Paw prints on my heart

I'm no stranger to loss. In the last few years of high school and the first few years of college, it felt like I spent more time at funerals than I did at parties, saying goodbye to friends who were gone way too soon. With all the grief I've experienced, never did I expect it to be the loss of a furry, four-legged friend that would be among the hardest with which to cope.

My sweet snuggle bunny, Mimi, came into my life 11 years ago. It was only a matter of months before I couldn't remember what life was like before her.

As she started showing her 17 years of age in the last few months, I was scared of what I knew would eventually come. Just the thought of it caused a separation anxiety of sorts and several bad dreams.

On Friday afternoon, my nightmare came true: Mimi let us know that she was ready to go, and we had to say goodbye to her. That was - surprisingly - the easier part because it was a blessing that we could give her one final gift of love: the gift of peace.

Coming home without her, though, ripped a hole in my heart. The sudden quietness of our apartment is deafening. Her absence is profound; we didn't truly understand how much she was a part of our everyday routines until she no longer was.

There is no meowing when I put ice in my morning water.

No begging to share my milk during breakfast.

There are no longer two eyes peering into the bathroom, waiting for me to get out of the shower.

There is no keeping my spot on the couch warm while I'm at work.

The "welcome home from work" reception is less enthusiastic when there's no flopping in delight at my feet.

This is no longer the scene as I change into my PJs.

Burning the midnight oil is lonelier.

Vacuuming is not nearly as entertaining.

There's no longer competition to sit in my chair.

Or lie in the bed.

My fellow TV buddy is gone.

As is my reading buddy.

And also my "thunder buddy," who was always ready to lend a comforting paw and purr.

Nearly every aspect of my daily life at home is scarred by her absence.

Mimi could have lived another 17 years, and it still wouldn't have been enough time with her. I'd always want to enjoy one more snuggle, hear one more meow, feel the vibration of one more purr. I'm so grateful for the ones I got to share with her for the last third of my life. She brought such joy to us. Her paw prints are forever on my heart.

Letting go of rumination (aka my desire to stop beating dead horses)

image source

Letting Go in 2012

"I swear, you live in your head."
"Cheryl, stop overthinking things."
"You are such a cerebral person, Cheryl."
"You've analyzed this to death, Cher."
"You need to get out of your head."

These are true words spoken by good friends this year, more so in the last couple of months. I've known it to be true, but forcing yourself not to dwell on something is like a kid forcing himself not to fall asleep: the opposite of the desired effect usually results. Yesterday, I received the following article in my inbox from Real Simple: 6 Steps to Stop Overthinking Your Life. I rolled my eyes yet clicked it open and began reading. Reading about people called ruminators. Reading about me.

The strategies given by the article's contributors for overcoming rumination make sense. Shift your focus. I said to myself upon reading that, "I've tried that, but it never works!" Uh, that's because my idea of shifting focus is taking a nap. Perhaps if I tried this strategy the way it was meant to be carried out, I would find a happy side effect of reading more books or writing more. Speaking of writing, I've known this to be a wonderful cure for rumination in the past, and I've even had the inclination to do so recently, but I think I've developed a slight anxiety about putting my feelings in writing - Will my journals really remain private? What will eventually happen to those journals? Will my friend who promised to burn them when I die keep her word? I know that this is a silly paranoia; still it often prevents me from relying on the outlet of writing, so I'm thinking maybe a password-protected file on my computer. And a challenging book that requires all of my attention for total comprehension - maybe a book in Hebrew even. Shifting focus and writing. These are the techniques I'm going to try in 2012 in an attempt to finally let go of - or at least do less - ruminating.

What do you want to let go of in 2012?

The way to my heart...

...is through my stomach. Seriously. Whereas the majority of my family eats to live, I live to eat. If I could eat 24/7, I would - especially restaurant food and takeout. It wasn't always that way. When I was younger, there were very few foods I liked, or at least thought I liked (I was practically double digits before I would even try a slice of pizza... weird, I know). It wasn't until I started eating at friends' houses that I began to try foods I didn't think I'd like because I didn't want to be rude to my friends' parents. Much to my surprise, I found that in reality, there are very few foods I don't like. But at the age of 13, after spending time petting a calf at the zoo and then coming home to lasagna, I stopped eating red meat and pork (though I hadn't pet any pigs, I thought they were just as cute). This coming year would mark my 20th year without these meats. Five years ago, I added gelatin and poultry to the list. Once I found an edible substitute for chicken, it really wasn't hard to maintain a pescetarian lifestyle. Except for that pesky - but delicious - chicken broth. It's amazing how many dishes are cooked with that liquid! Cooking at home, it's easy enough to substitute vegetable stock, but eating out (which we do a lot of around here), I constantly had to ask if the rice, soup, and even refried beans were cooked with it. There were many foods I could not enjoy outside of my own kitchen because of this dietary restriction I had put on myself, but I remained strong in my decision to abstain from consumption of this animal product.

