choices, and california.

I was 5 years old. My mom took me to the mall to do some shopping--just before or after the start of kindergarten. We went to a store called Lerner. Blondie's "Heart of Glass" was playing. My stomach was full of sausage on a stick I had just eaten from Hickory Farms. I remember all these details because of what happened next:

My mom held two shirts out in front of me and told me to go back to the dressing room to try them on. I did. They both fit. I liked them both. But she said...I could only pick one. I think I stood studying those shirts for a good ten minutes, fretting, before deciding.

And to this day, I don't remember what the one I picked looked like.

But I sure as heck remember the one I didn't pick...

White with a red collar and a box of crayons on it, some of them loose and trailing scribbly lines of color around the stomach area. I remember it as though I were wearing it right now.

Maybe my mother had me make choices before that--what to eat or how to wear my  hair--but that was the first one of significance I can remember making. One where my decision meant the end of the other choice. We never went back on another day and bought the other shirt. It was gone. I chose it gone.

I still don't enjoy making decisions, choices.

Though I know I would equally hate having nothing to choose from.

I want choices, but with a guarantee that I'll always make the right one.

Is that too much to ask? :)

It feels I've had too many lately--big decisions to make. Weighty choices to decide. Often made worse by having no one who has known me closely for any significant amount of time to run them by for a second opinion. But aware it could be just as bad if I did have to screen my decisions through another person.

I have access to God's brilliance, of course, and that makes all the difference; but I'll be the first to admit that my will often gets in the way of His. I've become so accustomed to the "not right now" answer I usually get, that I just assume it will be the answer from Him to everything, and sometimes I don't listen as closely as I should to what He's trying to tell me.

Tonight, amongst other big decisions I'm considering, I'm hoping I made the right decision to not take the MFA offer from CSU Long Beach. I think because in giving it up, I'm afraid I'm giving up all that California represented.

After my divorce and the terrible sadness that followed, and then the burst of hope that came when I met Haute Cakes and we began looking towards a future together--California became this magical place the boys and I would go to start over.

And even beyond things not working out with Haute Cakes and me, California was still somewhere I hoped to get to some day. *A fresh start.* A place we wouldn't even mind being poor in because the beach, and the salt air, and the Birds of Paradise in bloom were all free.

I guess what I feel tonight, mingled in the weight of choice and heaviness of alone-ness, is I miss California. I miss California a lot, and often. I miss the dream I had before I went to California, of what California would be. And I really miss the parts of that dream that came true, even though other parts didn't. The parts that were realized made California amazing, and those are the parts I am compelled to remember. I have no choice in the remembering, because what you remember of California is always what got into your blood, like anywhere else, only in California it was bigger, and shinier and prettier and always will be.

In choosing a low-residency program, I told myself that I wouldn't be "married" to a campus--I could always still move if I wanted to and continue right on in my studies, as long as I found my way to Oregon twice a year. I tried to leave the option open still. Like a crayon shirt I could go back for.

And while I feel good about choosing to stay here a little longer, and choosing to get myself even more hopelessly busy over the next three years in an MFA program... I'm hoping that I didn't choose my new beginning away, in whatever form it might take.

Because I'd really, really like it.

so what exactly is it that you're doing, crazy woman?

Hi. I'm crazy. Seriously.  Working on about 10 total hours of sleep over the last three nights. My bleeding ulcer is acting up again. I'm starting to see little gnats flying around in my peripheral vision. Everything is super funny or super sad. I'm all shifty and nervous, pumped up on hourly cups of Starbucks dark hot chocolate. I sit down and write for about ten minutes, then fill out application forms for five minutes, then go play Just Dance 3 for a few songs, then get distracted figuring out the intricacies of how my stapler works, then send my poor friends mumbly, crazy-person texts, then back to writing.

And what, you ask, am I allowing to drive me to this point of temporary (oh, let's pray it's temporary!) craziness?

MFA application time again, baby.

Last year, it was 3 am the night before my submission was due, and I suddenly decided that a major portion of my story needed re-written. There was much weeping and fretting and cursing myself and my character. Poor Ninja came over to help and even he, brave warrior of the night, looked kind of afraid to approach me. This year...it's that all over again but times five, since I'm applying to five schools. And I'm giving every one my very best.

My portfolio was already pretty fine-tuned after a year of work, so I haven't done the amount of weepy, last-minute editing. But what has thrown me for a loop are the amount of hoops that every school makes you jump through. UC Irvine is the WORST (but also the best. Love you UC Irvine. Pick me. xoxo.). They want not only your "Autobiographical Statement of Purpose", but also a "Statement of Purpose" and a "Personal History Statement." And by statement, they really mean meticulously crafted essay of 2-4 pages, keeping in mind they will be reading about 600 of these and even though all 3 of those things they are asking for are essentially comprised of the same information, you better darn well make sure yours sound different and brilliant, man. Or else.

Within the five programs I'm applying to, there are forms to fill out in triplicate. Publishing histories to assemble. Letters of Recommend to secure, along with waivers to fill out that take away all your rights to ever read the nice things the letter writers say about you. There are portfolios required of various lengths in specified type fonts. Specific ways transcripts are to be sent. And yes--don't forget you have to PAY them to do all this work yourself. $55-$100 a pop. Paid for with money that Dr. Yummy gited me for this purpose back in October, which feels a little awkward, and moreso with the whole crazy thing going on, but yeah. Anyway....

The most common question I get?
What's an MFA? or sometimes made into a statement:
"Oh, so you're getting your Maters degree?"

I figure it was worth dedicating a post to just so people will understand why my eyes are all twitchy and my hair looks like it's been pulled out of my head in large clumps...and I totally think it's worth it.

MFA stands for Master of Fine Arts. It's a terminal degree, like a PhD, but with a different end goal in mind. It's much more difficult to get into than a normal Master's program (I'll explain why in a bit).
An MFA graduate CAN become adjunct faculty at most universities--usually every one's favorite teachers who take keen interests in their student's lives, who work long hours with no benefits, occupy offices in the university janitor's closets, and eat handfuls of dry oatmeal for nourishment. But the end goal of the MFA is not teaching, but to produce writing yourself. MFA students are polished writers on the verge of blossoming careers, willing to dedicate their lives to the craft, and just needing a few years more of complete immersion under the tutelage of truly amazing writers to really fine-tune their voice.

