Ten Seconds Upward

What can you accomplish in ten seconds?

Given ten seconds, I can pour a fresh cup of coffee, complete with cream. Barring unforeseen glitches, I can post a picture to my blog. Most people would be able to locate their keys, wallet, purse, or other essential, leaving-the-house-type effects, but that’s way beyond the scope of my personal capabilities. I’m OK with that, though, because I have some other ten-second skills that trump organization: I can hug a kid, offer a compliment, give a “thank you.” And now, thanks to today’s blogging tip at the SITS blogroll site, in the same amount of time it takes to tie my shoe, I can now efficiently and perhaps even engagingly describe my blog.

Today’s tip explored the “elevator pitch,” which, in a nutshell, is the ability to interestingly and accurately describe your blog in the time equivalent to an average elevator ride, which I conservatively estimate to be about ten seconds. I settled on that time, also, because I figure that’s about 2-3 sentences, which is important for a reason I’ll share in a moment. But I want to take a moment to reel in those of you who may not have a blog and have come to the errant conclusion that this post doesn’t pertain to you. The reason it does? We all have messages we’re passionate about communicating—in fact, most of us have more than one idea, concept, or project we’re hoping to “sell” at any given time. For some of us, it’s a cause. For others, it may be a blog, or perhaps a book. Whatever our passion, the ability to make a concise statement to an inquiry about its nature is key.

Author, speaker, and consultant Sam Horn addressed this topic at a workshop hosted by the writer’s conference I used to coordinate. Horn drove home the idea that every idea we put forth will be accepted or rejected based solely on the 2-3 lines we use to present it. That’s grim news for an author of a 50,000 word manuscript…or perhaps even for the writer of a blog of any length. However, the truth remains: no one wants to listen to a rambling blow-by-blow of all the quirks and nuances of our book, cause, or blog. Your average casual listener wants a concise-yet- captivating recap of the highlights.

So what’s your elevator pitch? Do you have one? When I considered the question this morning, I came to the conclusion that although I had a couple of catch phrases and one liners about my blog, I really didn’t have a 2-3 sentence description of what goes on here at Running With Letters. And, as the readership here seems to be happily on the rise of late, what better time than now to think of one?

I typically struggle with feats of brevity, so I decided to start with something I already knew. In this case, it was the little blog description I already had to the left of my current post. You might say, well, isn’t that your elevator pitch? In this case, not really. It’s just a little literary snapshot of who I am—a pitch is about the “personality” of your “product.”

I then remembered a tidbit from the Sam Horn session (pay attention to this freebie, readers--Horn is charging $27.00 for her "pop your elevator speech" book at her site...why pay that when you can get my rusty--er--distilled and processed memories of her speech for free, right here?) wherein she suggests likening your product to two seemingly unrelated ideas already existing in popular culture. I’ve always thought of Running With Letters as the blog about nothing, a sort of Seinfeld-esque meander through coffee shops and general mundane mayhem. On the other hand, I often wax introspective, posting essay-like pieces in the style of say, early Robert Fulghum, or Anne Lamott. As I haven’t heard too much talk of Fulghum in recent years, aside from the requisite “All I Really need to Know I learned in Kindergarten” poster in elementary classrooms, I went with a Lamott reference.

Fourteen different takes eventually morphed into:

My blog operates at the intersection of Seinfeld and Anne Lamott. It’s a tongue in cheek travelogue of ordinary, underrated streets merged with upbeat commentary about the iffy state of mishap that all of us call home. Think of it as the Life section of the community paper where you REALLY live, and yourself as a valued contributor.

So is this "IT"? Is it THE description of RWL with which I'm going to stick? Maybe. For now. We'll see. In the meantime, I'd love to hear your elevator pitches about your blogs. Or your ideas, concerns, and opinions about writing same. Or even what you think about mine...do I need to keep tweaking it? Do I need to shell out the $27.00 for Sam Horn's book? Talk to me.

Seeing Green

Because my life is a study in contradiction, I’m doing a 180 ̊ turnabout from yesterday’s red and focusing completely today on all things green.

My son came home from school last week with a notification about a field trip to the botanical gardens, and I jumped at the teacher’s request for chaperone volunteers. My eagerness was partially due to the fact that we’re at a new school this year and I’m trying to meet people, but in the interest of full disclosure, I must admit to an additional motive. Looking around my house, I can’t help but notice that there’s a current deficiency in the lush and leafy department. Let me show you the situation:

Here's a Pink Splash that I found in the windowless art closet in my classroom and brought home for rehab:



"Pierce" survived for nearly 8 months after a violent impaling in the dishwasher. I'm not sure how this happened:



After my felines mistook this little guy for a salad bar offering, he was put up on my kitchen hutch for "safety"



This one is enjoying some warm afternoon sun on my front porch step...



...along with a friend:



So today's the day: I'm off to explore the world of healthy plant life. I’m not entirely sure how simply visiting the botanical gardens will help shore up foliage efforts here at the home front, but my current plan is to soak in what I can through osmosis.

Seeing Red

This week, I’m seeing everything red.

Red has been my artistic focus since I discovered that its capture is this week’s photography challenge at I Should Be Folding Laundry.

At its best, red is bold, vibrant and invigorating. At its worst, it’s temperamental. Touchy. Difficult. Sure, red is the color of passion and excitement, but it’s also the color of rage and embarrassment. Like extremes of all kinds, it can be fleeting and elusive—if you doubt this, take a look down the main drag of any random burg and look for the pallid rooftop of the local Pizza Hut. Ditto for all of the once-vibrant bumper stickers tooling around town in incomprehensible shades of sickly pallor.

Metaphorically or artistically, red can be a tough capture, as some of my former art students discovered when we pulled this unintentionally distressed tile from the kiln.