Fast forward to last week. For five years, I had deprived myself of so many favorite foods - Mallomars, gummy bears (the vegan ones don't quite cut it), and my beloved cheddar broccoli soup from Panera - only to discover that a pill I have been taking for the past two years has traces of gelatin in it. I felt like I had been caught accidentally looking on someone else's paper: I didn't mean to cheat, but I did. That night, when we were at a banquet, the waitress informed us that the rice had been made with chicken stock. Guys, the rice looked SO good. It was really the only thing on the plate that I wanted. Could I just pretend I didn't hear that? I thought to myself, pushing the rice around the plate with my fork. And then I remembered the gelatin-laced pills. I haven't been 100% pescetarain this entire time anyway. How important is it that I start now? Do I still hold the same beliefs about consumption that I did five years ago? As I warred with myself, all the time drooling over the rice, I finally came to the decision that a flexitarian, or semi-vegetarian, lifestyle might be a better fit for me these days - and then promptly snarfed my rice as though I were a Survivor contestant.

While I have yet to devour a Chick-Fil-A chicken biscuit or an Arby's French dip (the only meat I've craved in the past five years), I did finally have a bowl of cheddar broccoli soup at Panera today. I felt no guilt, only the sweet satisfaction of my tummy being full with one of my favorite comfort foods.

Blowing with the wind of change

Spring. A season of change, growth, and renewal. As the dogwood trees began to blossom around Columbia a few months ago, the season of change took effect in our household as well (resulting in me channeling my inner David Bowie). Lightening, which had to go and disprove the popular theory, struck the same place twice: only two weeks after celebrating my one-year anniversary at my new job, I found out that I'll again be laid off in what is now less than 11 days. There was a lot of anger, followed by a debilitating amount of worry; but thanks to time, perspective, and an incredibly supportive husband, the cloud has passed, and now I'm embracing the silver lining that has begun to shine.

Perhaps the happiest side effect has been the rediscovery of what I truly love doing: writing curriculum. In the weeks following news of my layoff, I connected with former colleagues who threw a generous amount of freelance writing gigs my way. Less than 10 pages into my first manuscript, I filled the mysterious void that had developed over the past year. Since no full-time opportunities have been offered to me thus far, I've also been lining up some other part-time ventures, making for what will be a varied summer. A mix of writing, teaching, and tutoring will be a fun change from the 9-6 monotony. I'm not sure that I can keep up the renaissance lifestyle forever, but such fantasies prompted Hubby and me to reevaluate our priorities and talk about striving toward possible scenarios that might allow me more work freedom in the future.

Such discussion (along with our door being a target for projectile rocks and a BB gun hole in our car) has led us to another relocation... one exit up. I don't necessarily love the way our decision came about (nor do I love the idea of having to schlep everything again next month), but I think it is ultimately going to be a great move for us. An unexpected bit of excitement born from this change is that we have to downsize our stuff. Usually the thought of purging makes me short of breath, but I am actually looking forward to the freeing feeling of getting rid of those things that have remained in boxes and not missed since moving here last year. With all the craziness that life enjoys throwing, I'm in favor of simplifying it wherever I can.

While there is still an element of uncertainty about the future, I'm giddy at the thought of starting a new chapter. Instead of falling down, we're blowing with the wind of change, and I'm confident it's in the right direction.

Unanswered prayers answered

A few months ago, I was really disappointed when our prayers went unanswered. Though I was cryptic at the time, I can now tell you that Hubby had applied for a job in what we thought would be the ideal location for us. It would have taken us back home to FL, closer to friends and family, and would have offered us the type of lifestyle we had become accustomed to living prior to our move here (read: able to find shopping less than an hour away - priorities, people!). But as it became clear that it wasn't meant to be, I made my peace with the thought of living here for another year. Enter Murphy and his law.

