Blossom

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. - Anais Nin

A couple of weeks ago when we had one of our infamous metro area snow "storms" I noticed a little blue flower still growing, nestled up against the concrete foundation of my house. Although the winters are relatively mild in these parts, conditions have still been against what is generally considered conducive of its ability to thrive. Looking at this little plant, I think of all the ways in which we allow other people to become the inclement weather that curtails our own attempts to blossom.

Recently in corresponding with a friend of mine, she made the comment that she lists facts rather than telling stories. This is not the first time she has mentioned this. It has always puzzled me, because when I think of her, I think of the quick witted young woman I knew in grad school, who used to keep me laughing for ages with her funny stories and commentary. Being in contact with her now, I see the same person. Yet a nonsense comment made to her by an ex-boyfriend has stuck with her all this time.

I too have similar stories. My writing/creativity anxieties alone could fill pages, but the one that comes most readily to mind right now is a meeting I had with an academic advisor when I was twenty. Up to that point, I had been majoring in two of my life long passions - music and foreign languages - and getting pretty close to a 4.0 average in both. I was transferring to a new school and meeting with a geriatric male professor to go over the course requirements for my intended majors.

We met in his office. After looking over my records, he lifted his piercing stare toward my eyes and said, "Do you really intend to major in both languages and music? Some people do manage a double major, but you really have to be academically gifted to do so successfully. I would advise against it." Now, if someone were to say this to me today, I would want some explanation. At the time, I already spoke German and French and played violin and piano and was getting good grades at all of them. There was no reason to expect that I would do poorly. And, yet, my inexperience did not allow me to dare think "this guy is an asshole who has no business counseling young people on their futures if he's going to squash them like bugs on a sidewalk". Instead, I took his advice, dropped the music major, and adopted a secret worry that I was an imposter who wasn't smart enough to be there. This sense stuck with me all the way through grad school, where (despite my good grades) I wasted a lot of energy working up my nerve to actually talk in seminars, fearing that my intelligence didn't measure up to my peers and that it was only a matter of time until they found me out and realized that I didn't belong there.

The thing is that people squash each other's spirits all the time. Sometimes they do it purposely, but more often, I think, they do it inadvertently with a casual comment. Think about it: How many times in your life has someone said you were too fat, too thin, too short, too tall, too loud, too soft, to shy, too gregarious to be good at activity X? And how many times have you listened? How many times have you let that color how you see yourself or, even worse, whether or not you chose to even do the thing in question? Maybe I am just a nutjob and it only happens to me, but I doubt it.

And, so, my commandment for the week is not only to take what other people say with a grain (or, if necessary, even a tablespoon) full of salt, but also to be more careful about the words I use with others.

Catch up

I have been a little remiss this week in my January post-a-day project. It's not so much that I haven't been writing posts. In many cases I've even written extra, because draft one ended up being carthartic, but not fit for public consumption. It is just an issue of time. My work is in one of those busy periods this week. Add to that that my life has become increasingly subject to the caprices of puppydom this past week and it doesn't make for a lot of internet time. So, my goal for the weekend is to actually type up the posts (backdated beneath this one for the day they were written) I missed posting and get back on track. Ultimately, I have been writing a lot and that has really been the purpose of this endeavor, so I am still pleased.


So, more later. Meanwhile, a puppy update: I think Lily may be a dog genius based on the speed at which she has learned the "come" command. It is the cutest thing ever. Now when you say "Lily, come!" she comes tearing through the house to wherever you are in search of a treat or pets.


And, finally, so it isn't all about Lily, here is a picture from our last snow day to prove how cute even our non-Lily's are:

Collaboration!

As new years go, this one has (thusfar) been a great one for collaboration, which is something that does not always come so naturally to me. I don't know if it is my humble only child upbringing or my somewhat introverted nature, but I tend to embark on projects on my own. It's not that I don't enjoy working with other people or exchanging ideas (I do!), it's more that I'm so used to just doing something when I want to do it that I often don't think about the option of including someone else in my scheming. Those times that I do, it generally works out to be quite fun, so one of my goals on my 101 Things list is to collaborate on a project with someone.

But, then, I realized as I was writing my list that I already have started my year in a kind of informal collaboration - I have Wendy sending me writing prompts, Jen has embarked on my post-a-day project with me, and Anne has talked me into doing some joint blogging with her as we work through out respective lists. So, hooray to friends, new years, and making things!

Handprints

My Oma's hands were always moving. Even when she was idle, she had the nervous habit of running her thumb against her fingertips as though her hands were itching to be doing something. My mother is much the same way. She can't just sit still and do nothing. When you can get her to sit at all, it is not uncommon to see her busying herself with yarn and a crochet hook or knitting needles as she watches t.v. Although my restlessness is more of a mental than a physical sort, when my mind isn't adequately occupied, I too find myself compelled to do needlework, sort mail or futz around on my laptop rather than just sitting quietly with my hands at rest.