Although we broke it up and worked it into a flag-themed mosaic, it took us multiple firings before we got the rich hue for which we were aiming. Consensus among my artist friends is that red pigments are particularly impertinent, which means, in short, that I had a much better shot at capturing red through a lens than with pigment.










Red is more about moments than permanence. It is to be enjoyed in its immediacy, fresh from the bottle and ripe on the vine. The flower will wilt, the cheap student grade classroom tempra will fade, but their hue remains in images that are nothing more than memories captured by my digital eye.

One Line Wednesday: The Official Debut

While out the other day on my morning run, I witnessed a hammer wielding man giving his right rear tire a hearty lasagna treatment.

Don’t you just want to read on? Aren’t you wondering what, exactly, constitutes a lasagna treatment and what hammers and tires could possibly have to do with Italian food, anyway?

If this were a typical post, I’d have to give a blow by blow of the video I happened to catch sometime last week, in which an intense man pummeled a frozen lasagna nearly beyond recognition. A normal post would, likewise, require a description of the local tool toting gentleman and his teetering tire. Most tediously, an ordinary post would call upon me to tie the two vignettes together with some witty wisdom or insightful observations about life.

But not today. Not on One Line Wednesday. No, on One Line Wednesday, vagueness, brevity, and misdirection are the order of the day. One Line Wednesday is a simple celebration of the single good line. No pressure of further explanation. No need to worry if your words are “going anywhere.” None of the tricky transitions or epic endings one might expect in traditional prose.

Here’s the lowdown: Each week, I’ll get things started with the single best line I’ve managed to craft in the intervening seven days –maybe I’ll include the story behind it, but I likely won’t, what with it being One Line Wednesday, and all. Each week there’ll also be one of those cool Mr. Linky widgits that you see below...yeah, there it is, at the very bottom. Just give it a little click, and we'll hope it works :) That’s where you leave a link to your one line post (if you’re an overachiever, feel free to include the story behind your line, but that’s never necessary). Your line can be about anything, as clear or cryptic as you’d like, and who knows—maybe even be true!

If you have no blog, feel free to participate by just commenting as you would for a normal post. If you do have a blog, however, please mention that you are participating in One Line Wednesday, and add a hyperlink to this post. Feel free, also, to copy the official One Line Wednesday image at the opening of this post to illustrate yours, but that’s optional.

But don’t forget the most important thing—have a little low stress fun with the written word. I can’t wait to see what everyone comes up with!

A Running With Letters News Extra

As promised yesterday, today's post is all about keeping my readers posted. Let's start with a Running With Letters Event Reminder: One Line Wednesday debuts tomorrow! To get the gist of how it'll work, check out last Wednesday's post and get your one-liners all polished up and ready to post! I can't wait to read what my talented, creative readership comes up with!

Our next notable nugget comes in the form of this nice blog award that was passed on to me from Vicki at Frugal Mom Knows Best. Vicki is all about kids and crafts and inexpensive ways to connect the two! Thanks, Vicki, for passing along the virtual accolades!


Some of you have mentioned the increased "traffic" here, and it is exciting to see that there are people out there reading. During my two years in grad school, this blog was an outlet for me to keep writing. I wanted to develop a stronger readership, but lacked the time to to connect with other bloggers and develop online relationships. One of the best parts about my recent rediscovery of my pre-grad school life has been the opportunity to pack my virtual bags and make frequent forays into cyberspace. Along with accepting the above award comes the privilege of passing the honor on to other bloggers. So without further ado, Here's are the links to handful of bloggers who have made me feel welcome in my travels:


The Animator's Wife
Elizabeth@Finding Him Bigger
Lorena@lorenablog
Kirsten@Living in a Girl's World
Jade@Tasting Grace
I Wonder Wye
Holly@504 Main (This one is kind of a cheat, because Holly already received this award a couple days before me...but she's great, and you should totally check her out!)

(For the above named recipients: The rules of the "One Lovely Blog Award" are accept the award, post it on your blog along with the name of the person who has granted the award--in this case, me!-- and his or her blog link. Pass the award along to several other blogs that you’ve newly discovered. Remember to contact the bloggers to let them know they have been chosen for this award.)

Today's final news update is really a no-news item, for those of you who have asked about my husband. There's really nothing new to report. He has to wait another week for an MRI, unless he improves enough in the interim that it's not necessary. So the waiting game continues.

See you all tomorrow for One Line Wednesday!

Rhythm and News

“Those aren’t Joey’s licks,” I thought, frowning in confusion as muffled techno bass line inserted itself into my post-grocery store listening experience.

As I am prone to do of late, I was listening to a Joey Monteleone CD I acquired after hearing his set at a Barlow Girl show my BIL and I attended with a couple of our respective kids in late August. As the CD received mixed reviews in my family, I can only listen to it in the car when I am either alone, or with just my son, which happens frequently enough that I have become pretty familiar with Joey’s sound-- which definitely does not include the jacked up rhythm that instantly upset the prevailing harmony.

Wednesday morning—the day of the fingerprinting, for anyone who happens to be keeping count—I was feeling incredibly positive about my prospects for my life in general and the day in particular. In hindsight, the unfounded optimism should have served as a red flag, but I somehow mistook the signal for an all-systems-go, and was attacking a decidedly lofty to-do list with impressive gusto.

I had the makings not only of a lasagna in my backseat grocery bags, but ingredients for homemade stromboli as well-two, count ‘em, two, pre-planned home cooked meals! I’d already been for a run, completed the fingerprinting and tackled some dusting, sweeping clean corners blackened from gross neglect. To top it all off, I had carved a huge block of writing time aside—practically the whole afternoon, until it was time to pick my son up from school. Life was humming along as smoothly as Joey’s ten tracks until the incongruous chords of a distant dance ditty entered the mix.

What were these tunes and where were they coming from? I asked myself, a split second before I realized that it must be my phone, emitting an unfamiliar ring tone my husband set to identify himself—a great concept, provided the owner of the phone is aware of the ID chime.