Also--most MFA programs are funded. Which means, you're given a tuition waiver and often a stipend that comes from teaching or assisting in research. Basically, you are being paid to write for 2-3 years. That's why nearly every one of the hundreds of available, funded MFA programs receive 400-1,000 applicants a year and accept between 3 and 10.

Insanely, insanely competitive.

Even the ones that aren't funded, that you have to go another $35,000-$75,000 in debt for, but which have a killer line up of instructors (i.e. Pacific University, one I'm applying to) STILL are about as easy to get in to as running after a storm cloud trying to get hit by lightening.

It looks good to have *MFA* after your name when submitting stories or manuscripts. It's extremely helpful to get yourself worked into a publishing network that often these schools provide the first step towards. But, unlike last year when I thought I would DIE if I didn't get in--I've learned, by talking to a lot of talented writers over the year, that the MFA isn't necessarily the guidepost it once was. There are a lot of thriving writers' communities (like the one in the city where I live) that allow you consistent interaction with other high-caliber writers, and opportunities to keep writing, improving, and sending off for publication. Same as those fancy MFA-ers.

So--yeah. For now, I feel like I needed to give the MFA program one more concentrated, full speed run. It seems to me the best and fastest way to become the writer I want to be. But...if I don't get in, I'm pretty happy where I'm at now, too. I'm making a lot of progress, and actually getting PAID to write in two of my jobs. It might not be the literary short fiction or poetry I long to compose, but it's still working the same process of delivering a message, a story, in a unique and effective way.

That's it. That's why I'm allowing myself to ride this wave of mania a few more days before I get to sleep. For the glory of one golden CHANCE.

Now you know :)

nuggets of joy

doodle from here: http://www.parkerjacobs.blogspot.com/

I love that term: Nugget of Joy.  I've used it before. I like that it makes me think of something you find after you separate it from a bunch of  dirt and junk and polish it off. Something rare and of value. I like to think of carrying it around in my pocket. Yeah, sometimes I even think of it more like chicken that I dip in Thai Chili sauce. But that's usually just when I'm really hungry.

Anywhoo, one of my bestest friends, Elena, left me the kindest comment ever on my post before last. Hopefully she doesn't mind me sharing:

I think you just tell them the truth. That finding the right fit for your family, and your family for the right guy takes time and testing. And in the process you'll get the opportunity to love and know lots of good people. You'll get to take the good you learn from each and everyone. But you'll also experience some hurt if they aren't the right person for the family. I think you just be honest; that's always the best policy. I'm so sad that Dr. Yummy didn't work out; I know how much you truly loved this one. I keep praying for you. Have done so ever since that awful phone call a few years back. Just know that there are so many people praying for you and asking for the powers of God to hold you up. I don't know why some people are asked to shoulder harder burdens than others. It isn't fair. And I know it feels like God has abandoned you and like the powers of Heaven may even be working against you. But that is Satan feeding you his great lies. Look at all the good you have amidst the bad. (And I know you do this already.) Great, darling boys; a home that you are still in for the time being; you are in the best shape since I've known you; your heart is going strong allowing you to shoulder all you have to do; the amount of work you are able to accomplish on the small amounts of sleep you are getting; the miracles are there. They may feel small in comparison to the heart ache, but they are they regardless. God loves you, and we love you. And that is the sermon according to Elena. :)




 Elena was the one who first got me into blogging a million years ago. We've been friends since the early 90's college days when Brad and her now husband were roommates. She knew me when I had nine piercings. I knew her when she drove a blue Geo Metro with blue hubcaps. And we love each other anyway :) She knows me...really knows me, and so I take her words of advice and comfort very seriously.

Her comment made me stop, take a breath, and reflect (again) on all the good things about myself and my life. The little miracles I get almost daily. And yeah, I've done posts similar to this before, but how refreshing it is to have a list of good things in the middle of a roller coaster of trials. So, here are my NUGGETS OF JOY:

*Somehow, for the last 3 1/2 years, I have subsisted on no more than 5 hours of sleep a night. And that's on a good night. Last semester, when I was so insanely busy, I could function fairly coherently on 3. Even though I get tired, I can manage to push through it. Maybe that's not a big deal, but it sure seems like a miracle to me to have the luxury of  squeezing a few more hours out of each day.


*I finished school, as a single mother of four, at age 35. I graduated with honors. I am now looking towards grad school in the form of an MFA program. I am smart. And I was even accepted not only by my professors, many of whom were in my age range, but by all those 20-somethings I went to classes with.

*Despite having a heart condition, I am in the best shape of my life. I dance, I do step aerobics, I bike, I hike, I run, I kickbox, I lift weights. Twice last week, I ran UP A MOUNTAIN, then ran back down it again (then, one of those times, realized in my exuberant downhill running, my phone had fallen out of my pocket and I had to hike half way back up the mountain until I found it and then come down again...but that time I walked :) ). It was 7 miles of intense cardio. AND not too long ago, during a powered jab-cross-hook-hook combo in kickboxing class, I split the seams on the bag. That, in my mind, is the equivalent to killing a man with my bare hands. A very, very bad man.  And so what if I was just diagnosed with a stress fracture?  I'm going to ignore that for the time being admire my abs a little more ;)

*My boys are well-adjusted, charming, talented, and intelligent.  Not that they aren't loud like kids can be, or sullen from time to time, or able to make it through an entire day without having an argument of some kind, plus they can't hit the toilet to save their lives....but they're good, they're resilient. They love God and life and  the people around them. We have sooper-dooper adventures together. They'll dance silly with me and let me dress them up. They are my heart.


*I have fabulous hair! Frequently people stop to ask me what color of red I use because it's too red to be believable but not Rhianna crayon red either. It's *superhero red*.  Which is better than the gray it would be if I let it grow out. (the answer, by the way, is Natural Instincts Medium Auburn washed only with sulphate-free shampoo and glazed with John Friedman product daily to keep it shiny... :) ).

