I recently came across a very brief post from Seth Godin that crystallized the past month of my life: You can't watch your parade if the house is on fire.
These days, I do feel like the house is on fire.
I am an introvert. I need quiet time away from people and activity to recharge. When my batteries get low, I fall into bad habits. I see problems as overwhelming and impossible to solve. I see myself as impotent, powerless. I retreat. I miss the parade.
I need to contain the fire in a controlled space, and then just leave it to burn itself out. Maybe I'll even throw some of the extra crap in my life on it...the stuff that I'd be better off without. The stuff that my family and friends would be better off if I didn't hang onto.
so............no more barriers. no more fires in the way. the decision is made. back to blogging. back to writing. write. daily. and watch the parade. and roast marshmallows by the fire as it burns.
Saturday, October 08, 2011
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
Stuff
It's been said that the fire extinguisher should be the only uni-tasker in your kitchen.
I
saw a "watermelon knife" on a morning TV segment the other day. It
purportedly removes the seeds from the watermelon as it cuts. For $25.
The way the knife is designed, there is no other thing this knife could
possibly do besides cut watermelon. Poorly, if i were to guess.
This watermelon knife symbolizes consumerism gone awry. Of the need to buy more and more and more. To measure your life based on the "stuff" you own. Just turn on an episode of "Mission: Organization" or "Hoarders" to see how extreme this can be.
In contrast, I found a great blog the other day where the guy posts photos and counts of every item he and his family own. They traveled the world with a one-year-old. With backpacks.
We can't see out the back of the SUV when we go away for a weekend.
True confession time.....we have a lot of stuff. More than we ought to have. We have storage spaces overflowing with crap. The closet is crammed tight with clothes we seldom wear. The path through the attic is narrow and treacherous.
We keep stuff out of fear (that we might need it in the future, that it might cost us more later, that we might forget where we came from), I mean, right now we have an extra CAR because of exactly that. So yeah, we have some cleaning out to do.
Anybody want to buy a 1999 Grand Cherokee? Low miles. Runs great. :)
I
saw a "watermelon knife" on a morning TV segment the other day. It
purportedly removes the seeds from the watermelon as it cuts. For $25.
The way the knife is designed, there is no other thing this knife could
possibly do besides cut watermelon. Poorly, if i were to guess.This watermelon knife symbolizes consumerism gone awry. Of the need to buy more and more and more. To measure your life based on the "stuff" you own. Just turn on an episode of "Mission: Organization" or "Hoarders" to see how extreme this can be.
In contrast, I found a great blog the other day where the guy posts photos and counts of every item he and his family own. They traveled the world with a one-year-old. With backpacks.
We can't see out the back of the SUV when we go away for a weekend.
True confession time.....we have a lot of stuff. More than we ought to have. We have storage spaces overflowing with crap. The closet is crammed tight with clothes we seldom wear. The path through the attic is narrow and treacherous.
We keep stuff out of fear (that we might need it in the future, that it might cost us more later, that we might forget where we came from), I mean, right now we have an extra CAR because of exactly that. So yeah, we have some cleaning out to do.
Anybody want to buy a 1999 Grand Cherokee? Low miles. Runs great. :)
Thursday, September 01, 2011
The Hitchhiker
Me:
Another one.
Hiding amongst the hairy clumps holding together tighter than velcro, he cautiously reaches with one leg, then slowly another, then pauses.
Movement is his enemy. What he doesn't understand: so is stillness. I easily pluck the hitchhiker from the dog's fur.
But then what? Do I squash him? End his time, return him to the ground, earth, landfill, buried in a pile of burrs and fur? Do I release him back to the woods to begin his immigration plans anew? To find a new leaf on which to wait for the dog's return and a new opportunity to sneak in? Next flight departing at 9:30 PM?
I don't know what this bug is. He is grasshopper-meets-praying-mantis, who then meets Rick Moranis. He is fragile. Even a gentle puff of air would wrest his clinging arms from a leaf. His chartreuse body is too small for any variation in color, legs stretch out like the bright green hairs of a 70's punk poseur.