My husband doesn’t often call me during the day, so I quickly fumbled through my effects, and by effects, I mean sea of crumpled papers, tubes of chapstick and empty paper coffee cups—to locate my phone.

Me: (muting Joey): Hi, how are you?

Husband (weakly) Bad.

Now, bad wasn’t what I was expecting, but really, for me, bad can mean anything from a spilled latte to locking myself in the attic an hour before work, and for my husband the possibilities range from tedious meeting syndrome to some bad computer code—or a totally messed up knee, which was the brand of bad with which we were/are currently dealing.

The rest of my day was spent at the doctor’s office, the radiologist, and a series of pharmacies trying to fill a prescription for vicodin, a feat more difficult than one might initially expect. When I presented the prescription at my usual pharmacy the clerk asked when I’d like to pick it up. “As soon as it’s ready,” I answered. “How long will it take?”

The clerk gave me a quizzical look. “It’ll be at least tomorrow,” he said, as though I’d asked him to procure eye of newt, wing of bat, and liver of toad boiled under a full moon at midnight.

“OK, well, just give me the prescription back, I’ll go somewhere else.”

“Are you REALLY sure that’s what you want to do?” he asked, in a tone was either incredulous or threatening, I couldn’t tell.

Explaining that the entire purpose of the medication was to help my husband sleep, I told him that I was very confident in my decision to go elsewhere.

Fast forward an hour, and I’m sitting with the yellow pages, trying to find a pharmacy that was both open and willing to dispense the drug in a timely manner, which seemed unlikely, considering that I had to let the phone ring 65 times before one 24-hour joint even picked up, and I logged another half hour sitting on hold. I was beginning to fear that perhaps one too many episodes of House had kicked off some sort of organized anti-vicodin sentiment within the pharmaceutical industry, when I finally heard a friendly voice on the other end of the line who assured me that she could hook me up with the goods. This news couldn’t have hit at a better time, as I’d already taken to facebook, posting mobile alerts like, “trolling city streets trying to score vicodin.”

About three hours after what was to have been lasagna time, my husband was feeding me cold chicken nuggets as I navigated the van to a pharmacy in a neighborhood just on the sunny side of questionable. And we were laughing. Enjoying each other’s company; the day I originally planned long forgotten. Despite a certain level of uncertainty—we don’t know yet if the knee will heal on its own, or require surgery—the go-with-the flow mindset has prevailed in our home. My focus has been on making things both as easy and as normal as possible—I make a special effort to keep a clear path through the house for my husband to navigate on crutches. I try to anticipate items he might need. And we finally did sit down to a home cooked lasagna. In turn, my husband has been appreciative, maintained an optimistic attitude, and has been excellent company. I almost feel guilty that we’re getting along so well.

I say almost, because I already know the positive effect that crisis and interruption often has on daily life. Most people in my community associate a single word with the concept: “Isabel,” a 2003 hurricane that rendered our neighborhood a darkened tangle of branches, beams, and brush. Our street was largely without power for the better part of 10 days, and our family for a full two weeks, sustained in the final days by long extension cords trailing from neighbors’ homes and into windows on the north and south sides of our house. Yards were cleared collectively, people assembled on stoops to exchange stories, news, and supplies. There was a community stew cooked over a barbeque grill and comprised of odds and ends from no less than a dozen kitchens, and seasoned with a kindness that has not been sampled since.

It was an exhausting, scary, and wonderful time. No one would have chosen the circumstances, but everyone remembers the outcome fondly. In the six years that have since passed, it has become common to hear people wistfully recall the spirit of helpfulness, support, and community and wish it could be possible to replicate on an everyday basis.—a goal that has largely eluded us. No one really know why, but I think we could get a lot closer to the ideal were we able to adopt an attitude that embraces what is.

Difficulty forces us into thankfulness, into appreciation for everyday blessings and simple pleasures. Smooth sailing breeds an atmosphere of indifference, a taking-for-granted approach to the people, events, and circumstances that make comfort commonplace.

Of course I want my husband’s knee to heal, for him to be able to return to the lunchtime sport that caused the injury, and to normal, comfortable life. In the meantime, though, I am thankful for the opportunity to think more about him and his needs and enjoying the appreciation he shows to me in return. The pattern has become a sweet rhythm that I hope does not lull us into a new complacency, but rather resonates into a fresh new melody.

Falling for Autumn

Rabbit, rabbit.

My husband typically greets me on the first day of each new month with the above words. He welcomes the kids in the same manner, unless one of them beats him to it, which I believe to be the goal. I did not grow up with the double bunny salutation, and I’m still not sure how mammals of any kind factor into the flip of the calendar, but if you do, then rabbit, rabbit. It’s October!

October means that it’s indisputably fall—a fact that energizes me more than a six pack of Red Bull. If I started listing the things I love about fall, I’d leave out a couple dozen that I’d feel guilty later about missing: the brisk air, the explosion of color, crunching leaves, warm, tasty beverages…and PUMPKINS!

My love for fall prompted me to link up to the weekly photography challenge that Beth of I Should Be Folding Laundry hosts each week. This week’s challenge was capturing the feeling of fall. I couldn’t resist.

Let’s start with some Dirty Chai, elected last week as the official drink of the season here at Running With Letters. I’m sorry, Pumpkin Latte, I still love you…but I simply can’t resist warm Chai goodness infused with a shot of espresso. It’s like liquid gingerbread in a cup.



I currently have two pumpkins in my yard. This is one of them. By the time the Christmas lights go up, I’ll be removing about 20 of these from my property.



This shot isn’t the sharpest I’ve ever captured, nor does it immediately evoke fall—at least for me. But when my son saw the box of Boo Berry Crunch in the pantry he exclaimed, “You know it’s fall when Boo Berry comes back!” I adore the look on his face.