*There are lots of leaves to crunch right now. And I will go out of my way to step on every one.

*I am on the cusp of some really amazing opportunities as a writer and poet. I feel like I've honed my craft just about enough to start on that piece that's going to make the break through to publishing for me. I have a great support system of talented local writers/poets to draw on (Alan Heathcock, Anthony Doerr, Mitch Wieland, Brady Udall, Janet Holmes, J. Reuben Appelman) as well as some great friends who are at the same stage as I am in their writing. Pretty sure in the next 10 years, we'll be taking over as the local mentors for younger writers. That's cool.

*Pumpkin pie exists

*I own 7 pairs of fabulous boots, all bought over the last three years at least 1/2 price.

*When I lay my head down on my pillow at night, no matter how many worries or troubles might be crowding around in it, there is an overall feeling of contentment. A re-assurement I've lived that day void of offense toward God or man. Lived it to the fullest.

Yup.

All Good.
Now go find your own nuggets of joy :)

jumble

Sunday, Dr. Yummy, the boysquad, and I had dessert with some dear friends I hadn't seen in probably a year. They're those type of friends that no matter how long you've been apart, you still pick right back up where you left off when you do get together again.  Aren't those types of friends just the BEST?! :)

Anyway, one of those friends was asking me what I was doing now, after graduation and in life, in general. I think her mouth kind of dropped open a bit as I kept adding and adding things to the list of what I do. I run my interior design business with two projects booking me out till September. I work full time for the PR/Marketing Firm. I freelance write for Fusion Magazine. I will be starting my graduate level Poetry class and assistant teaching position at the university this week. I'm preparing to take the GRE (grad school exam) and putting together another writing portfolio to submit in the next few months. I write spotlights on various women at my church. I volunteer at the Veteran's Retirement Home weekly. I still run 25 miles a week. I still run my house and my yard and my bills.

Did you see what was missing from that list?....

I did.

When people used to ask me what I did, though my interests have always been varied and I've always worked to build on my talents, I only had one answer: I'm a mom.

I am still a mom. Really, I am. Even if it wasn't the first thing that came out my mouth on Sunday. I don't know how good of one anymore being so busy, and yet--I don't really have much of a choice. Nearly everything I'm doing, I'm doing for the boys: to stay physically and emotionally healthy, balanced, and socially engaged. To garner the education, skills, and experience I need to build a career that will provide adequately for them and afford me a flexible work schedule so I can continue to be there for them as much as possible--to drive them to school in the morning, see their performances, take them to church every Sunday. It's still not ideal. It's still not what I would choose for my boys. But it's the best I can do for now, and pray God will make up the difference.

Today marked a huge milestone for us:

 I now have no kids at home.

J started all day kindergarten. He was my last one at home. Somehow, someway, in the blinking of an eye...my baby grew up. I've always homeschooled kids through kindergarten but don't get the opportunity with  him :(.  I think he'll do fine...he sure was excited about today, but it marks the start of the period of his life when a teacher will see him more than I do. When opinions his friends and peers have will begin to shape his thoughts about himself. When he will have to give up so much of his independence to fit into a schedule. So bittersweet.


I just hope in the jumble of all my life is and may still become before it settles down a bit more, I don't miss this precious time. I like to think of myself as one who treasures the moments and appreciates the present, I also realize I need to work harder to create more opportunities for quiet time together with my two  youngest the way I had with my two oldest boys. And remember my two oldest STILL need that kind of time with me and to find those opportunities as well.

I really don't know how it's all going to work. I'm just one person, and no matter how capable I am, I still have my limits. More than I'd like to admit. I just stay committed to the fact that no degree of success I may achieve outside the home could ever compensate were I to fail within it.

My boys are my life, my heart, my joy, my trial, my wisdom, my all.....may this always be a sentiment I back up with my actions.

happy

I am really happy right now. I mean, I always have been--that's a blessing promised to all those who anchor their trust in a Higher Power (which I have diligently done)--therefore, I've always been given a steady, peaceful, "somehow- everything-is-going-to-be-ok-even-if-it-seems-impossible-right-now-and-besides-there's-always-the-next- life" type of happy. But, every now and then--it's nice to get a big bucket of good old- fashioned worldly kind of happy dumped on your head. The peace is still there, but now it's also got little smiling guys made of glitter and rainbows dancing a jig and eating ice cream on top of it. It's Ben and Jerry happy. It's clean sheet night happy. It's just found $20 in the pocket of those pants you haven't worn in 6 months happy. It's snuggled up with my boys reading Frog and Toad stories and laughing happy.

I'm finally starting to see some good things come together just when God told me they would. Yup. He did....

For the first year and a half after my divorce, my scriptures (and any other sets I would read from) seemed to fall open to this random verse. I think I ignored it or chalked it up to coincidence the first two times it happened, but by the third time, I thought, hmmmm....God seems to be trying to talk to me here. The verse simply said: "And now, verily I say unto you, that it is not expedient that you should go until your children are provided for...And after a few years, if thou desirest of me, thou mayest go up also unto the goodly land, to possess thine inheritance."

In and of itself, it doesn't say much. And if you put it in context of the situation it occurred, it really, REALLY didn't make sense as relating to me. There are certainly more inspiring, prettier verses than that one, right? But it was the way it spoke to my heart that made me know how significant it was to me personally. I didn't know exactly what "providing for my children" meant, though I assumed it was probably temporal and equated with my finishing school. I still did my best to meet that requirement though, by providing for them spiritually and emotionally to the very best of my ability these last 3 years. And as for the "goodly land" part, well, I first found the scripture while I was still dating Haute Cakes and wondering how we were ever going to make it work-- how to buy the house in California, sell mine here, and get the boys and I moved down there. Again, it seemed like my finishing school was the key to making things work.

For so many reasons I knew I Must. Finish. School.


Now....I'm finished with school....and guess what?

I graduated on Saturday. And by Monday...I had four jobs.

1, 2, 3, 4 (!!!!)