* * *
Him:
the sudden turmoil. the dog brushes past my resting spot, the protected underbelly of a leaf. my world isn't the same. i hang on with all my strength, hide beneath a large boulder, cling to soft white branches the size of my arms.
this place is warm. different from the warmth of the sun; it feels like the rock in late afternoon; the sun is gone, but i feel its warmth gradually releasing. but different yet than that. this warmth stinks, too. and i'm moving far faster than i ever dreamed was possible. away from my leaf. from my family, from the territory i was born.
i bounce along, into the sun, no longer brushed by branches and leaves, the wind rushes through the soft white branches where i hide. a jolt, i'm flung down against the hot, pink ground and then back up into the air and it seems to land on a hard surface and screech to a stop with a thundering, deafening sound. sharp sounds shake the beast in twos and threes, and shortly is moves again.
not far this time, but the air changes. becomes cold and dry. unnatural. the light is strange now, the color is wrong, it comes from the wrong direction. Everything here is wrong, and it occurs to me that this may be the end. this is not where i am meant to be.
the dog takes me deeper into my doom; i realize that the farther he goes, my chances of getting out diminish. i need a plan.
* * *
Note: After extensive pre-dawn research, the hitchiker appears to be a katydid, although I'm still not entirely sure. There are no words to describe the creep-factor that now crawls up and down my spine from the various bug photos and websites that I've seen. Like a pastor says to a teenaged boy about porn...you can't un-see that. Seriously, guys, don't surf the web for bugs.
Another one.
Hiding amongst the hairy clumps holding together tighter than velcro, he cautiously reaches with one leg, then slowly another, then pauses.
Movement is his enemy. What he doesn't understand: so is stillness. I easily pluck the hitchhiker from the dog's fur.
But then what? Do I squash him? End his time, return him to the ground, earth, landfill, buried in a pile of burrs and fur? Do I release him back to the woods to begin his immigration plans anew? To find a new leaf on which to wait for the dog's return and a new opportunity to sneak in? Next flight departing at 9:30 PM?
I don't know what this bug is. He is grasshopper-meets-praying-mantis, who then meets Rick Moranis. He is fragile. Even a gentle puff of air would wrest his clinging arms from a leaf. His chartreuse body is too small for any variation in color, legs stretch out like the bright green hairs of a 70's punk poseur.
* * *
Him:
the sudden turmoil. the dog brushes past my resting spot, the protected underbelly of a leaf. my world isn't the same. i hang on with all my strength, hide beneath a large boulder, cling to soft white branches the size of my arms.
this place is warm. different from the warmth of the sun; it feels like the rock in late afternoon; the sun is gone, but i feel its warmth gradually releasing. but different yet than that. this warmth stinks, too. and i'm moving far faster than i ever dreamed was possible. away from my leaf. from my family, from the territory i was born.
i bounce along, into the sun, no longer brushed by branches and leaves, the wind rushes through the soft white branches where i hide. a jolt, i'm flung down against the hot, pink ground and then back up into the air and it seems to land on a hard surface and screech to a stop with a thundering, deafening sound. sharp sounds shake the beast in twos and threes, and shortly is moves again.
not far this time, but the air changes. becomes cold and dry. unnatural. the light is strange now, the color is wrong, it comes from the wrong direction. Everything here is wrong, and it occurs to me that this may be the end. this is not where i am meant to be.
the dog takes me deeper into my doom; i realize that the farther he goes, my chances of getting out diminish. i need a plan.
* * *
Note: After extensive pre-dawn research, the hitchiker appears to be a katydid, although I'm still not entirely sure. There are no words to describe the creep-factor that now crawls up and down my spine from the various bug photos and websites that I've seen. Like a pastor says to a teenaged boy about porn...you can't un-see that. Seriously, guys, don't surf the web for bugs.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Quitter, Unpacked
Well, it's a bit of an overstatement to actually say it's unpacked. Perhaps the title should actually be "Follow My Process of Unpacking The Quitter Conference Through The Overwhelming Sense of Being Slammed in the Face With a Firehose of Wisdom and Practical Advice." But I don't think too many people would read that. Which is OK since I'm posting this for me anyway.
About a month ago, I attended Jon Acuff's Quitter Conference in Nashville. One of the coolest things (and easiest) that Jon advised was to compile a Quitter Soundtrack....YAY! Day 1: DONE!!
Well, no, but.....as Jon says, "not only does a soundtrack pick you up, and energize, inspire, and encourage, but relating to song lyrics really can connect you in a visceral way to other creatives (unless you choose Milli Vanilli for your soundtrack. I don't know what that would say about you). Someone else sat in their own hustle-time and wrote that song. They felt those lyrics. And when the lyrics connect with exactly what I'm feeling, that's deep, man. Deep."
Over the past month, I've been gradually unpacking the conference in my head. So much content, so much value:
But then I realized that's not what hustle-time is really for; those things are all a trap set for me by that bully, fear. They are distractions.