I don’t have my full fall décor up yet, but you wouldn’t know it from my kitchen table. With any luck, there will be a piping hot lasagna sitting right smack in the middle of the table this evening—but then again, that was the plan yesterday and I ended up eating cold chicken nuggets which my husband hand fed me while I drove through city streets trying to score vicodin. But that’s a story for another post.



My camera is full of shots, but I’ll hold some back for awhile. After all, this whole post is simply a preview trailer for a blockbuster hit I’ve been waiting for all year: warm fires on the patio, trips to the apple orchard, and a World Series destined to play out in the Bronx—here I come!

Thanks for peeking through my lens with me.

(P.S. Regular readers may want to scroll down to the prior post, if you didn't stop by yesterday afternoon. In order to participate in today's challange, i had an unusually short interval between posts, and I don't want you to miss anything. Especially because a couple of you just might have been mentioned in yesterday's post.)

One Line Wednesdays

Today I had a botched meet-up with a Dirty Chai, ran long and hard, and eventually turned myself in at the police station for fingerprinting.



Which may lead you to believe that it’s been a notable day, until I tell you that the events didn’t occur quite in that order and that the Dirty Chai was just a wonderful brew on which I missed out at my local coffee house, the run was just my morning loop around the neighborhood (which I’ll typically file underlong and hard) and that the fingerprinting was just the last of a tedious list of routine in-processing items required by my employer. But it kind of sounded pretty intense there for a moment, didn’t it?

The opening line came to me early on, and it cheered me considerably to be able to think about my average day in such epic terms. My first thought was that I might finally be ready to get on Twitter, a social networking feat of which I’ve largely considered myself incapable due to the required brevity. I find the prospect of consistently expressing my thoughts in an engaging manner using no more than 140 characters frankly intimidating. Because, let’s face it, no one really wants to read tweets about actual, real-time events in the spirit of: “teaching yellow and blue makes green today!’ or “fridge empty—looks like pasta for dinner again!” But I think it would be a relief, every so often, to be able to craft a good line and put it out there without the pressure of further explanation a good blog post requires. Problem is, I figure I’m good for about one of those a week, not the constant stream effective tweeting would require.

Which got me to thinking that it might be fun to host “One Line Wednesdays” here at Running With Letters. I see it working kind of like this: I’ll get us started with a post each Wednesday with the single best line I’ve managed to craft in the intervening seven days –maybe I’ll include the story behind it, but I likely won’t, what with it being One Line Wednesday, and all. I’ll also include one of those cool Mr. Linky widgits that will let you leave a link to your one line post of the week (where you can include the story behind your line, or not—you choose!) Your line can be about anything, as clear or cryptic as you’d like, and who knows—maybe even be true! I may as well just put it out there that I’m not-so-secretly hoping that by setting the bar sort of low-ish, at a single line, I might be able to get my sister, husband, and maybe even Jen blogging again, but that may be too much to expect. It would also just make my week if a whole lot of other bloggers got into the fun and joined us!

In the meantime, keep a pencil and paper handy and jot down that witty one liner that pops into your head this week, post it to your blog on Wednesday, and zip back over here with your link. What do you think? Are you in?

A Recipe for Contentment

“I’m going into a sugar coma just breathing,” my husband remarked, easing our van to a gentle halt at a stoplight and glancing in the rearview mirror at the three sleepy backseat occupants and the three tier cake they were guarding with the vigilance of armored vehicle guards en route to Fort Knox.

I’m not entirely sure how many pounds of sugar or tubs of shortening went into the fondant-coated creation our team of five transported to our church on Saturday, but I do know that six boxes of cake, eighteen eggs, and several bags of mini marshmallows went into the mix. I also know that that the three kids who designed, baked, and decorated the cake had invested all but two of the previous twenty hours into the effort. I’m fairly confident, as well, that I’ll be scraping icing from my counters, floor, and cabinets for weeks to come, but I digress.

Several weeks ago, my children’s friend, Brian, asked my daughter the aspiring baker, to help him make a wedding cake for his mother. Over the past month, they’ve whipped up batches of fondant—a blend of marshmallow and powdered sugar rolled into a smooth, thin sheath. They purchased tools and gadgets, interviewed experienced bakers, and test-driven some ideas in tasty, well-crafted prototypes. Along the way, they imagined. They hoped. They dreamed.

And then they worked. All. Night. Long. Even taking my son’s siestas into account, they easily lost a collective twenty hours of sleep.



Sometime around 11 o'clock the next morning, they decided that nothing was left other than onsite presentation details. The kids gathered around the behemoth dessert, half in awe and half in horror at the prospect of moving it.

“Do you know where this cake will be in twelve hours?” my daughter asked the boys.

“In people’s stomachs,” Brian nodded.

The kids basically shrugged off this seemingly disturbing fact, chalking it up to spreading around a lot of happiness.

I keep returning to the images of these children—the work, the excitement, the acceptance of the fleeting nature of their pursuit--even their willingness to embrace the inherent risk associated with their undertaking. I return to these thoughts not only out of sheer pride in their accomplishment, but as a reminder about why we work, and dream, and strive, because, let’s face it, most of us aren’t going to change the world. The majority of us throw ourselves into efforts only slightly more fleeting and likely less tasty than the kids’ wedding cake.

I needed these images to get me back on track yesterday, in the wake of an afternoon at an outdoor book event inhabited by a population of decidedly glum writers and poets. Oh, everyone adopted a make-the-most-of-it sort of outlook, but it was hard to miss the fact that nobody sold much printed matter of any kind, and that this wasn’t the first time this sort of thing happened to people other than me.

Which made me wonder why I write. Why I invest so much imagination, so many hopes, and a large percentage of my dreams into a craft that seems frankly disappointing. My husband, who has never written anything outside of school papers and a couple dozen blog entries, found it surprisingly simple to relate the feelings to some of his own passions. And that’s when I realized that most of our human ambitions are small efforts destined for rapid consumption; that life probably works best when viewed through the “process, not the product” approach elementary art teaches are trained to adopt.