I landed the coveted PR/Marketing position, beating out far more qualified individuals than myself. I was signed on to freelance for a very cool new lifestyle and entertainment magazine starting in my city. I still have my job writing for the web design company. And, on the day I took my interior decorating firm 'off hiatus', I had three people call and want me to start work on significant projects for them. I will probably have to work all four of these jobs for a while, but I don't even care because a. they're all fabulous and b. I've garnered some pretty mad multi-tasking skillz after this last semester which would be a shame to let go to waste.

I can see now how so many things worked together to get me here: meeting certain people who introduced me to other people who pulled a few strings for me because they knew I was capable and hardworking; stumbling into the whole world of freelance and promotional writing like I did; discovering and developing talents I didn't know I had.  Now don't get me wrong--this is all exciting and such, but more than anything I love being a mom. It is my heart. I would give up every worldly achievement just to know that I did right by my kids. I wish I could continue stay at home with them, even homeschool again, but--if I need to provide for their needs as the scripture directed, then how can I not be grateful that God has been so generous with ways to do that? The boy squad and I will figure out how to make it all work so that I can still be here when they need me, and, hopefully, even when they don't. To be there at those crossroads. We'll hold on to our good routines. We'll keep praying together. We'll do hard things together. "That which we persist in doing becomes easier for us to do, not that the nature of the thing itself has changed, but that our ability to do it has increased."

And as for the "goodly land" being California? Well, I still wouldn't mind a move there. Especially when it is  SNOWING on us here in Idaho in mid-May(!) Plus, the perks of being able to ride my longboard year round, write poems about the jacaranda trees in bloom, eat TK turkey burgers, shop for cheap junk at IKEA, and put my feet in the warm sand while staring out across the ocean at what appears to be forever. *Contented sigh* The jobs I will be working would all transfer really well. And there are some pretty great MFA programs over in that direction...  Maybe in a year or so. We'll see. Haute Cakes may not be an option anymore but he sure did get me hooked on the "goodliness" of his land :)

It's always nice to have something to plan for whether or not it comes to pass.

And now the lesson I learned which I hope you will believe is true for yourself, too: God let me walk until my feet gave out. Then He let me crawl until I didn't think I could last one more minute. Then He let me see that even that broken, with His help, I could go a little futher still. Then He picked me up...and He carried me. Just like He promised to do. I'm sorry if I ever doubted.

i do not want to be in a league or out of a league. where does one sign up for the switzerland of leagues?

Told to me by a cutie pie, 23 year old, poet friend of mine tonight: "i'm surprised you even date people, i would just expect them to fall in love. "

aaaaaw....shucks.

Of course, I did bake him some fabulous Snickerdoodles a few weeks ago, and we share a mutual affinity for Herman Dune, and I also donated a bit of money to help him bike from here to Joshua Tree National Forest this summer where he will stop and write poetry all along the way for his MFA submission. But I'd like to think it was more just that he's known me for a year (one semester of which he sat by me in two classes) and has heard me ramble on about all kinds of stuff and noticed when I was silent and seen me kick the head off a challenge like I was Bruce Lee. And just noted that I'm *pretty nifty* in my own, unassuming way.

So, I smiled to myself for about an hour until another friend of mine--an older, wiser friend--told me concerning another guy I had taken a very tentative, slow-paced, but wow he's neat-o(!) and maybe something in time-type interest in, that he was:"definitely out of [my] league and I shouldn't even try. Honestly."


aaaaaaaw......poo.

Stupid leagues that replaced my smile with a weepy scowl :S (reference post title)

And then I just got angry at myself...Because aren't I supposed to be that woman who doesn't care what people think of her--good or bad? No gray dots? No gold stars? Remember? Am I not one whose self-esteem is supposed to stay firmly anchored in what God thinks of me?

Yeah, that's me. Except sometimes I forget. Usually when there's something I would like that appears to be out of my reach and I can't help but think:

If only I were
*prettier
*smarter
*more talented
*wealthier
*better built
*younger
*faster
*stronger
*mini-vanless
*better at video games
*made of adamant
and/or
*able to breathe fire and shoot lasers out of my eyes
THEN it/he/pot of gold at the end of the rainbow/passionate affair with Alan Rickman would be mine.

I need to knock that off, don't I?

So, I consoled myself with some poetry writing about the unequal game of attraction. And a bowl of chocolate mini-wheats. And a little Ralph Stanley singing "Oh Death." And then I made a list of goals I want to accomplish this summer because if I'm starting to have time to feel down about myself, I clearly don't have enough to do (though, I must insert tangent here: my choice of free time activities post school being over has been hilarious. It's like I forgot what free time was and what one should do with it. I cleaned my oven. I read up on the art of millinery. I watched two Wilford Brimley movies. I scrubbed my longboard deck with a toothbrush. And I put tape on the cat's paws and let him entertain me for a while).

ANYWAY,
this summer I want to:

-Read the Old Testament

-Serve someone daily

-Start going to bed before 3 am

-Hit the skate park with the boy squad every morning  until it gets too hot that even the sullen, skinny jeans kids have to come early to get any skating in.

-Tabata train myself to 20% body fat (also doing this so I can eat lemon meringue pie. I'm just sayin')

-Try camping. one. more. time. even. though. i. am. horrible. at. it. and. the. forest. hates. me.

-Take my sorry self on a much earned vacation to celebrate my graduation/birthday/Thursday. And where I promise not to work really, hardly at all, except for talking Volt at a few bookstores

-Engage in creative writing every day and submit for publication weekly

-Work my tail off (except on that vacation) to remind my boss why he should still love me after 4 1/2 months of doing only so-so work in the midst of my busy-ness with school.

And as far as judging my worth or looks based on whether someone likes me or doesn't?  Well--I can't say that I'll stop doing that right away. It's just one of the pitfalls of being single and trying to be brave enough not to take myself completely out of the dating game although I usually feel like a trout swimming in a big pond with a bunch of those gorgeous goldfish with the billowy tails and gleaming scales. Yet, I know, if you catch me and you hold me up to the light in just the right way, you will see that I'm all rainbow.

