A Writer Afoot

Honor, opening volley

In yoga class last Friday, our teacher asked us to think of a word we'd like to use as a mantra or guiding principle over the course of 2008.  The word that popped into my mind, and stuck there like an annoying burr no matter how I tried to dislodge it, was honor.

Honor. No problem to think about that one, hmmm?  Honor yourself, others, the world.  Yes, yes, very good idea.  But as with all spiritual concepts, there is ever so much more to it when you start giving it real thought. And of course, I'm now tripping on ideas of honor at the click of every hour.

Reading a regular column called A Million Ways to Save the World in the new Oprah magazine, a line struck me like a thunderclap:  Forget self-esteem...focus on self-respect, says Diana de Vegh, a psychotherapist.

Not self-esteem, self-respect. It made me hear my father's voice in my head, exhorting me to be responsible, to think about the consequences of my actions (and, thankfully, he never allowed me to slide--if consequences were not forthcoming from external sources, he imposed them from within the family structure).   

Not self-esteem, self-respect. One implies unconditional love, which is fine in its place.  The other encourages esteem born of action and responsibility to self, others, the community and world.  Honor? 

I have been thinking far too often of one of the incidents from last week, about a person I am fond of who took a dramatic and destructive turn.  The consequences are terrible for her, and she was first in my prayers and sorrows, but as the days pass, I keep catching glimpses of the ripples that radiate outward from her, and how many different people are affected in small and large ways.  She most of all, of course, but we all choose our paths, one way or another, and so did she.  Those around her did not choose but will be forced to deal with the fall-out.  Her actions have consequences.

I'm sure many of you have heard about the plagiarism discussion surrounding a historical romance writer, who was outed on an irreverent romance review website. (I am not going to contribute to the fire by adding links or names--that is not the point here.) There are dishonorable actions all around on this one--the plagiarism is wrong, and should rightfully have been reported.  But with power comes responsibility, and the glee of the exposers is in poor taste.  The body of journalism law and ethics has developed for a reason, out of trial and error. Plagiarism is a crime that must be reported whenever it is discovered. That is responsible.  Continuing to hoot and holler over the crime after reporting makes it feel about as appealing as a couple of sixth graders kicking a dead deer on the side of the road.

Also, Madeline L'Engle says, "If you don't do your work, it might not ever get done."  My minister (whom I seem to be quoting a lot here recently) says over and over, "Do what is yours to be done." 

Simple, clear, straightforward, and like a powerful sword, the idea carries both redemption and crusade.  If you do your work, it then goes into the world to heal or inspire or quiet or amuse or breathe life or excite or express.  If you do it, things heal, get better.  If you don't, the work goes unfinished, the holes remain, the ache stays aching.

It's almost impossible to imagine a world in which everyone is doing that, focusing on what is theirs to do.   I can certainly see times in my life when simply focusing on my own stuff would have made a difference.  I'm sure you can see incidents in your own, can't you?  To earn self-respect, I must be responsible to the press of the work that is mine to do, and the consequences are toward healing.   My acquaintance turned her back on what was hers to do, and the result is crushing.  The reporters of the plagiarism were responsible and did what was theirs to do, but then allowed power to lead them into destructive action, and thereby possibly wound the work that is still theirs to do.  They turned honorable action to dishonorable action.  Sensationalism is never honorable. (Notice how sensationalism enters into the presidential race, for example.)

Hmm.  I think this is going to be very interesting, exploring honor, as part of what is mine to do this year.

What is yours to honor this year? What does honor mean to you? 

Post holiday crash

Is anyone else as tired as I am?  I've been getting my work done in the mornings, but then I'm just demolished for the day.   It's the great rush of activity catching up with me, and I'll be better by Monday, but till then....whew!

I'm watching movies, mainly.  Finished rewatching Before Sunrise and Before Sunset, which I've seen many times.  Treated myself Wednesday to PS I LOVE YOU (five big fat stars from me--really a lovely romantic story with a terrific grace note).  Last night, it was...hmmm.  I can't remember.   Today, I'm headed out to see Atonement, which I've been waiting for for ages.

The new proposal is just about finished, finally.  It seemed to take its sweet time, but they do sometimes.