The ringing of Hubby's phone disrupted that peace: a call from a college I barely remembered Hubby applying to wanted an interview with him. And so we started the process of uncertainty all over again. Unsure of how I felt about the location, as I had never been there before, we dropped everything to take a test drive of the city. I prayed for my uncertainty to be lifted; I wanted to know definitively that this was the right place for us to be. Within only a few hours, those unanswered prayers from the spring had been answered. Columbia, SC would be our new home.

Hubby is now a professor at

the home of the Fighting Koalas.

Oh yeah, you read that right.

This is where I've been buried for the past few weeks, and as we begin the T-minus three-week countdown (excuse me while I throw up), this is where I'll be: boxed in. Literally.

If I'm able to disentangle myself from the packing tape long enough to wrestle with Blogger, I'll try to check in (Why is it that I always have a ton to say when I have no time to blog? Damn that Murphy!); otherwise, I'll catch up with y'all when I'm on the other side of the Mason-Dixon Line!

Shades of grey*

Since rediscovering my natural hair color in the past year (it's apparently brown, in case you were as curious as I was), I have begun to notice some ahem, highlights.

No, I'm not talking about the red that sometimes makes an appearance after I've been out in the sun. I'm talking about the shades of grey that have taken residence in my nest of curls.

In all honesty, I'm actually okay with this latest change in my appearance. I earned each strand fair and square (several are named after former students), and I see it as a rite of passage of sorts, wearing them like a badge of honor (or battle scars). I admittedly also don't mind looking a tad bit older. While looking young is not necessarily a bad thing, it sometimes has its disadvantages, especially in the professional world.

So the color (or lack thereof) I can welcome with semi-open arms. What I can't handle is the changing texture of said greys. As previously mentioned, I have a nest of curls that sit atop my head. The greys are like the broken springs of a mattress, sticking straight up like corkscrews. This is not okay. Did you hear me greys? Not. Okay. Key word being NOT.

Now understand, I am a master at taming unruly kinks. I've been doing it all my life (when I wasn't burning my hair with chemical straighteners). But there is no cream, spray, or serum powerful enough to tame these grey jerks. And so they stand at attention all over my head, like the screaming banshee.

I might have to take Hubby up on his "gracious" offer to pluck them out for me (if he'd let me pluck his eyebrows in return, we'd totally have a deal), because I'm not exactly sure what this look says, but it's definitely not "older and wiser."


*I stand by the British spelling of "gray." It's my one Anglophilic hangup.

crayons photo by Eliza Cate, image source; screaming banshee image source

Is this thing still on?

I'm coming out of my cave. No, that's nothing like coming out of the closet.

image source

A former colleague once observed that when an outside force causes a major shift in my best laid plans, I sit in a metaphorical corner for a few days and lick my wounds. This time the corner was a cave. And the days turned into weeks. And the wounds were too deep to lick.

I lost my job.

This may not seem significant enough to warrant such a dramatic response, but I quickly learned that losing what's been a large part of my life (and a constant amongst all the life changes), as well as part of my identity, for the past few years needed to be grieved before I could move forward. I hid in my antisocial cave and went through all the stages - denial, anger, bargaining, and depression - and am finally emerging with acceptance, a plan of action, and a desire to reconnect with the outside world.

My one little word "try" means more to me now than when I picked it earlier this year as I try to accept what I cannot change, try to make the best of the situation, and try to remember all I have to be grateful for in my life. Oh yeah, and try to get a new job. ☺

Re: writing

I've had many nice emails, encouraging comments, and follow-up questions about last week's post on making more time to write. Firstly, thank you for all the encouragement.

To get to the heart of the matter, the new schedule is going well so far. Well, the writing part of it at least. I have yet to try the working out part. ☺ In a mere week, I've discovered many things about my writing.

1. As Marla Beck suggests, making writing a habit is key:

In the process, when you write consistently, you're also adding to your manuscript and--if you're working with intention and focus--learning and practicing your craft.

Do your work. Write. By doing so, whether you realize it or not, you inspire others around you to do the same.

-Marla Beck, The Relaxed Writer: Please Write. Now.

Not every writing session is a winner. There are mornings when what I write will more than likely be tossed in the end, but the actual exercise of writing is productive. That's why I don't feel guilty about blogging or spending hours journaling for a scrapbook. Writing, like anything else in life, takes practice. And simply put, writing is writing; it doesn't matter what you write as long as you're doing it.