Oh yeah...and lookie here....told you I did it :)

SO, put that in your pipe and smoke it :)

i. am. done. but this is a good thing. finally.

Stats for this semester: $750 in overload fees,10 classes, 25 credits, 27 books, 17 major papers, 4 major projects completed despite 1 MFA rejection, 1 ulcer, 1 kidney stone, 1 PTSD episode, and 1 broken heart (metaphorically and literally), and with the help of 4 wonderful boys, 8 close friends, and a Ninja. I cannot wait to shake the hands of the 2 PhD's that said I couldn't do it. Cause me and my 3.85 GPA did. Mmmhmmm.


This Saturday I put on my graduation robes, and my leather pants (because this is *me* we're talking about) and I walk the line. Like I'm Johnny Cash.

And just so you don't think I'm going to go soft now that I've done the stated impossible: I have round two of a job interview for a coveted PR/Marketing job tomorrow, a meeting to be brought on board to freelance with a new local entertainment and lifestyle magazine on Tuesday, two interior design jobs lined up, and the web design company I write for that just expanded into my area. Continuing to write and submit fiction and (fingers crossed) get this durned poetry manuscript published at some point and get into an MFA. Using every third Tuesday to work on that smart phone app to cure cancer. Plus, still rocking the best Mom in the world job by doing things like letting my kids play on the roof, liquefy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and pretend to eat light bulbs...all in the name of art (Z and E now have their own YouTube channel. And they have clearly inherited my ?!?! sense of humor. Oh my.)

Also, while not letting him do the legal change he requested, I have conceded to let 5 year old J go by the name he has chosen for himself: Spike Volcano Poprock, even though the school district would not let me register him for kindergarten under it. The one bastion of normality in our family remains L, who--even at only 7--asks to sit at a different table than us when we go to restaurants. Bless his "I'm going to grow up to be an accountant and undo this damage with extensive therapy" heart :)

Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks for the support, kind readers--especially over the last 4 1/2 months, but over the last 4 1/2 years as well. Thanks for putting up with my spotty postings and even spottier commenting on your blogs. Thanks for loving me through my tangents. Thanks for loving me though, at times, my emotions appear to be like the scene in Tangled when Rapunzel has her first day out and spends it intermittently weeping and then twirling circles in the grass. Thanks for the countless prayers you've sent up on my behalf, the countless emails and gifts you've sent, and for T who sent me the most awesome birthday/graduation card combo featuring pastel-colored cats. Whatever victories I've experienced, or may yet experience, you all share a part in.  

I love my life. I love how it surprises me, love how it scares me, love how it makes me laugh, love how it drops wonderful new people in my lap, love even how it kicks my bum and keeps me humble just because it can. Of myself I can do nothing, but with God, nothing is impossible. I can now not only say that with deep faith, but hold up this chunk of my life as an example.

the final stretch

Three weeks of school left. Just three. Four more major papers to write. A few more novels to read. One project. One Shakespeare performance. Two more online class sessions. Fifty hours of internship. And a film treatment. Then I. am. done.

And I am a bit lot terrified.

It seems like just yesterday I was making the announcement that I'd decided to go back to school. I thought I only had a year to finish up, but changing majors turned out to be more work than I thought, as did having to juggle mothering, working, and taking classes when I could squeeze them in--preferrably without having to find child care. So...three years later, here I am.

I am amazed at how quickly and thoroughly school became my world. Everywhere I go on campus, I know or am known by someone. I love eating oatmeal with vanilla milk in the campus Starbucks between classes, reading poetry and chatting with friends and professors as they come and go. I love that I am aware of the comfy black chair on the 4th floor of the library that I can grab a quick nap in (assuming the homeless guy isn't already sleeping in it). I love being stretched to my absolute limits physically, mentally, and creatively---and rising to the challenge to produce something better than I thought I could. I love being surrounded by intelligent, funny, like-minded individuals who appreciate my quirks--including the time I danced to Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" for a class project. I love that I can ride my longboard to class if I'm running late. I love that a classmate once called me a hipster. Because usually, at 35, this is not the social classification one is put into :).

I feel safe at school. I feel like I have found my niche there. I have my own parking spot.

---I don't want to leave.---

But I kind of need to be paid some money now instead of paying it.

So, May 14 I put on my robes. And that gold braided honor's cord I earned through my blood, sweat, tears, and 25-credits-in-one-semester-calloused-fingertips. And I walk the line. And I say good bye to my comfort zone.

When I put a picture to this point in my life, it is of me standing on the edge of a cliff, my back to the gray green water far below. My arms are outstretched and my eyes are closed, swayed breath and the thump of heart fierce in my ears. Now I'm leaning backwards, further, further, tipping over the edge, sun on my face, impressed by the way my body carves through the air, impressed at my bravery. I don't know what it's going to feel like to hit...but the fall is amazing.

Here's to the final stretch and to the next adventure ahead. Somehow, someway, I am going to find out how to provide for myself and my sweet boy squad. Failure might be a forced stop along the way, but it will never be the final destination.

Thank you all  so much for the generous support you've given me, my decision making, my gumption, and my writing during these past years. I'll think of you as my hand grasps that diploma.

why i am (mostly) ok with not getting into the MFA program

Dear Ms. Peterson, We have given your candidacy very careful consideration, but are sorry to say your application was not a finalist. The interest in our MFA program was very high this year, etc. etc. Wishing me the best. And...the end.


I only had a 1 in 150 chance of getting in, assuming they were going to take someone from the university to begin with. If not, I had a 0 in 300 chance. Not very good odds. And I was up against some fierce competition. And I only really felt comfortable with half of what I submitted. And it was the literary equivalent of a kamikaze run to only apply to one school. So, I honestly didn't expect to get in anyway. But dang! If it didn't still hurt. Like, a whole lot.