Canine trials

Been scarce, thanks to my dogs.  Sasha had to be rushed to emergency vet on Monday night, thanks to a very gory head puncture wound on her forehead after a scuffle with Jack over cat food.  Tuesday, Jack was slated for surgery on his torn knee, so I essentially spent 24 hours with vets.  We set up a hospital in the living room so the injured pair could sleep close by us (what dog-loving woman would fail to fall in love with a man who suggests sleeping with the dogs so they'll feel good?).   

Both are fine now, as am I. 

Left...there they are recovering yesterday, in our camping area.  I was reading nearby. Notice Jack's shaved leg.

Sasha's battered pirate face.  She was the winner, in the end, since she got the cat food.   

And here is Jack, post surgery, not feeling the best, but on his way to recovery.

Now to work for me, since everyone is fine, though I am working on a laptop downstairs so Jack won't climb stairs looking for me.

EDIT:  I realized that it sounded as if Jack injured his knee in the fight.  He didn't. He was scheduled to have surgery to correct a torn ACL.
 

Sexiest man

People Magazine came out with its annual list of world's sexiest men this week.   Topping the list is Matt Damon.

Uh. No.

Nice guy.  Smart guy. Really good actor. Lots of other complimentary things--he pulls off the Bourne thing very well.  But sexy he is not. 

I don't argue with some of their other choices.  Johnny Depp has been in my top five for decades--creative and whimsical and that mouth doesn't hurt. George Clooney isn't my type, but I get why other women think he's fabulous. Patrick Dempsey? Yes. And Brad Pitt, for all his strange little problems the past few years still has one of the best faces ever and an angst, a certain passion to change the world, that takes him right over the edge.  Plus he has that geeky thing with architecture. Love a man who loves buildings.

The list made me think about what makes a man sexy and how individual it all is.  (Thank God).  Top of my list right now is Anthony Bourdain.  Tall, loose-limbed man who is a chef and a writer and a traveler?  Duh.  He's reckless and intense and in real life he'd be a pain, but he's really in love with life, every second of it, every facet of it, every everything, and that, my friends, is hot. 

Who is at the top of your Sexiest Man Alive list?  Really.  Who?

Where am I again?

Today I visited a new grocery store in my neighborhood.  There is a Starbucks inside.   And, maybe 50 yards across the parking lot, there is another one.  A freestanding cafe. 

I do a talk about characterization, and make a passing comment to Starbucks and using it as a way to figure out who your characters are.  What is their Starbucks order?  The first time I gave it, the talk was in Vancouver, and I suddenly worried that there might not be be Starbucks in Vancouver.  There were 130, and in one spot, there are two across the street from each other. 

In that spot, the traffic is quite heavy and I could, once I saw the location, understand why that might have happened.  So many people.  Lots of cars and lots of foot traffic, and if you had to cross the street, you might not be able to get that coffee.   (Horrors!)

But I'm flummoxed at the two at King Soopers. One inside. One outside.  Wow. 

Jack bites Jack and other stories

I've not really recovered from my weekend.  Not really because of the bad run but because two days later was One of Those Days and I was already tired.  The charming South American orienteer came back through and we had some fun, though we got stuck in a bomb scare at the airport.  The sad story is this: 

My beloved dog Jack is a protective creature.  He doesn't allow strangers in the back yard. The young teen who mows my grass knows this and rings the doorbell so I can get Jack in the house before he mows.   On Monday, he--for who knows what reasons--did not wait for me.  I was away, fetching the fetching orienteer. His mother was taking his brother somewhere.  He had something to get done that morning and wanted to knock out the job.  I get all that.  As the mother of sons, I can even follow the non-logical thinking of going into the back yard, thinking it would be okay. 

It wasn't.  Jack is a good watchdog.  He is very friendly when I tell him to be so, but if I'm not around, watch out.  He bit the boy. Not badly.  He came back and mowed the back lawn later (but only because his mother insisted, I'm pretty sure.)  The boy's name is Jack.  I don't think he'll want the job of feeding the cats when I happen to leave. 

In other news, I saw a beautiful photo on another blog tonight:

It's a great visual, but it would be quite challenging to row with those yards and yards of fabric getting wet.

I also revised many pages today. 

Ten things I love

I've been moving files from one computer to the other and feel scattered, so I haven't had much brain to blog with, but in the interest of showing up, here is a playful one.  In the voice workshop, one task I love is writing a list of 25 things I love.  It's refreshing in the best possible way.   Try it.

