are never released. And I know that the things I don't say, won't say unless I'm cornered, will color all parts of me, becoming one of those historical experiences that makes me more difficult to understand or anticipate (and probably more difficult to deal with-- we'll see).

It's been one of those days. And the thoughts and feelings that have come of it will only pour into all the other histories, layering into who I am and coloring time going forward.

2006-01-23T13:23:00.000-08:00

It's amazing how far we go, only to return to where we began.

Let Go
(5/5/03)

Run away
and take it back
take back the life you once knew
would be your own

Reclaim your passions
your wild abandon, your wonder
shrug off the mantle you've so eagerly sought
leaden and dark
and run naked in the sun
unencombered and laughing

wrap yourself in wine, the warm glow of infatuation
and chase this flight of fancy
sing the songs you've silenced needlessly

allow yourself to soften
let time move past without care
it was never yours to manage anyway

drift along with pleasure
appreciate, reciprocate
you'll only know it when you stop demanding it
and allow yourself to be moved

It's not as dangerous as you've believed
Let go
and discover who you have this chance to be

2005-12-17T22:41:00.000-08:00

This is how I exorcise my demons. This is how I find my light.

I remember you, but do not miss you. I have defined my success by you for too long- It is time I break my dependence on you for my self-worth. You are not the yardstick I choose to measure my life by. I am building a new yardstick.

I will find my own definition of success. I will seek out what fulfills me to fill in, once and for all, the gaping emotional hole you left me to deal with. I will not longer need your approval, nor feel the need to give you mind out of filial obligation.

I am no more obliged to be your daughter and honor your memory than you felt obligated to be a father.

I am my own to live. I made the right choice one year ago to walk away. My anger has resurfaced and now moves me to act. And to tell you how I really feel. You are gone, and should remain so, regardless of the time of year. For your memory to haunt this season is unacceptable. You are at rest, and my issues with you are dissolved as well.

2005-11-30T21:21:00.000-08:00

My relationship with the dawn has changed over the years, becoming deeper and more meaningful as it has worn on.

When I was in middle school, when my tics were at their peak, I experienced a bout of insomnia that introduced me regularly to the dawn. That is when I fell in love with the crisp sweet summer morning smell you can only find before the sun moves into the sky. Growing up, the dawn was a time of anticipation-- each year at the balloon fiesta dawn was celebrated with the roar of propane and all of our faces, cold and upturned, watching the great ascension.

Before moving to Oregon, I woke up one morning with the dog, pulled a chair to the window, and found some peace in the painful world that was my life. The dawn was crisp, cool, and full of promise. It inspired me to plant a garden-- which later inspired me to move my own roots elsewhere.

But the dawn never meant as much to me as it did the day Dylan was born. As the sun came up over the marshlands outside my birth room window, which I could see out of while in the birthing tub, I pushed him into the world. For all the archetypes of dawn as birth, it was truly a symbol of such.

The birth of my son, my birth as a mother, and the birth of us as a family, all took place that morning bathed in the soft light of an Oregon Spring dawn. The rising sun gave me strength and a constant reminder that we were almost there.

Dylan was born at the dawn of day at the dawn of Spring- bringing with him opportunities for rebirth and a dawn of awareness, of intentionally living.

While in the San Juan islands for our 1-year anniversary, Dylan woke me at dawn to eat and while he nursed I drank in the beauty of morning in the harbor. With my boys in bed sleeping and the sun gently lighting the water and our room, I watched the world wake up in a crispness and my greatest gifts sleep side by side. I felt at peace.

Someone said that we are closest to spirit at dawn and dusk, and I believe it. I have never felt closer to God than in the quiet moments when the sun pulls itself over the horizon. There is a stillness there, like a chapel or cathedral, but there is also a more organic wildness that man has never been able to capture or reproduce. It is a goddess perhaps-- still and quiet but full with life, with hope.