I suppose most of the pain stems from the cold, hard truths that yet another "no" presses out of me:  That I am pushing 36 years old. Whatever youthful optimism or beauty I once had has been slowly bled out of me over the last few years of cruel, harsh reality. I have no idea where I am going to go or what I am going to do to provide for my precious children. I have lost my father. My mother. Lost close friends to death or distance. I've lost my husband. I've lost a good deal of my health. I've lost the few relationships I've been in. I will more than likely soon lose my home. And now I've lost the one foreseeable path I had to accomplishing my dream of being the type of writer I want to be. People whose talent I very much respect looked at what I put hundreds upon hundreds of hours into writing and said, "Not good enough." Will my best ever be good enough for anyone or anything?!

God...I will go where you want me to go and do what you want me to do, but please tell me you're still there and still mindful of me. Please tell me that there is still some purpose in my acting, that I do not have to surrender to being acted upon.

Boo hoo. Poor me. Enough self-deprecating already, I know. Sometimes I just have to get it out of my system.

Despite not having the time to do so, I sat down and re-read all of John Gardner's "On Becoming a Novelist". It was one of the books that first inspired me to chase this dream in the first place. Only this time, I read a portion of it I hadn't before--the foreword, written by Raymond Carver. And this is what it said:

"So along with this desire to get an education, I had this very strong desire to write; it was a desire so strong that, with the encouragement I was given in college, and the insight acquired, I kept on writing long after "good sense" and the "cold facts"--the "realities" of my life told me, time and again, that I ought to quit, stop the dreaming, quietly go ahead and do something else."

And may I remind you that was Raymond freaking Carver?! Who soon went on to become the darling of the literary world for over a decade? I'm sure every great novelist or short story writer has said at some point, "I should give up". But they don't.

Not that I expect Carver-esque fame, but I KNOW I am a passable writer. Better than the average bear, even. The MFA seemed like the most probable way to get me to where I wanted to be, with the joyous added benefit of teaching, but I can go on and get better with or without it. Not all publishers care if you've got an MFA stuck after your name.

Ninja promised to take me to the gun range to shoot the rejection letter. That sounds therapeutic.


Something will come along, right? And who knows. Maybe, just maybe, I've got enough gumption left in me to apply one more time.

i've had the time of my life...with no dancing involved (or very little, with my mop, when no one else could see me)

I've been one busy girl this week. I mean, busy is the normal state of things around here, but this week kicked it up a notch. Yet, I've been going through the hustle and bustle (and excessive amounts of sitting on my bum in front of the computer writing papers) with a genuine smile. And why is that you ask? Because of this...

Remember when I said that I'd been working (for free) as the local publicist for an author? Well...March 1st was the book's debut! Of course, even before then it was #8 on Barnes and Noble's Paperback Bestsellers List. Yup. It was selling like hotcakes in pre-orders. It's also received rave national reviews from anyone and everyone--probably several from authors you know and love.

I'm not a book reviewer by any means. I read something really great and I fall in love with the language, or the characters, or the style, or the imagery, (or all of it) and I can't really find words to express how great it is, at least none that would even begin to compare to what the author has already put down. I'm the one in my literature classes saying, "I loved it...just because!" The best comparison I could come up with for Volt was the first time I listened to Pink Floyd's "The Wall"...

I first heard it when I was 16, an exchange student in Germany. I was on an hour long train ride with my  friend who had fallen asleep. The day was overcast and drizzley. I leaned my head onto the rain-cool window, the landscape a smear of worn metal gray and wet green. I hit Play on my Walkman. "In the Flesh" seeped through to my ears, set a mood like being in vice grip. The feeling never broke and never let go. When it was done, I felt permanently altered, and all I could think was Again! Again! That's exactly the way reading Al's book effected me. I left the last page a changed woman, heavy with the exchange of the human experience--but in a good way. Maybe it's because I know the author and know his booming, ever-kind personality is so far removed from the rather dark characters he's created. Maybe it's because of that I can fully recognize the genius behind what it took to write the book. But mostly I think it's just good because...it's good. For anyone. Period.

Now here's the encouragement for me as a writer: Al has tried to write several novels and had them collapse in on themselves. Out of the ashes of those collapses, he plucked eight, nearly perfect short stories that fit together. He carried them around for ten years, working and re-working them. He taught all he'd learned, and continued to learn in the process, with his students, helping them to become better writers as well. He lived a very modest life, rich with family, and then one day...BAM! It happened for him. One story published, then another, and another. They started getting picked up by bigger anthologies. They started winning prizes. They started getting translated. Graywolf Press signed him on. And the next thing he knew, he was holding the first copy of his first book. Success!!!

photo from the Idaho Writers Guild

Which means...there's hope. For me. For all writers. Continuous practice, steady improvement, tenacity, and optimism...it will all yield you good things in writing and in life.

So, tomorrow I will be attending the glamorous launch party for Volt, in the company of the best writers our state has to offer (like Anthony Doerr who just won the coveted Story Prize in New York last night!). There will be awesome music. And hipster pizza. And a bar I will not drink from, but will still be as giddy as though I had a little alcohol in me :). My date will be my best girlfriend. I will wear my purple dress. And life will be good.

I'm proud of what I've been able to achieve as this book's local publicist, despite taking 24 other credits to boot, and ever grateful to Al for giving me the chance to show what I could do.

And if I never achieve this level of success for myself, at least I can say I've had the bestseller experience.

Now...for Pete's sake! Go out and buy this book or download it onto your reader already! It's less than $10. Read it in your book clubs. Read it for yourself. Just read it. :)

how much is your life worth?

One of my classes this semester is called "Senior Seminar". No one really knows what the purpose of it is. It pretty much covers all the same material we went through in the "English Majors Seminar" we took as Freshmen, but the school requires it nonetheless. Thus far it's been a mishmash of reading short stories, writing brief fiction, discussion groups on what type of jobs we can get with our degree (which have been so illustrious as "grocery check out person" and "department store clothes folder") and at least an hour of every class is dedicated to....listening. To our professor. And stories of his life. And he's got a lot of them.

Really good ones, thank heavens.