"Match the right energy level to the right activity" means that when I try to pick through notes or fix itunes or listen to the dog begging to go out for the ninetyseventh time, I'm falling prey to the fear of producing. That's just me.
My morning hustletime MUST be about writing. Ink on paper. Pixels on a screen. Watch the word count and keep the fingers moving until it hits 550. (i do really love you, wordpress....)
Because if I don't produce, I'm not a writer.
"Dreamers are a dime a dozen; do-ers are rare." I will be a do-er.
(and i need four more words...)
About a month ago, I attended Jon Acuff's Quitter Conference in Nashville. One of the coolest things (and easiest) that Jon advised was to compile a Quitter Soundtrack....YAY! Day 1: DONE!!
- Catchafire - TobyMac
- Starry-Eyed Surprise - Paul Oakenfold
- Lift Me Up - Moby
Well, no, but.....as Jon says, "not only does a soundtrack pick you up, and energize, inspire, and encourage, but relating to song lyrics really can connect you in a visceral way to other creatives (unless you choose Milli Vanilli for your soundtrack. I don't know what that would say about you). Someone else sat in their own hustle-time and wrote that song. They felt those lyrics. And when the lyrics connect with exactly what I'm feeling, that's deep, man. Deep."
Over the past month, I've been gradually unpacking the conference in my head. So much content, so much value:
- The truthy things, like dreams take hard work, long hours, and sacrifice.
- The "what can I do RIGHT NOW" things, like make a soundtrack and spew words every day, good or bad, from my fingers into little dots of colored light. Scheduling daily time to hustle--put in the hard work and start producing.
- The tactical things, like scheduling posts and finding the *right* level of planning...somewhere between "stepping out in faith" (like Philip and the Ethiopian) and building a 72-step project plan with triple critical paths (like, uh, me).
- The "business-ey" things, like advice about building a platform and an amazing discussion by Ben Arment about hitting the Sweet Spot in the middle of passion, gifts, platform, and demand.
- The creative and inspirational things, like stories about how Jon got fired from the carnival where he didn't even really work, and discussion about the support that each of us needs to be the best that we can be....
But then I realized that's not what hustle-time is really for; those things are all a trap set for me by that bully, fear. They are distractions.
"Match the right energy level to the right activity" means that when I try to pick through notes or fix itunes or listen to the dog begging to go out for the ninetyseventh time, I'm falling prey to the fear of producing. That's just me.
My morning hustletime MUST be about writing. Ink on paper. Pixels on a screen. Watch the word count and keep the fingers moving until it hits 550. (i do really love you, wordpress....)
Because if I don't produce, I'm not a writer.
"Dreamers are a dime a dozen; do-ers are rare." I will be a do-er.
(and i need four more words...)
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Thin is in
I saw this photo recently and just wanted to throw up. (Ironic, huh?)
My girls have a unique balance of confidence and insecurity. I'm incredibly proud of both of them and of how often they manage to stand firm on their convictions, whether their peers agree or not. But other times, they are just as sucked in as everyone else. Thin sucks them in.
My girls have known what it's like to not have enough food.
We've been lucky. Neither of the girls has food-hoarding issues that so often come from years of living without. But it took quite a while for either of them to realize that as long as they ate dinner, they could pretty much eat whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted.
We keep well-stocked with reasonably healthy snacks and foods, plus the occasional bag of chips or cookies. Given the opportunity, of course, they would eat through a bag of chips like a pack of wild dogs...but in the absence, they don't complain, they just crank open a can of tuna.
So when Masha started eating half-portions of things, and Lena started complaining "I'm fat," I was a little surprised. More than a little. And despite doctors' assertions that they are both a perfectly healthy weight, both girls now battle with the insecurity that photos like this one shove in their faces.
The desire for "thin" has endured for too long. I don't think I've spoken to one person that thinks this is OK...so why the canyon between what we know to be right and what the media feeds us?
Are we that susceptible to the very marketers that prey on our insecurities? Seems that the fashion and the diet industries both profit, while our girls (and guys too) suffer and sometimes even die. How is that OK?
I have no illusion that I and the 12 readers of this blog can stomp into the Office of the Minister of High Fashion Marketing and say "stop this" and they will stop. Greater writers on much greater platforms than this have spoken out against this. News outlets around the world have done pieces. Everyone is informed.
Yet we still buy skinny jeans for our kids, Mattel still manufactures a Barbie with anatomically impossible proportions, Gap still stands up mannequins that couldn't stand up by themselves if they were live people.
Do you think the mother and her baby starving in Somalia think this is fashionable?
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