2005-02-08T22:14:00.000-08:00

I'm boring these days. No, you read that right-- not bored; boring. Just about everything I do, read, or talk about revolves around work or the baby. These two subjects, so mundane, consume me, leaving me just a shell of a person worth spending time with. I wonder at what point I won't even want to talk to myself. When I'll tell myself how much I appreciate me and then quickly slip away downstairs where the more interesting people in my life hang out, desperate to spend as little time with myself as possible, glazing over and waiting for my voice to stop. I am boring.

I think Rob likes to have me around but not so much spend time with me. The difference is subtle, but the effect profound. Kind of like a dining room table-- wen you don't have one, you can't imagine how you'll live civily without it. Once you have one, you can go a week without using it and longer without giving it a second thought. Right now, I'm a boring dining room table and Jeff and Morgan are an XBOX and plasma TV. Not as much a household standard but a hell of a lot more interesting.

2005-01-03T22:24:00.000-08:00

I remember grilled velveta and onion sandwiches, fried on the stove top in real butter with a cold beer. I remember tasting my first northwest beer, a Redhook, and searching out the last cases of Winterhook in Albuquerque, around February-- and celebrating when we found one in March. I remember Kyndal waiting while I said my goodbyes so he could chase my car as it passed by his yard. I remember too many dinners at Ortegas, the Range, or whatever restaurant had taken and held your fancy at any given time. I remember birthday dinners with Grandma. I remember massage appointments that lasted hours past their end time, well into the night. I remember Harry Nilsson tapes and Monty Python "Best of" sketches. I remember journeying with you and you being very shaken up by what you saw. I remember the first time I saw you have a seizure, at home in the front yard; and the second, out to dinner for my birthday. I remember how you devoured your dinner while I stared at mine, unable to relocated my appetite. I remember the first thing in my first apartment fridge was a celebratory bottle of Cold Duck. I remember the first time someone (almost) asked you red or green after you moved back. I remember how angry you were when the mayor had all deadbeat dad's drivers licenses taken away. I remember disowning you by changing my name. I remember trying to get you to the bathroom when you were in the hospital and feeling completely inept. I remember Steven from admitting visiting about your hospital bill. I remember being your hospital bill. I remember Bubsy and the Natural History Museum. I remember my first birthday after I moved to Oregon. I remember how you didn't call, and how much I needed you to. I remember you talking to mom the night that Haley's comet passed, on the phone. I remember asking to live with you when things with mom got so bad. I remember how hurt you seemed when I told you I was leaving Dave and moving to Oregon. I remember how painful it was to have to decide whether to invite you to the wedding. I remember feeling relieved when no one thought I was a bad person for not doing so. I remember the night you died; I remember feeling it happen even 1500 miles away. I felt you say goodbye to the unborn grandson you'd never meet.

2004-12-09T11:09:00.000-08:00

The few stubborn leaves
clinging to their branches
bright like Christmas lights
against the gray winter sky

The others mixed with water
and painting the sidewalk
in an autumn gloss

2004-07-11T01:00:00.000-07:00

I spent a lot of time in the garden this morning. I like my Sunday mornings pulling weeds. Around 8:00 I have the garden to myself, listening to the birds and feeling the dirt underneath my fingernails. I spend my time digging around my head as much as in the dirt, and this week was no exception.

Things have been a little tough lately, and I feel at a loss for how to smooth them over. I can’t help but compare myself now to the self a year ago- more sex, less stress, more energy. Then, not now. I worry that I’m falling back into old habits and that I haven’t made as much progress as I thought. Those are the dark thoughts.

My garden thoughts are a little different- more dewy, more forgiving. I have been working hard to understand how I handle stress, and how unforgiving my libido can be. I realize now that I struggle more with depression than I thought I did- I have my big seasonal cycle, but I also have little spots here and there that sneak up on me. My energy levels are way down—I set aside the evening and night to do things that are meaningful to me (write, photos, time with Rob) to free up my days and let me get done what I need to (work, groceries, cleaning, etc.), but by the time MY time rolls around, all I want to do is sleep. I know I’m not trying to do too much during the busy times—my old self would be mortified at how little I accomplish these days— and I just don’t know how to solve it. I’m practically immune to coffee and sugar doesn’t jive with the needed weight loss.