 He got his MFA at the University of Montana back when Richard Hugo was teaching there (swoon). He was a smoke jumper (a firefighter who jumps out of a plane into the middle of a forest fire). Back in the late 80's, he wrote and delivered commentaries for NPR in Washington DC. But he is most famous for his choice in a wife. Her:

Not Christa McAullife--the teacher/astronaut who perished in the Challenger Space Shuttle in 1986, but the woman with her. The back-up teacher/astronaut, Barbara Morgan. Which meant he was there, amongst the other astronauts' families, the day the space shuttle exploded. Just a few weeks ago--on the 25th anniversary of the disaster, he recounted his first-hand events to us; and of the mixed joy he and his wife felt when, in 2007, she finally got to fly the mission she'd trained so hard for. Quite the "where were you when it happened?" recollection. Pretty somber stuff.


But he had another recollection that caught my attention. It happened one day, after he had completed an NPR piece on smoke jumper training, culminating in him doing a live radio-telecast of a jump. He received a call. It was an NBC news correspondent who was offering $50,000 for the rights to the stories of my professor's life. All of them.

If he took the deal, he would never again be able to write about his own life. Someone else would own the right to put to pen all his experiences, in whatever way they chose. But still...

$50,000 (!!!) ....

That's a lot of  income for a man trying to support a wife and family on the salary of a writer. Even semi-prestigious writers like he was, don't make a lot of money.

My professor said he didn't have to think about it too long. He answered....

No.

His life didn't have a price. He wanted his stories to remain his own.

Which leads me to this....

Recently, I've been nudged in the direction by several people I admire to compile a memoir type novel of my life, and specifically my experience of betrayal, divorce, and healing. I have toyed with the idea myself. It's good, sad, reflective, funny stuff. The only problem is, well....it's all here. Just about everything I would have to say in a non-fiction type novel is already on this blog to read. For free. 587 posts over the last 4 years. Yup. That's a lot of me.

I can't help but include bits and pieces of my real life experiences in the fiction I write, but I like that they're mixed with made up stuff and conglomerations of other people I've known or have wanted to know. And even if I never make a single cent off any of them, I'm glad my stories are all mine to share. That's priceless :)

How about you? Is there a set amount of money you'd accept for the stories of your life?

housewives of plymouth colony

I'm sure if the Bravo channel (or television) existed in the 1600's, they would have carried "The Housewives of Plymouth Colony". Because these were some tuff chicks. Most of them came from wealthy, comfortable backgrounds and dutifully followed their husbands across the ocean to settle the harsh and untamed wilderness of New England.

I've had to read a lot of Early American literature this semester, and it's eerie just how similar the voices in all the stories, journals, and poetry are:

*Your house and all your worldly possessions burn down: Praise God


*Your children die one by one from starvation, cold, and, dysentery: Praise God


*Half your family gets hatchet-ed in the head in front of your eyes during an Indian attack: Praise God


*Your haven't heard from your husband who left for business months ago and fear him shipwrecked: You got it....Praise God.

God and His will were pondered in every thought. Searched for in every instance. Most in my class laugh at these women, saying they used God as "a crutch", as if their own fortitude and ingenuity counted for nothing. And, I, sitting mostly silent, couldn't help but think....

But, the women were right.

God is in everything. Without Him, life would just be sad and hard and meaningless. In fact, I found I could relate a WHOLE lot to Puritan Pilgrim women.

One in particular spoke to me as if she and I were kindred spirits swapping stories. Her name was Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, the wife of a minister in the town of Lancaster, Massachusetts. Not only do we share the same after effects of a quaint 17th century sickness, but we share the same passion towards trying to make sense of our heavy proportion of trial through words.

In 1676, while her husband was away, Mary's house was attacked and burned by Wampanoag Indians. Her sister, brother-in-law, young nephew, and many of her neighbors were killed in front of her.She herself was shot in the side, and the seven year old daughter she was holding was also shot (and died in her arms days later). The Indians took her and 24 others captive, separating them, and marching them about the woods and countryside --changing camps twenty times. During that time, she was badly wounded, near starving, mocked, freezing, beaten, put to hard labor, and ever unsure if she would be allowed live from day to day. They told her they had killed her husband and eaten her son. 

One kind Indian gave her a Bible he had stolen in exchange for her knitting him a pair of socks. That book became her sole comfort and possession. After three months, she was finally released for the ransom of 20 pounds that her husband (who wasn't killed after all, nor was her son) and many others worked to raise. Seven years later, she decided to write her story.

 I imagine if blogs existed back then, she probably would have had one and used it to reach out to others who had been through similar experiences, as she often described feeling separate from those around her due to the nature of what she had passed through and the changes it wrought upon her mind and spirit.

I can relate.

 Though a 400 year age gap divides us, what she wrote could easily be something I wrote:

"Before I knew what affliction meant, I was ready sometimes to wish for it. When I lived in prosperity, having the comforts of the world about me, my relations by me, my heart cheerful, and taking little care for anything; and yet seeing many, whom I preferred before myself, under many trials and afflictions, in sickness, weakness, poverty, losses, and cares of the world, I should be sometimes jealous least I should have my portion in this life, for as the scriptures say "For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth" (Hebrews 12:6)"

So she was saying that she thought herself too blessed and wondered if God didn't love her enough to inflict her a bit since it was that affliction, she believed, that set apart the best people she knew. Have you ever wished that? Or maybe sought to find problems in your life--the one that is actually pretty darn perfect?  Anyway, she goes on,

"But now I see the Lord had his time to scourge and chasten me. The portion of some is to have their affliction by drops, now one drop and then another; but ...like a sweeping rain that leaveth no food did the Lord prepare to be my portion. Affliction I wanted and affliction I had, full measure, pressed down and running over. Yet I see, when God calls a person to anything, He is fully able to carry them through and make them see and say the have been gainers thereby."

How I have felt a similar flood of trial pour into my life over the last six years! How, too, have I felt that divine carrying. And then...the unexpected blessings that come from such a period in life-- according to Mary, and myself. The blessing of perspective, of patience, of a strength inside you never thought possible. The blessing of refinement:

"If trouble from smaller matters begin to arise in me, I have something at hand to check myself with, and say, why am I troubled? I have learned to look beyond present and smaller troubles, and to be quieted under them. As Moses said, "Stand still and see the salvation of the Lord."