The kids probably have it about right: whether we bake, write, or hold any number of other hopes close to our hearts, we have to go into it hoping for little more than the distribution of happiness, hope, encouragement, or peace for others, knowing that somewhere along the way we’ll find the same for ourselves in the pursuit.



At the wedding, the kids hovered around the cake table, witnessing the whittling away of the efforts. They left exhausted but with their perspective intact.

“…the finished cake lived shorter than your average housefly,” my daughter wrote in a facebook status upon her arrival home. “It was so worth it, though.”

Rediscovering and Redesigining

Life for me, lately, has been a little like that first fall sip of pumpkin latte-- a rediscovery of sweet goodness all but forgotten in the hubbub of intervening seasons. Having recently emerged from an intense season of life called graduate school and unexpectedly finding myself back in the favorable climate of artistic employ, I’m finding that most days are an exercise in getting reacquainted with myself. Absent the constant stress of assignments, three-hour classes, and the duties of a graduate assistantship, I’m remembering all kinds of things I used to enjoy. My most recent renaissance is in the arena of creating mosaic facades for unappreciated furniture.

I hit a few thrift stores over the past week, looking for some prime candidates for a tile facelift. I was initially thrilled with this quirky little find until my daughter claimed that it evokes the feel of a below average manger:





Not entirely sure of its original purpose, I initially envisioned a plant stand, as it seems an ideal size and height to boost a group of potted plants up to a sunny window. My friend Lori, who is infinitely wiser and better acquainted with reality, informed me that it was likely a butler-something-or-other designed for food service, but heartily agreed that it could be repurposed for horticultural use.



A couple days later, I snagged this great storage box for $6.95 at a new thrift store, a deal that convinced me that the $15.00 I paid for the sub-par manger was probably four times too much. What can you expect from a thrift store novice?



It even came stocked with bonus items!



My next step is to come up with some color schemes and patterning themes to give these pieces new life—a process that I plan to document here as the season of my rediscovery continues. Ideas welcome!

This Space Reserved for Wednesday's Post

There will be a post today. This just isn't it. So grab a pumpkin latte (at Starbucks, if you've got the $5 to burn, or 7-11, if you'd rather pay under $2), catch a movie--hey, if you're feeling ambitious, go get some work done. Linger awhile. Enjoy the day; then stop back on by. With any luck, this advisory will be replaced by today's Actual Post.

This message comes to you as a public service form Running With Letters. Statements contained therein may not be suitable for any purpose.

Sound Check

Work, for me, is a noisy place. Oh, I’m not talking the jackhammer/heavy equipment/industrial kind of noisy of which experts tell us to be on alert for aural health purposes. It’s just the sort of noisy one can’t avoid with a job description that calls for extended interaction with 70 elementary children--45 before lunch— all wielding scissors, glue bottles, and an alarming number of coloring implements.

During my brief time with my new students, I’ve discovered that they aren’t appreciatively different from my former ones. Just like the students that populated my old classroom, these children came with a built in propensity to say my name in a repeated loop, complete with audible exclamation marks as each syllable leaves their lips. As is apparently customary, each child arrives fully equipped with an artistic emergency requiring my immediate and complete attention. And, just like in my previous classroom, I’ve had to amend my class rules with a “no singing” clause. Because, really, I absolutely CAN NOT have 70 kids singing jingles from TV commercials, theme songs from popular shows, and the inappropriate lyrics of assorted rap and R&B artists--even if we weren’t dealing with all of the other auditory stimulus.

Due to the realities of my working environment, I find myself seeking some good silence for an hour or so after I arrive home. I say Good Silence, because it’s occurred to me that there are, really, two types of silence. Good Silence is the sort in which I basked on my front step after work on Tuesday. Soaking in the warm afternoon sun, I closed my eyes and focused on the chirping of the neighborhood crickets. With a little mental editing, I deleted extraneous traffic noise and briefly transported myself to the deep country acreage where I spent the long, lazy afternoons of my childhood.

And it was Good Silence that allowed my husband to detect the call of a great horned owl—an owl--and urban owl! Who knew?—one evening earlier this week after the kids were in bed, the computers off, and our own creatures at rest. That night, I feel asleep near my open bedroom window to the lullaby of a distant song. That silence was very good, indeed.

Good Silence energizes, restores, refreshes. Good Silence is an incubator for ideas and creativity, and it’s as essential to my well-being as the noise is on my work days.

Life would probably be just about perfect, then, if it were simply an even balance of noise and Good Silence. But alas, Good Silence has an evil twin. Bad Silence is the sort one encounters after an ominous crash. It invariably speaks of distress, disaster, and/or destruction. Bad Silence means something is broken. Although the wreckage may be admittedly be minimal, but it is real nonetheless.

Bad Silence has, unfortunately, crept quietly (can it arrive any other way?) into little corners of my life, upsetting the otherwise happy Noise/Good Silence Combo I have going. Bad Silence is hovering on the periphery, taking the usual-yet–still-disappointing forms: those prayers that can’t seem to get past the ceiling, the empty inbox when a reply to an important email is expected instead, the *cough* blank comment section on a faithfully updated blog.

I’m not sure, yet, of the role Bad Silence plays in life. I don’t know why some prayers offered in complete confidence are obviously answered, while others seem lost in cyberspace. I don’t know why friends sometimes aren’t there when we need them. And on the comments…well, I choose not to comment, except to say that for reasons likely related to those aforementioned, Bad Silence feels kind of lonely.

Feel free to grab a violin at any time, here— in fact, someone please do! The sound would do dual duty by breaking the Bad Silence spell and preventing this post from ending on a sour note.

In other news....

Yesterday was marked a momentous occasion: I sent off my first magazine submission in, well, a couple of years! It felt good: like life is on the right track.