I’m terrified because this is one of the few things that can’t just be fixed by changing my schedule, my job, my habits. At least I don’t think- and that seems to be the most terrifying part. I can’t say I know anyone who successfully manages their depression- I’m a bit without a resource. I’ve toyed with the idea of a therapist, but who’s to say that’ll work? And it’s not like my company is paying for it. What if Freud was wrong? What if talking about it doesn’t do a damn bit of good?

2004-07-06T00:00:00.000-07:00

Maid, mother, crone. The more I explore my fertility and think about having children, the more I feel in touch with my role as a woman.

It feels weird being on the cusp of maid and mother—kind of floating between the roles, a place of expectation and sorrow. I’m afraid to relinquish the role of maid, sad even, to move into this new phase of my life. Scared, too, to leave something so familiar behind. But I can’t help move forward to mother, I feel drawn to it. I want to embrace this time, though, this time of transition- we don’t get too many of those. In the last year, I think I’ve begun to appreciate the instability and uncertainty in life. Transitions are most beautiful in their fleetingness- if Fall lasted forever, where would the crisp fall melancholy come from? And Spring, what beauty would be lost if all the flowers were perfectly poised, eternally ready to split and blossom? The beauty of the moment before is tied to the moment after—without one, you cannot truly have the other. So maid is all the more beautiful for its loss to mother, and mother for its loss to crone.

To Create.

2004-07-05T00:00:00.000-07:00

I want to write, but I know I’m too drunk to do so. Too bad, I feel my tongue loosening, like I may something provocative—at least incendiary. Why is it that writing, what used to be so hard NOT to do, requires a calculated time and space?

I want to be a mother, I think. I’m terrified, and trying desperately to convince myself that it’s not the time. That there are bills to pay and houses to buy and life to live—but the baby bug is strong and hits me when I’m weakest. I want to feel a part of the world around me, a part of nature, of the spring. It’s cruel.

The world around me is ripe with creation and I am barren by choice. Of course, becoming a mother is a frightening proposition. How easily I loose myself in those around me now—what will it be like when I have kids? As hard as it is for me to make time now, even for the gym, which is arguably to get me in shape for child bearing, how hard will it be for me to find time once I’ve become a mother? I’m terrified. What if I become the Jade I was back home? Totally concerned with others while I fade away, wilting inside myself, screaming silently?

2004-06-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

I feel nervous putting pen to paper—I have unreasonably high expectations for whatever comes of it. It feels good, though—refreshing and full of promise. Like I could get good at it again. Well, as good as any teenager with a squeaky clean idealistic world view could possibly have been.

And maybe that’s the point—I have more to think about now, and hopefully more to say. I have been afraid to mine my recent experiences in case I came across something I couldn’t handle, but now I worry that the memories have faded too much. I want to write about the storm, but so many details are already lost. Burden or blessing- I guess we’ll never know. Such a vivid moment—and me, too sleepy to stare, wide-eyed, and commit it to the depths of memory. I kept the memory to myself for a while—selfish but beautiful and entirely mine. Even Dave didn’t see the moment I saw—he was too busy being a part of it.

2004-03-31T08:35:00.000-08:00

So I'm driving to work the other day and when I get out of my car to walk inside, I accidentally breathed in the purest scent of heaven I've ever smelled. Well, I was pretty darn surprised to find heaven just laying around in the middle of Salem, but I suppose heaven can be anywhere it darn well wishes to be, can't it?

Of course, I should have been MORE surprised that I was smelling anything at all. Because it is finally Spring. And I think folks have been keeping a very big secret all these years-- Spring is BEAUTIFUL in the Pacific NW.

That morning, I smelled the damp warmth that comes from rich earth soaked with a soft rain. I smelled the blossoms of plum trees in two fantastic shades. I smelled the dew on the grass and the warmth of the sun curving around the eastern edge of the earth. That's right-- I smelled the sunshine. Because it's Spring. And I think, with Spring, up here, I finally understand what it is to have bear magic.