True in 1685. True today. So, may you ever be grateful should your trials come not at all, or gradually, in drops. But ever grateful, too, should you be in the midst of a flood of trial. It can all be anointed to your good. And really, it's probably not as bad as being a slave to hostile Indians. Yup. :)

an open letter to my life

Dear Life,
This is a rather fragile friendship we maintain, isn't it? Sometimes I feel like you pull me out of bed each morning just to stomp on me--which isn't very nice of you, but I understand you must be a little bit angry with me for all those small, perfect gifts you've given me that I sometimes don't say thank you for...or even notice. That's not very nice of me. And then there's the matter of those opportunities you've laid in my lap that I've accidentally dropped.

I'm really sorry about that, Life. I'm trying to do better.

You saw what I did this week, right? That was pretty awesome--the way I grabbed hold of you with both hands! The way I only slept eight hours total in three nights and wrote and edited my heart out. Then, you saw how--despite being nervous to the point of being sick--I took my graduate school application writing portfolio...and turned it in? I just let it go and trusted that you and your college frat buddies, Luck and Fate, would either make it happen or not. That was big for me, Life. It really was. I know I only have a 1 in a 150 chance of getting in, and those odds are scary, but thanks for reminding me that it could be me. Why not, right?  And also that, no matter what happens, you will go on.

I appreciate that you go on, Life. I do. Celine Dion really should have written that song about you and not her heart. Although it probably would still have been annoying.

I know you're busy and all, so I won't keep you much longer. But can I just say that one day I would really like to meet you face to face. You see, it's been a little difficult for me to picture what you would look like. Thus far, these are the details I have to work with. You are:

* a bowl of cherries (that I shouldn't take seriously).
*a giver of lemons that I should make into lemonade.
* a thrower of curve balls
*a dealer of cards
* a highway that I should want to ride all night long.
*hard
*tough
*short
*scary
*an old magazine
*a tasty breakfast cereal
and
*a board game.

Sometimes, Life, just before I fall asleep, I think I see you. And you look like this....

Please don't look like this, Life. Just, please.

Because I've also heard that you are
*beautiful
*good
and
*full of surprises
and I should like to have a long, passionate love affair with you until, when I am old and gray and laying in my golden bed atop my money-stuffed mattress with Alan Rickman and Sportacus at my side and all my National Book Award medals draped around my neck....you leave me. And my final words will be-- "Life. You sure were something!"

Your enduring friend,
~Jennifer P.

purpose-driven whining

I got an anonymous commenter the other day on one of my older posts. He/she/it said "Stop Whining." Well, thank you Anonymous! I will try to send help since you are clearly being held hostage and FORCED to read my blog against your will. Sheesh. I'm not mad, just laughing at the variety of rather mean comments left over the years under the cover of anonymity. You can't please everyone.

I realize much of what I have written lately is heavy, kind of sad, and yes...maybe even borderline whiney. This is my place to vent. To let out the sadness and the anger and the fear and the frustration like a long, calming exhale. I let it go with a little prayer that writing about what I am struggling with and what I'm learning in those struggles might benefit someone else besides myself. When something happy or funny happens or comes to mind, I am just as excited to share, and hope that gets recognized.

I start classes again today--two intersession ones to make up for the 4 extra credits I was denied taking next semester. Learning about Media and Entrepreneurial Marketing wasn't exactly how I planned on spending my Christmas vacation, but seems to be another one of those things that "just is" and will have to be worked around--and which will probably be more interesting than I expect. I asked my ex if he would be willing to take another 6-9 evening with the boys in addition to the two he already has, just until the break is over. There was also an entire Friday I needed him to take them for an all day workshop class I was required to be at. AND I had to sit down to draw up a chart to finalize who will be watching my little J and at what days/times next semester. Nothing like carving up your children between their parents as if they were Christmas ham, eh?

If there is any one thing I will probably struggle my entire life to forgive Brad for, it would be that, through his unabashed selfishness, he took my boys away from me, took away my blessing of full-time mothering, and forced me to hand them off to others for waaaay too long, waaaaay too often. Good, kind caretakers, yes---but none of them me. And there is just no substitute for mom.


When I was married, I understood that Brad worked. He worked very, very hard for the benefit of the boys and me. I was not always happy about his long hours; in fact, it was one of the few things we argued about. I missed him, the kids missed him, and I worried constantly about the effects that such long hours and very little sleep were having on his physical health. But I also understood that because of his hard work, I was blessed to stay home with the boys. I never took that blessing lightly. I liked to believe that we were first in Brad's heart, but that life's circumstances required him to put work first. I got that. We adapted. He worked, I took care of the boys and the home. We made good use of our time together. It was a good system.

And now--once I enter the workforce, I, too, will have to put work first. And Brad will still have to put his work first. And then who will be around to put the boys first? Yes--they can continue to be "first in my heart", but that doesn't mean that I will be available to stay with them when they get sick. Or that I could go to their musical performances in the middle of the day. All the little hugs and kisses and funny things I get to be a part of now, because I'm here--I won't get to be here for anymore. I am in tears thinking of all that I might, and most likely WILL, miss out on. It's just not fair to them. Or to me. I don't even have the benefit of my own mother--who would have been the best substitute--still living to help me.

It makes me really, really, really, really angry--like wishing I had something to throw and break angry--and I can count on one hand all the things that have ever flared my rage to that level. You don't mess with my babies.

I am going to continue to give the gifts to my children that I can. Make the best of little moments and simple traditions. Tell them every day that I would like nothing more in the entire world just to be home with them and hope they understand that I work out of need, not desire. I pray to be able to find some kind of job that will allow me to keep similar hours as them. And I pray that they still have a chance at feeling happy and safe in their childhoods. Any prayers you want to add to mine would be greatly appreciated. As Harriet Beecher Stowe said: "When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you, till it seems as though you could not hold on a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn."

One of these days things are bound to turn for the boy squad and me...because we've been holding on in that tight place a long, long time now. So call me a whiner if you will, but my heart is breaking and I use these words to release that break--and whatever portion of my anger will go with it, and seek a healing solution.