I made reservations to return--just with my husband--to the site of The Great Migration. We toot a fall trip there last year and I found myself craving the beauty of the fall leaves, the camp restaurant's warm cobbler and cracking fires to ward of the mountain chill. T-34 days until departure.

Although my posts have been more reflective than humorous lately, that fact is not intended to signal a change in format--I just happen to feel reflective lately. Not always a bad thing :)

Of Big Red Engines and Little Yellow Rubber Duckies

I’ve just finished cleaning up some items to donate to our local Youth Challenge thrift store, and if I’m a little sniffly I’m afraid I can’t blame the dust. Since I’m on a good antihistamine, I’ve got nothing to blame but irrational attachment issues.

Oh, I can make a clean break from the tired old sweaters and the ho-hum sandals. Ditto for the clunky old laundry cart and over the door ironing board (seemed like a good idea at the time, until my ironing flew askew one too many times by a sudden flinging open of the door on which it was mounted). And, I’m frankly ecstatic to finally pass along four large closet organizer units, as it means my husband finished a long-anticipated bathroom remodel, complete with custom closet.

What’s giving me trouble is the evidence that my youngest is growing up. I’ve got a bag full of bath toys I probably should have culled half a dozen years ago. I almost choked on going through with it this time—I hate the thought of living in a house with no bath toys, but in the final analysis, I just couldn’t bring myself to fill up my new vanity with items destined for a long, dark retirement. There’s the requisite pile of out grown clothes, of course, and a cute little green tractor.

But I was in pretty good shape until I got to the big, red fire truck.
Its paint dulled by layers of dust, the truck hasn’t seen hard action in more years than I’d like to admit. “You just need a little love,” I found myself saying as I wiped its surface shiny. (OK, so I talk to inanimate objects. Now you know.) I got a little misty as I remembered my son’s “I want to be a fireman” phase, and, in two seconds flat, I was right in the middle of a full-fledged heart wrenching sob, of the type that probably just my fellow mom readers can relate.

I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but at some point it hit me that I’m clutching a big red fire truck and sobbing…and it's September 11. And I’m not exactly sure what point it was when I remembered that my son suddenly stopped wanting to be a fireman sometime around the fall eight years ago when he was six, and he saw that being a fireman meant a lot more than diving a cool truck and hanging around the fire house with a well trained Dalmatian--but I did, and things got a little rougher.

I thought then, about the little boy or girl who will inherit my son’s truck. That child probably wasn’t alive to witness the events that ended my son’s fascination with firefighting. I know our world isn’t necessarily any safer now than it was eight years ago. I know that the few children who do grow up to become firefighters will put their lives on the line on a daily basis and for that, will become true heroes. But I’m also glad that they’ve had the chance to allow their dreams to develop slowly and safely; that they aren’t scarred by televised images of domestic disaster.

So it’s with this thought that I discharge my son’s fire truck to a new assignment; hoping that its innocent new operator will have the chance to test his mettle on many an imaginary brush fire and some hard afternoons on treed kitty rescue before he’s old enough to handle the knowledge of what the real heroes operating the Big Equipment courageously face each day.

Wiping my eyes, I plucked a little rubber ducky out of the final bag before tying it off. The world is uncertain, and I, for one, don’t really want to face it in a house with no bath toys.



Posted with a sincere thank-you for those who sacrifice their safety to make this world a place where kids of all ages can play

Dreams May Be Sweet, But They're Not Dessert

“Tell me another dream,” I’ve been saying to my husband as matter of recent routine on our semi-regular evening walks around the neighborhood.

He’s come to expect the question, as he’s astute and, as I’ve mentioned, the query has become predictable.

Now, my husband isn’t big into walking, and it’s not too hard to imagine that big-picture life assessment might be taxing at the end of a long day. Nonetheless, he seems to not-so-secretly enjoy the regular scrutiny. It was, loosely, his idea.

One evening on a mid-summer beach walk—a longer-duration after dinner excursion that often invites contemplation—my husband told me he was reading about the importance of writing down dreams, an idea of which he seemed enamored. Considering the state of his blog, which hasn’t been updated in almost a year—I filed the actual writing down in the “not likely” category and decided to give him a hand by helping him articulate his thoughts.

So I ask, now, about his dreams on every walk. I ask because it’s important. I ask because I know how easy it is for dreams to simply get lost in the everyday shuffle, and I just can’t let that happen. After all, dreams aren’t the desserts of life—improbably sweet concoctions on which we usually pass for reasons of good judgment and practicality. Dreams are the meat-and-potatoes (or veggie burger and salad, if you prefer) substance of our time here on the planet. They nourish us to the very core, give us the energy to slog through the mundane—they are our lifeblood. And they are absolutely anything but optional.

Too often, we act as though valuing our dreams means stuffing them in metaphoric deep storage—bringing them out, every so often, to admire in their untouched splendor. But our passions aren’t collector’s items, treasured all the more in an unblemished state. Which is a good thing, as most of my relics resemble Grey Teddy—my threadbare, love-worn, childhood companion who I’m told was originally of golden hue. But I have no memories of Golden Teddy. The bear I’ve always known sports a distinguished coat of weathered grey, which is just fine with me. I am determined, then, for my dreams to become the Grey Teddy of my existence: hardy, rough-and-tumble specimens marked with character earned through hard hours, rough play, and the occasional scar from a helmet-less wild ride.

But transforming a dream from artifact to adventure is a serious, time-consuming undertaking (see ‘hard hours” above), which invites consideration of the humanitarian value of our personal goals—is it selfish to invest ourselves in our dreams? As a Christian, I find this question of utmost importance, as my beliefs tend toward viewing wasted life as tragic, and, really, spiritual conviction aside, does anyone want to discover that they spent their life chasing the wrong things? After all, not every dream comes true. Perhaps most don’t—at least not in the way we expect.