My list of ten on a thunderstormy Wednesday afternoon in mid May:
1. The look of the mountains right now, like a watercolor, ridge after ridge lined up against each other, the darkest in front, each ridge paler and paler until the tops of the tallest ones disappear into pillows of cloud.

2. Leo, my black and white cat, sitting on the windowsill looking out to those mountains.

3. The heady scent of freshly brewing coffee rising into the air.

4. The Sopranos, mainly because of Tony, but also because it has some of the most intricately layered characters anywhere.  (And I am not caught up, so we cannot do spoilers here)

5.  A pile of fresh new books waiting in a bag downstairs by my couch.  A travel book about Italy, a young adult novel, some spiritual things.

6. CR's astonishingly beautiful legs.

7.  My mother's stubborn chin and Delft-blue eyes.

8.  Ian's beautiful, long white hands.  Graceful, elegant, perfectly shaped.

9.  The Zefferelli film of Romeo and Juliet, for the beautiful costumes and luscious staging. 

10.  The anticipation of foreign travel, imagining how it will be, getting on a plane for a long, long flight, stocking up on special things to read about the new places (southern Italy just now) and the chance to learn new things, and the wonders to be uncovered.   I am really quite delighted by the chance to see Pompeii, at last.

Now you.

Adieu, Michelle's

                                                  

The news has stunned us all this morning: Michelle's Chocolatiers, Ice Cream and Tea Room has been closed by the IRS.  An icon of downtown Colorado Springs for more than fifty years, the restaurant was once featured in a LIFE magazine feature spread.  The children are shown in early sixties Technicolor, wearing cowboy boots and hats, eating ice cream at the green table, and the father--swarthy and handsome--puts the cherry at the top of a giant sundae. 

It is no secret to readers of this blog (or my novels!) that I am in love with restaurants.  I love the business in all its incarnations--kitchens and knives, acres of stainless steel and the smell of industrial dishwasher soap.   It's not some distant fairy tale longing, either; I fell in love with the business at the age of sixteen and spent, all told, more than 15 years in various restaurants in many jobs, from dishwasher to server to cook to bartender.   The place it began was Michelle's, a magical little restaurant and ice cream parlor in Colorado Springs.                

There was always something vaguely European about the place.  The elegant chocolates, handmade and meticulously displayed behind glass counters.  The menu with its Monte Cristo sandwich (well, it sounded European to me as a girl) and the Greek salad.  It was the first place I tasted feta cheese, and to be honest, I had no idea it was goat cheese until years later.  You could order a demitasse, though hardly anyone ever did.   When my friend Sonia took me to Angelina's, a chocolatier nearby the Louvre, the baroque decorations and slightly faded glamor reminded me instantly of Michelle's.

Ah, Michelle's.

When I worked there, the uniforms were the ultimate.  Oh, baby.  Black nylon, short, with a white frill to tuck in at the neckline and a white nylon apron over it.  We wore them tight, as we were teenagers and perfect, and as this was before the end-pantyhose revolution, stockings were required.  Everything swished in those uniforms, legs against legs and skirt and apron against waist and hair, once it was let down at the end of a shift, swishing against the nylon back.  I loved them.  They made me feel grown-up and sexy. 

And we wore a hat.  It was the most beautiful hat I have ever seen, red or blue velvet caps, with gold braid around the edges.  I had medieval hair in those days, a blonde tumble to my hips, and I knew when I put on that hat, hair tucked up beneath it, that I was Juliet and beautiful.  (I so wish I had one now--when I left, years later, I wanted to take one with me, but honesty won out.  I wonder if any have survived?)

It was the hat that made me want to work there.  I was only sixteen and had no restaurant experience, but I wanted the job desperately.  I badgered poor Andy Michopolous for weeks--it must have been six or seven Thursdays I showed up in a row, politely asking if he had anything yet.  At last, he hired me, and I started on a Sunday afternoon.   The cook making sandwiches showed me how to cook a grilled cheese on the black grill, and I was given the task of cleaning the coffee pots, and the music played--they had a Greek soundtrack, but also some classical ones--and I was hooked, forever.