2004-02-29T00:00:00.000-08:00

I’m in a strange place between awareness and action. It is a lost place, a lonely place. All the pieces fell disjointed and ill-fitting, as if all my life I will fight the same battles over and over again. I feel trapped between all and nothing. I am sure of nothing, no one—especially myself. Emotional and psychological limbo. Who am I? Who do I really have the capacity to be? Am I fooling myself?

I just about cried at the dinner table tonight— not while eating, but sitting there nonetheless. And I wanted to just let it all go— just sit there weeping into my hands for no reason at all— release. There’s fire behind these eyes, yes, but also water. Cold, salty, pointless water. Not pointless, I guess, but unfocused.I feel like the shell, like the outline of the person I can be. But, for once in my life, I don’t know how I’m going to get there.

2004-02-28T00:00:00.000-08:00

It’s not the rain, or the greenness. It’s not the produce or the difference in sites and stores; It’s the sound of seagulls that most reminds me that I’m not in New Mexico any more. Every once in a while, I’ll hear a flock of seagulls and just feel from head to toe away from the desert. For all the rain and bounty of the summer, we never heard seagulls.

2004-02-24T00:00:00.000-08:00

Eventually memories, good and bad, fade. If you don’t make new ones, I think you fade with them.

2002-08-14T10:26:00.000-07:00

All things hidden will come to light.

I had a nightmare last night. In my dream, I was visiting a small town. Next to my hotel, which consisted of two parallel one-story buildings, there was a strip mall with a new store called Grims. It was darkish-gray inside and cold. No one went into the store, because the employees kept dying in horribly gruesome ways. At one point in my dream, I turned on the TV and a horror film was showing. I switched the channel quickly because I can’t stomach films like that and later found out that it wasn’t a film; I was actually watching one of the Grims employees just before she was slaughtered. I think I was visiting for a wedding, because strange things started happening in the other hotel building and I just kept thinking, “that side of the hotel is dying, but we’re here enjoying a wedding.” After some general drama, nothing out of the ordinary for dreams, I met a man name Benito and he and I walked back to the hotel, talking. Well, kind of talking. He only spoke Chinese, but I could hear and understand his thoughts, so it didn’t really matter what languages we spoke. We noticed that there was a lot of commotion in both hotel buildings now, and we went down to the far room in my building. When we stepped inside, there was blood dripping out of the walls. I ran out, toward my room. As I was running, I looked over to the other building and saw, in one of the rooms, that people had torn out the wall next to a staircase and found hundreds of body parts—heads, arms, legs—of children and teenagers, all still bleeding. I heard someone shout that the owner of the hotel had recently switched to solar power and maybe that had something to do with it (the creepy findings, not the dead bodies). I knew it did. As I approached my room, I became very scared. I looked in the room and saw nothing. My stuff was sitting on the bed and nightstand, close to the door. It was kind of shady and dusty in there, like when you walk into a big old house without pulling back the curtains. I just knew, though, that as soon as I crossed the threshold of the room, something VERY bad was going to happen. Maybe worse than in the other rooms. I called to Benito, and asked him to go in the room with me. He yelled (thought?) back, “I’m not afraid of the room, it’s just the dying.” He wouldn’t come to help me. I started to mentally go through my suitcase to see if there was anything in there that I couldn’t live without, that I couldn’t leave behind. More horrible things were happening in other rooms around me. I began to run, leaving all my stuff behind. Benito called to me, but I yelled that I couldn’t stand it any longer, it would give me nightmares. That’s when I realized I was ALREADY having a nightmare and finally woke up. I didn’t go back to sleep because I didn’t want to go back to that hotel.

I started to think about the dream, laying in bed this morning, and kept coming back to the comment about solar power being used in the hotel. What a weird comment. Why would I throw that in? What do I think of when I hear the words solar power? Light.