2. In her classes and books, Stacy Julian explains that scrapbooking is not restricted to making layouts; scrapbooking also includes taking and editing photos, organizing memorabilia, and gathering materials. Much in the same way, writing isn't only manuscripting. It also includes brainstorming, outlining, researching, and in my case, a ridiculous amount of jotting ideas down on sticky notes. Tuesday morning, I ran out of time for "actual" writing, but I made a great amount of progress outlining and clarifying aspects of the plot that, up until that point, had been unclear. To me, that writing session is just as productive as having written ten pages of the story.

3. A chunk of my story is told through flashback, so I found it essential to create a timeline (I'm using xTimeline) to keep the timing of events straight. But what I've found is that I need to stay open-minded and flexible with my plot. Sometimes a character will take over and move the story into a completely different direction than I intended. At first, this freaked me out a little (I have control issues), but I've come to realize that it's not only okay, but also pretty cool.

4. And speaking of flexibility, allowing myself to be flexible with my schedule is a good thing. My morning "me time" is from 6-9. My goal is to spend 2 of those hours somehow engaged in the writing process. How I divvy up that time might change from day-to-day (e.g., one morning I wrote from 6:30-8:30; another morning, I wrote from 6-7 and then took a 30-min break before picking my pen back up), and that's fine. What works one day might not work on another.

5. I'm more productive if I write what strikes my fancy when I put my pen to paper (yes, I said pen to paper; I like the kinesthetic satisfaction of writing the old-fashioned way). With programs like Story Mill and Storyist, I can easily stitch my scenes together in the correct order. (Note: when I'm ready to transfer my writing from my spiral notebook to the computer, I like using distraction-free writing software, such as Write Room [Mac] and Dark Room [PC]. It helps me stay focused [aka off the Internet]). Writing what I want, instead of forcing myself to write "what's next," is a great motivator.

6. Setting small goals works. Using a technique, such as bookending (thanks, Marla!) can help keep me on track if I'm dawdling. (I also use this technique a lot in my day job.) It's amazing how much you can get done in 15-min chunks!

And finally (I promise), I feel like I need to clarify a statement I made in my earlier post:

And even when I do get up early, the time is usually wasted on email and Facebook.

I do not consider my time online to be a waste - far from it, in fact. Working from home, my Twitter and Facebook time is equivalent to talking around the water cooler in an office or catching up in the mail room at a school. Furthermore, my time online has allowed me to both reconnect with old friends and make new friends I otherwise never would have met. What I really meant in my post is that having a social media blackout during my writing time is really the only way I can keep myself honest. If Twitter were running in the background, I'd probably only be writing a fraction of my designated time because I'd be distracted. That's another reason I really like writing with pen and paper: no need to open my computer at all, so staying "unplugged" is easy.

Of course, it was through the Internet that I received all of your correspondence. And through that correspondence, I found out that so many of you write and are also looking for more time to do so. I hope you do. ☺

"Schedule" is not a dirty word

When I was in college, I scheduled literally every minute of my day. Dinner had to be put on the schedule if it was to be eaten. Even breaks were written in my daily planner. As I got older, such detailed schedules began to feel restrictive, and I opted instead for prioritized to-do lists. I've now gotten to a place in terms of life goals where I feel it may be necessary to reintroduce the schedule (insert scary music).

In recent years, I've been collecting writing goals as various ideas have flitted in and out of my head:

• blog (at least I can check off one of these)
• publish a scholarly article
• write a story/novel

Note that my last goal is not a "publish" one. While I would LOVE that and gratefully accept such good fortune, I know that statistics are not in my favor. The reward for me, in any case, is telling an engaging story through the written word. So that is my end goal. It's a goal that I've been working toward off and on (more off than on and thus the reason for this post) for the past few months.

In my previous position at my job, I had extremely flexible hours, giving me an ideal schedule for fitting in personal writing. The "problem" was that I was a full-time writer, and at the end of the day, even though the writing was academic, the last thing I wanted to do was write more. In my current position, I now develop and manage more than I write, but my schedule is no longer flexible. So how to fit in personal writing time, especially without sacrificing my "me time" (e.g., scrapbooking)?

As much as I hate waking up early, I've come to realize that there currently is a lot of wasted time before I have to be "at" work (9:00). And even when I do get up early, the time is usually wasted on email and Facebook. So I'm putting a new plan into action. After waking myself up with a quick exercise routine (something else that should be part of my daily life), I am going to turn the Internet off (repeat: no email, no Facebook, no blogginess... these things can wait until my lunch break or after work) and give myself two solid hours of personal writing time.

It is possible to work full time and fulfill your personal dreams (something I spent years denying to give myself a lousy excuse for not accomplishing my goals); it just takes a little planning.