You will find the Life magazine story everywhere, but I can tell you other things.  About a Saturday afternoon in Christmas season when I made $17 in tips and a young man came in they had sent from the downtown store.  They said he was charming and it was his birthday and we should all give him kisses when he arrived.  So we did, even though I was fainting with terror and he was much, much too old and too beautiful for a girl like me.  He ended up being the first love of my life, which is appropriate for the first passionate job of your life. (I saw him again when he was fifty and time had not changed him a jot--he was still as courtly and beautiful as a Scandinavian prince...the rat.  I have not aged quite so well).   

None of the newspaper stories will tell you about an Atomic, which is a cream puff with a scoop of vanilla ice cream inside, served with a tiny crystal pitcher of hot fudge.  In fact, they won't tell you about those beautiful little pitchers at all, meant for serving hot fudge, hot caramel, and hot butterscotch with the sundaes.   We ladled up our favorite and dip fresh bananas into them.   

No one will remember the crazy cooks, the slightly dilapidated kitchen, the feeling of ghosts in little passageways or downstairs in the basement, where I hated to go.   They won't remember the language of spoons--long spoons for iced tea, tiny ice cream spoons for sundaes, teaspoons for stirring coffee, and big round ones for soup.

I worked at Michelle's, at the Citadel store and then downtown, for nearly three years.  It's amazing to think I could support myself that way, but I did, renting a tiny studio apartment near Colorado College that had a Murphy bed in the wall and a tiny kitchen I furnished with a zillion varieties of sugary cereals, and one one of my neighbors was a glum-eyed young man from Yugoslavia, which seemed vastly exotic and interesting.

While I worked at Michelle's I fell in love with restaurants and with the rush of service on a busy Saturday afternoon, when it is impossible to keep up, but you do it anyway.  I fell in love with the camaraderie of cleaning up at the end and the particular anticipatory quiet of getting things ready in the morning.   I fell in love with the pleasure of serving a perfect plate, the rustling weariness of good hard work, with plastic vats of pickles and the meditative tedium of pulling apart paper doilies so it is easier to grab them later. 

Years and years later, when I started to realize I desperately wanted to move back to Colorado Springs after living in Pueblo, I volunteered a few times a month at a political center.  After I was finished there, I took my notebook down to Michelle's and sat in the booths at the pale green tables, and wrote.  The girls didn't wear those glorious uniforms or even the hats anymore, but they were still cheery and incredibly young and dewy.   I drank coffee and ordered a dish of vanilla and let myself breathe into time.   It centered me, being there.

And so, when I had to choose a place to meet a man I'd been corresponding with for awhile, I chose Michelle's.  There I met Christopher Robin, who sat at a green table in the aisle wearing a red and blue sweater.   He smiled, and I smiled back.  And that was pretty much that.

We all have our touchstones, those places out of time.  Michelle's is one of mine, and I mourn its passing today.  Adieu, ma cherie, adieu.

miles-stones

Here is something a mother never forgets:

22 years ago this morning, I was pacing a hospital hallway, GIGANTICALLY, ENORMOUSLY pregnant with my second baby.  He was two week overdue.  I had the waist circumference of a mid-size theater.  I had not eaten bacon (or a lot of other things) in nine months.  I was pretty sure, in the weird, pregant way you get by the end, that I just wasn't ever going to have a baby.

Ah, but after most of a day, my (big!!) Miles arrived, looking exactly like his grandma Lurealean (and still does, if you look past the dredlocks and tattoos).   We fell asleep together and he didn't leave my arms again for about  year.  He's still stubborn (Taurus and year of the Ox) and adorable and cuddly, but it's an entirely different thing to be hugged tight by a 6'4" man than it was that adorable, wild haired boy.

Happy birthday, Miles!   

(He doesn't get on the internet much, but I'm going to make him come read this.   Sing along with me, everybody...."Happy Birthday to you....you live in a zoo...."    )

:)

EDIT: We did actually go to the zoo.  They have lion cubs and I couldn't get a picture.  I did  capture kids in the wild, however....

Running

I forgot--today I ran farther than I've ever run before.  Five miles.   "Run" is probably a strong word for my speed, but I like saying it anyway: today I ran five miles.

I've hiked more than that many, many times. The day after Kelli and I hiked Pikes Peak, I had to walk up stairs backward.  A few times, I've walked 20 miles in one stint. 

Still. I've never, ever run for five miles without stopping.  It felt good after sitting so much.