All of the bad things; the gruesome slaughter of employees in the back of Grims, the bodies, the blood, the something horrible in my room, hiding in the silence and the calm, all of these things were hidden in some way. Only once light was added were they seen; the light of the television screen, the solar power in the hotel. Perhaps my having to step into my room to reveal the horrible thing inside is an allusion to the Arlo Guthrie quote I sometimes use in my email sig: “You can't have a light without a dark to stick it in.” For me, the quote alludes to the office I work in, so maybe that is more accurately the allusion. Perhaps I need to count my losses and start over, fresh.

I felt sad—could the moral of this horrible night be that light, good things, brings out the evil in the world? How did I come to dreaming such horrible things? Then I remembered that there were many things, not gruesome and evil, that were also exposed to me in the dream. I had been able to know Benito’s thoughts, perhaps the most hidden thing there is. I had understood what every person in the general drama part of the dream was trying to do and wanted from the situation.

Thankfully, I was able to come up with a slightly more reassuring message: All things hidden will come to light. And with so much hidden these days—who I am, who I want to be, where I am going, what makes me happy—I wonder if the dream was a message that things, good and bad alike, will reveal themselves when I bring back the light.

I have been feeling so dark and depressed lately, artificially enthusiastic about who and where I am. Darkness like that breeds dark and nasty things. I have become jaded, reserving my real enthusiasm for people and places that do not threaten it. Perhaps I need to allow the good and bad to touch it and be touched by it, seeing what comes of it all. Natural light, though sometimes overwhelming and revealing very scary things, also exposes all things for what they are. It sure did around the office.

The only part of the dream that doesn’t fit this ironically uplifting theory is that I DIDN’T go into my hotel room because I knew doing so would destroy me. I ran away and was safe. Perhaps this is the greatest warning of the dream? That there are places where light will reveal a great deal, but destroy the light in the process? That there are some things even this light bulb take?

2002-06-28T08:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve been digesting Vegas and still don’t have any more direction than before. Well, I could say that I don’t want to move any farther into the desert. That’s a little more direction, I guess.

The trip wasn’t exactly what I expected it to be. Then again, few things are. I didn’t really get the me-time I needed to reflect on the things I have posted here, and haven’t really had the time since. But Vegas did do one thing for me—inspired me. Don’t laugh.

When I describe my college experience, I usually say, at some point, “I wish I had had the time to take a photography class.” This sums up a great deal of my approach to college, unfortunately. Between work, home, and school, I felt that taking electives that didn’t do anything for my future writing career were extraneous and I never made the time to take them. After helping Dave with his photo class (I was his model and lab assistant), I realized the amazing amount of time that went into the class—time that I didn’t feel that I had. Looking back, it would have been easier to make them time THEN.

My Vegas inspiration is to go back to UNM and take that photo class. Looking at that sentence, I think I may have to do a little explanation.

A lot of people there, in Vegas, are there because it’s their job to be. And a lot of those people have dreams other than performing in the Excaliber dinner show, dealing cards at a blackjack table, or running the hotel front desk. They have dreams that these jobs, in some mundane way, help them seek out and achieve. The difference between them and me is that they know what their dreams are.

For years I thought that writing for a living, any kind of writing, would fulfill a dream for me. I am painfully learning now that some forms of writing fulfill me more than others, and that sometimes writing doesn’t fulfill me at all. I was so focused on the goal (degree, job, etc.) that I forgot to have other dreams. Bigger dreams. The kind that keep you up late at night in a sweat of excitement.

I used to dream of being a writer. I’d stay up all night writing poetry about the mundane little things that happened to me that day. I’d pull the car over to write down a glimmer of a poem or essay because I knew that I would lose it before I got home. I’d write with such fury, as if I lost the minutia of my ideas the whole world would undoubtedly suffer. I was driven by my art and it moved me.

How perverse our dreams can become! What started as an uncontrollable passion for words has been reduced to drudgery, in increments of two weeks and paycheck.