I’m tempted to adopt the enjoy-the-journey philosophy which maintains that the actual achievement of goals is immaterial as long as there’s joy in the pursuit, but I’m not so sure if I can truly embrace that thinking. Oh, I know there’s truth in that approach, but somehow the up-front admission of possible failure ruins it for me. I prefer the mindset of Doc Brown of Back to the Future fame, as epitomized in his 1955 reaction to meeting 1985 Marty McFly fresh off the time machine: “Knowing that I invented something that works gives me something to shoot for!” In many ways, I’d love to have even a still frame of myself cracking into a fresh box of hardbound copies of my future bestseller hot off the press from my publisher (that moment, as Julia Child observes upon doing the same in Julie and Julia, in which “anything is possible”), or dropping anchor on a houseboat off the coast of Nova Scotia or, ironically, Cape Disappointment. Those snapshots, would, indeed, give me something for which to aim and provide validation of my current efforts.

In real life, none of us get to glimpse the results of our efforts during our murky days of striving, but what if we acted as though we had? How would the knowledge that our dreams were destined for success change the way we live now? My guess is that we’d work harder and play longer. We’d experiment without reservation. We’d push through the tough spots. We’d embrace optimism and avoid discouragement. In short, we’d actually live the way we should anyway.

My plan is to live like I’ve seen the snapshot. To chase after my dreams with expectation. To believe that God gave the interests, hopes, and aspirations I have for reasons that are both a gift and a responsibility. To trust that unless I’m specifically issued some new passions, my job is to invest in the ones I currently have, and leave the results to Him.

And my husband? So far we’ve got some land, a made from scratch house, and a few experiments in self-sustainability, aka “getting off the grid.” There’s a few quasi-political thoughts in there, and possibly a career change. How all that meshes with me writing from a houseboat is a little blurry in the still frame, but that’s OK.

And what about you, Reader? Tell me one of your dreams-blurry or not, it’s a picture I’d love to see.

New Business; or RWL Gets a Facelift

With yesterday's Old Business behind us, I'm pleased to announce that today's news at Running With Letters is our new look, designed by young technological mastermind, Brian Tucker. The look went live this afternoon, although we are aware-- and working on--a couple minor bugs.

Of special note: see the RWL "button" in the panel on the left? How about that code underneath? I'm inviting all of my loyal readers cut and paste that code into your own blogs and websites so you can let YOUR readers know that you read Running With Letters and together we can help grow our strange and wonderful online community.

Let me know what you think!

Enjoy!

Old Business

As small child who whiled away many an hour inventing diversions with the minister’s kids during the alarmingly frequent and shockingly long business meetings that took place in our itty bitty country church, I learned the importance of settling Old Business. Nothing—and I do mean nothing --stands a chance of moving forward when there’s Old Business lingering on the docket.

So let’s just clear away some Old Business here at RWL, specifically in regard to last week’s collision of latte and laptop. I am happy to report that my computer survived, although a series of setbacks caused me to be cautious to share the news.

Secondly, I am going forward with the promised virtual tour of my new art classroom, although I am sorry to report that the photos do not reflect the latest developments and will convey a slightly unpolished appearance. However, my determination to lay Old Business to rest causes me to be considerably less cautious in sharing the slightly outdated pics.

I painted the elements of art around my half of the shared room (the other side is a science lab, which works out better than it sounds, thanks to having a great professional "roommate")beginning with line.



Value, color and texture appear just to the left of the shelving at the edge of the "line" photo.




The back wall looks a lot better in real life, as I had time today to finish the bulletin board.



I hesitate to go on, as I'm beginning to feel like one of those bloggers who posts all the little minutiae of their lives-- dinner choices, the cleaning of the bedroom photo shoot--you know the ones--but I've gone this far, I really have to show you the closet/workroom:



There's a sink, which I find really amazing, except of the funky smell, for which I've been provided with three canisters of environmental cleaning packets I'm told to use "at least once a week."

There's also room for all sorts of supplies!



OK, I'm going to stop now. Thanks for visiting my art room, even though I fear that there's an outside chance that all of this is only interesting to me, which would, in turn, make this the dullest post that has appeared at RWL. But then again, I don't recall any items of genuine import appearing under the "Old Business" heading. So, Dear Reader, should you find yourself identifying with me and the gaggle of minister's children huddled in the dank church basement wondering when the Old Business will ever conclude...let me assure you that some very New Business, indeed, is on tomorrow's agenda.

Virtual Tour Delayed Due to Accident

Alert readers know that earlier in the week I promised a virtual tour of the painting in my new art classroom. Moments before I sat down at my computer to upload photos of the progress, an accident occurred which has severely hampered technological capabilities here at RWL.

It started when I sat my alumni mug, chock full of fragrant morning coffee next to my laptop-- which was sitting uncharacteristically on the counter-- in order to perform a quick vacuuming of my sun room's tile floor. For reasons that are still unclear, I decided to proceed with the vacuuming up several steps to the next room, despite the fact that the vacuum was plugged into the same counter top outlet as the computer. Seconds later, the joy of watching the dust, dirt and debris disappear into the mouth of the vacuum was quite literally shattered.

To my horror, I witnessed my morning joe flowing rapidly through a ceramic riverbed. The mess! The coffee loss! The all too brief tenure of the alumni mug! Seconds into processing the carnage, I realized that my laptop--which I ironically received as a graduation gift--had not been spared from a scant splashing as the liquid made its descent. Now, I was initially hopeful, as my screen remained bright and I saw that the keyboard's fluid wasn't remarkable. However, it wasn't long before the machine started beeping ominously, and I realized that I may have just suffered a commencement-themed catastrophe of unprecedented proportions.

My computer is currently resting upside down within a yard of the scene, awaiting further prognosis. I discovered, in the aftermath, that I had a bloodied limb, although it was nothing more than a surface wound.I'm posting from a rickety old machine, itself propped up on artificial legs to keep from overheating. Stay turned for updates and information concerning the rescheduling of the virtual tour.