Perhaps I have let Vegas into my heart a little; perhaps I have let the big dreams that Vegas packages and sells so well into my cynical life. A lot of people there are not where they want to be, but they know who they are enough to know what they want. I, on the other hand, have forgotten to keep in touch with me, and no longer know what I like, don’t like, or want to do in my life. So the debate recedes even further. Before I can let a mundane job pay for the life I want to lead or make the life I want to lead my job, I have to know what the life I want to lead is. I have to figure out what I like, what I don’t like, what I want. Only then can I decide what is worth it and what is not.

Going back and making the time to take that photography class is my first step in figuring out who I became when I wasn’t looking.

2002-06-07T10:13:00.000-07:00

Ah, sweet release.

Dave and I talked Tuesday night, about a lot of things. We drew doodles on each other with magic markers. We reminisced about all our fun times. He wrote what he loves most about me on my back, reading it over and over again. I drew him a pair of lederhosen and he made me a sheriff. I’m on the upward curve again. God, I love him.

More after our Vegas trip, where I intend to eat, drink, be married, and relax a little. This world is still an interesting place to spend a lifetime.

There is time and space for everything I wish to do, accomplish, and achieve. My mantra.

2002-06-04T09:13:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since I’ve just cried. I almost did last night at the dinner table (perhaps a subtle hint that my emotions are at the surface, ready to boil over?) I get like this on occasion, almost in a cyclical pattern. I have been feeling rather hard on myself lately, a sure sign I’m on the downward curve. I feel guilty for eating too much, for not exercising enough, for not saving enough, for not being affectionate enough, for not relaxing enough, for not being as close to my family as I could be, for not appreciating Dave as much as I should, for getting mad at the dog, for watching TV, for not spending enough time on me, etc. The list feels infinite.

I started thinking about the sterility of my job this morning, as I was getting ready for work. When I don’t have the time to think about it, I do okay. But when I do get to thinking, I realize how jaded I am about the whole thing. A year ago, I was going to come in to this place, this field, and really make a difference. I was energetic and eager and that had to be worth something, right? I see now that I’ll be much more successful here if I just give up the notion of making changes and improving things here and just learn to be a maintainer. You know, there was a quote that started this whole thing, at least on a cognitive level:

“Look at every path closely and deliberately. Try it as many times as you think necessary. Then ask yourself and yourself alone one question … Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good. If it doesn't it is of no use."

I always imagined myself doing something really important— I guess we all do— something noble and that would make me an honorable place in this world. When I began considering technical writing, I don’t remember questioning the nobility of such a job. I remember going to the Sandia National Labs family day with my now father-in-law and looking at all the amazing and cutting edge experiments going on out there, thinking “there are people who get to write about this amazing stuff every day. Without writers, stuff like this doesn’t get built.” Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t actually say that out loud.

I feel like I’m growing up, and, for once, I don’t want to grow up anymore. I feel like I am losing all the things that make me unique, special, alive; my day-to-day grind lacks humanity. I want to stop growing up, stop being jaded, and start living. I want to run away and try things.

Oh, yeah, here it comes, right on schedule— the guilt for not wanting to be the “responsible one” any more. Ah, the familiarity of it all.

2002-06-02T20:51:00.000-07:00

Dave is grumpy tonight. He's been that way all day.

It's kind of weird when he gets grumpy. Sometimes I wonder if I am the only person who really gets to see it. I'm flattered that he allows me to see all of his emotions, but it really screws with my head.

A few years ago, when Dave and I moved in together, I had a real hard time adjusting to his quiet grumpiness. I was always worrying about what I had done to piss him off, what I needed to apologize for, what I could do to make him laugh and ease the tension. It took me a while before I articulated this dread to him and figured out why I was so weird when he got so quiet.

Growing up, when my stepfather was mad at me or when I did something wrong, he would give me the silent treatment. He expected me to know what I did wrong and to approach him, in all his angry righteousness, to apologize. He would not call me on it or tell me what I had done wrong. I guess he thought that I always messed up on purpose, knowing full well what I was doing. Maybe I was just a dense kid, but it wasn't always that obvious to me. Instead, I learned to just keep him laughing and talking all the time, so I'd know when it was me and not the rest of the world.

As a slowly acquired and obnoxious piece of my personality, I now fear silence.

You'd think after I was able to articulate the source of all this paranoia, it would be resolved. To some degree it is. When Dave's grumpy for short periods of time, I'm not so frantic. But when he's grumpy all day like this, I still get freaked out. It's like I'm 12 again, trying to decipher the clues. Is he mad at me? Is he bored? Tired? Does he know something I don't? The list goes on and on. Once I'm done dissecting my actions and words, I start to look for ways to cheer him up. I offer to take him to a movie. I let him drive the remote control. I make mashed potatoes for dinner. Nothing. Still grumpy. Perplexed and paranoid, I wait it out, watching carefully for the first clue that he's coming out of it. Or that it's really my fault.

Of course, I also worry that he'll start covering it up for me, like he does for so many others, so that I won't be freaked out. That would be the WORST possible outcome— we've worked on this it's-okay-to-be-upset-on-the-outside stuff for too long for me to blow it away with my parent-induced psychosis. So throughout this whole process, I try to acknowledge and accept his grumpiness without being pushy, desperate to pick every corner of his brain for a reason why he's grumpy and for what would fix the whole situation. I try to remember what I felt like last time I was the grump (which is a common occurrence) and how difficult it was for me to articulate my feelings then.

What a head trip I take (and not even a tan to show for it). Thank god it doesn't happen that often. You know, it's much easier to be the grump.

2002-06-02T13:15:00.000-07:00

This is a life experiment.

Growing up, I loved to write. I would keep scratch paper close at hand like a diabetic keeps juice. I knew that inspiration escaped as quickly as it appeared. I knew that I was destined to write for a living. I knew it.

Jump forward about 10 years. Every week day, I drag myself to a small semi-cubie to write "Press the Return key at the 'Edit? (Y/N)' prompt." for 9 hours a day. The pay is good, the work can be challenging, and my boss is awesome. I just wonder, after a year of doing it, is this how I want to work for the rest of my life? The sterility of it all?

In high school I was a prolific writer. Most of it was romantic drivel, but it made me feel special, alive. I knew I was going to be a writer. In college, the more books I read and the more papers I cranked out, the less I wrote for myself. Slowly, week by week, I would ignore more and more of my inspirations despite the abundance of paper scraps to write on. By the time I graduated, I didn't write anymore. Now, I don't even know if I can force myself to write for pleasure again.

Did my life change, or was it my perception of my daily life? Were my day-to-day experiences no longer worth the volumes of poetry that filled box after box in my closet? Are my current life experiences any less beautiful or inspiring?

How could a 3 month fling with a boy in one of my classes be more inspiring that my journey into married life with my husband? How could the pain of being dumped a week before a formal dance warrant more poetic coverage than my loneliness and confusion brought on by recent falling outs with my family? How could the awkwardness of high school life be more worthy than the awkwardness of stepping into an experience-biased industry and defending my naive position in it? How can the loss of a grandmother at the age of 13 be any more devastating than the constant threat of losing a father?

I write things that people don't read, and I do so with a desperate futility. But before I jump ship on my decent, respectable, technical writing job I worked so hard to get and keep, I want to know if I can live, or even thrive, in a sterile work environment. Must I really find a job that fulfills me emotionally and spiritually?

Enter the experiment.

If I can write for myself again, and really enjoy it again, can I keep the sterile job with the great hours and solid pay? Can what I do at home in my free time make up for the 9 hours a day of "Press the Return key" writing? Can I write for a living and hobby simultaneously, without one subsuming the other? Or will it be like college, when I was so tired of the computer/ paper/ pen that all I wanted to do was take a math class for some variety and crash in front of the TV? Even more importantly, will what I write at home be worthy of an audience more willing and enthused than my audience at work?

With that, I welcome you to the Containing Multitudes blog. In case you are wondering, the name comes from Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself." (Who said that English degree would never pay off…?)

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then . . . . I contradict myself;
I am large . . . . I contain multitudes.

More than likely, I will contradict myself. Generally, that is the only skill of mine that I am confident in.