In memoriam June 2009-August 2009

Pause

The impending 2009-2010 school year has temporarily derailed an otherwise stellar July and August here at RWL. I drove home from my sister's abode last week-- in shockingly dry conditions-- only to be sucked into an academic vortex: twelve hour stretches of orientation meetings punctuated by mass distributions of paperwork and capped by mandatory dining and socializing experiences. I finally turned my attention today to my classroom, which I received as an empty canvas--tabla rasa, if you will. After searching in vain for any combination of wall decor from my former art classroom or new adornments of the same ilk, I opted to depict the elements of art in paint on the concrete walls, a decision that hasn't exactly had a freeing impact on my current schedule.

Fortunately, classes begin on Friday, which is not a work day for this part time teacher, so life will begin to settle into a new normal. That schedule includes three days a week for me to focus on various writing projects, so the current lull should be regarded as strictly temporary. In the meantime, stop on by late tomorrow or early Thursday for a virtual tour of my new digs.

Not On the Record and Got Off the Press

“Putting it that way makes me sound like a septuagenarian,” I said to my sister, upon citing random fear of rain among possible reasons not to travel.

“Well, even my mother-in-law doesn’t make decisions like that," my sister countered. “She always says life is for living.”

In an effort to salvage a couple of days of fun and togetherness dubbed Sister Camp--a moniker we may or may not have ripped from my friend Jen-—my sister was trying to sell me on a reasonably complicated last ditch measure culminating in a four hour plus solo jaunt across two states. At the risk of damaging my reputation as an adventurer, I find it necessary to admit that I am not especially keen on driving. I’ll pretty much go anywhere, anytime, but I’d just as soon leave the driving to others. I have no sense of direction, for one thing—isn’t north always straight ahead?—and rely heavily on landmark data, a situation making post-sundown driving a nightmare. And did I mention my feelings on rain?

“Well,” my sister’s voice lost a degree of confidence, “Maybe that’s not exactly what she said, but I’m sure it’s her philosophy.” My sister disappeared from the conversation to conference with her mother-in-law who, coincidentally, happened to be both a septuagenarian and in the room. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mom, that life is for living?”

I could hear a lot of murmuring on the other end of the line as my sister’s MIL consulted with assembled advisers. “It depends what you’re living for,” she said, carefully.

“For?” my sister queried.

“Yes, life is worth living if it’s for the right things,” came the guarded reply.

“Not worth living, Mom, for living,” my sister said. More murmuring ensured.

“What’s this for?” MIL halted the conversation to address my sister.

“My sister might not come because she doesn’t know if it will rain next week, and I told her that life is for living and she should come. Do you not agree with me?”
The room exploded in laughter. “I thought she was quoting me for a book,” MIL replied. “Of course she should come, don’t be silly.”

“Sister, she agrees wholeheartedly with me,” my sister triumphed. “She just thought you were writing about her, and wanted to make sure she was properly portrayed.”

“Tell her I wasn’t writing anything before, but she may have just written herself into a blog post.”

“Mom, you’re going to be on the internet,” my sister called to her MIL. “And as far as you, Sister, you can come to Sister Camp or you can draw the curtains, grab your spectacles, and read the newspaper. Start with the obituaries.”

I have, subsequently, been enrolled at Sister Camp for the past five days. I travel home tomorrow. At last report, the forecast called for storms, but the internet has been on the blink so I may not be able to verify. There are absolutelt no newspapers at Sister Camp.

G.I. Joe

“So today they’re suggesting that I might make a good Asymmetric Warfare/Land Warrior Military Analyst,” I say to my husband yesterday morning.

“That’s our ad,” my husband said. “We need one in our building.”

Prior to last week’s securing of desirable employ, I’d been loosely pursuing career options in popular online forums, which basically amounted to reading listings my husband sent my way, and answering a questionnaire about my career interests.

Do you want a job that requires creativity? Absolutely!

Do you want to work indoors or outside? I’ll do my work outside, thank you.

Do you like routine tasks, or do you prefer challenges? Doing things the same way twice really bores me.

Based, evidently on my questionnaire answers with no regard to the information provided on my attached resume, I receive periodic suggestions via email. If the customized recommendations are a viable indicator, I might have had a bright future as an OB GYN, a cake decorator, a night supervisor, or, impressively, an Asymmetric Warfare/Land Warrior Military Analyst.

“Am I well suited for this position?” I asked my husband.

“No. Not at all,” he responded, a little too quickly for my liking.

“Why not?” I demanded. “What do these people do?”

“They decide what sort of weapons are appropriate in specific warfare situations,” he responded.

“Well, there’s always guns and clubs,” I said.

“Mmmm…see, that’s why you wouldn’t be good at this,” my husband responded with authority.

“Well, I don’t like war anyway,” I said, ready to dismiss the position out of hand, before my own words rendered me suddenly inspired. “Wait! I know exactly what to send,” I triumphed. “A box of joe and a couple dozen donuts! There’s nothing that can’t be solved over coffee. ”

“If coffee and donuts could solve a war, I’d be out of a job,” my husband said, heading for the door.

It was then that I realized that I’d likely be an outstanding Asymmetric Warfare/Land Warrior Military Analyst and my husband knew it and was running scared.

“I’ll bet you were just a minimal match,” he grumbled, referencing the system the referring firm uses to rate the level of compatibility between the job and the seeker.

This was true, but I had an air-tight workaround.

“They say I’m as qualified to analyze asymmetric warfare as I am to teach English,” I responded, because it was also true. They did. “And I have a master’s degree in that.”

So it’s a good thing that I’m already under contract because it’s clear that my husband wasn’t going to put in a good word for me. It’s also clear that, being the superior candidate that I evidently am, I’d have easily landed the job, putting me in the awkward position of being in constant inter-office combat with my own spouse. And I wouldn’t have stood a chance in that battle—my husband hates coffee.