They are starting to show their age, these hands of mine. Their faint lines, scratches and scars may not be visible to anyone else, but I can see them. When I try to show my mother, she says I am crazy. I tell her I think it must run in the family. A coworker used to tell me: "When your skin starts to look like crepe paper, then come back and talk to me!" But some days my hands feel like they have seen a lot. They have raised abandoned birds, carried protest signs, turned a million pags, flown over violin strings, written letters on behalf of political prisoners and held the hand of my father as he was dying. They are unused to idleness. They want to be doing something. I want to be doing something. It might sound pollyanaish, but I think that perhaps the biggest crime one can commit against life is to not have done something (whatever it might be) to make the world a richer, better, and kinder place.

So, yes, my hands are busy. When I look at them, I can only hope that at the end of my days they will have acheived as much as those of my mother and her mother before her.

Is the world ready for two of us?

The other day I received a request on Facebook to add myself as a friend. This perplexed me at first as I didn't recall inviting myself to do anything. Immediately fearing the worst, I began to wonder if I had perhaps suffered a blackout. Maybe I was turning into that guy from Memento. If I'm going to turn into Guy Pearce, I would rather turn into the Guy Pearce of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. At least there he got to ride atop a fabulous, giant stiletto and lip synch opera while wearing silver lamé. But I digress . . .

Upon closer inspection, I realized it was not me, Martina D. "Powellhurst" of Portland but a teenaged Martina E. "Powellhurst" of Nova Scotia inviting me to be her friend. (Sanity - 1, Crazytown - 0...at least for now!) She surprises me, this me 2.0. My name (neither first nor last) is not that common, so what are the chances of someone else with my last name thinking to name their daughter Martina? In another odd twist, the "E." in the other Martina's name stands for Elizabeth, an anglicized version of my maternal grandmother's name. Crazy, huh?

Though it's actually Latin derived (there is a Saint Martina who even has a church named for her in Rome), my name was chosen because it was common in Germany (and thereby easy for my grandparents to say), but not too foreign for Americans to pronounce correctly (or as my mother so charmingly puts it, "It's not weird enough for Americans to mess up").

In Germany, Martina is a pretty common name, but once we moved back to the states, I was always the only one. Sure, there has been the odd tennis player or country singer, but they are few and far between. Even if there was a period in the 80's where I was the victim of a lot of very uncreative lesbian tennis jokes (seriously, people, did you really all think it was the first time I'd heard it?), I've always liked my name - so much so that I informed my first grade teacher one day that I would no longer be answering to "Tina", thank you very much. My dwindling family and 2-year old friend, Antonio, still call me Tina and there was one boy in High School (the only person ever got away with it) who insisted on calling me Marty, but most people know me by my full first name. My middle name is that of the Roman Goddess of the hunt. I have no idea why my parents chose it. I suppose I should ask one day, but I suspect that it is because it sounded good with Martina. It has a nice rhythm, Martina Diana "Powellhurst". It rolls off the tongue like I've known it all my life.

The truth is that that I like having a not so common name. It makes me feel unique, which has always seemed preferable to me. I've always hated doing things just because other people were doing them. I've always embraced those things that make me different. But, of course, now I know that I'm not so different after all. There is another one of us. Still, I like our name. It is one of an increasing number of things that I wouldn't change about myself - unless perhaps I married someone whose last name was just too fabulous to resist, but it would really have to be good. If it were something like Huepfengrueber, well, then just forget it! I am happy just being me!

The Great Escape

Name: Liline Carmilla Papillon

Weight: 4.1 lbs.

Height: 1'3

Mission: Escape

Looking at her, you would think she is cute and innocent. That is where you would be wrong!


She is, in fact, an diabolical mastermind who has now twice escaped from maximum security prison (also known as the puppy playpen we bought to put her in when we go out). Because of her size (not to mention her penchant for harassing the cat!), I agree with the puppy books I've been reading that say it's a good idea to confine her for her own safety when we're not home to supervise. We put the playpen in the living room so she won't be lonely, but is still in a safe place. It is bigger than some NY studio apartments and has everything a puppy could want inside (dog bed, piddle pad, teddybear, a soft blanket, toys, food, water, a nice view of not only the living room, but also the kitchen and back deck), but apparently it is not up to Miss Lily's standards.

I swear the moment I leave the animals all start chanting "Attica! Attica!" to get her riled up. Then, next thing you know, Baxter cues the Mission Impossible music and the great escape to sweet freedom begins. I'm am not sure, but I suspect it may involve rope and a grappling hook, because I sure can't figure out how it is that she is getting out. I'm guessing she is a climber. Twice now we have have come home to find Lily not safely tucked away in her playpen, but happily wiggling at the door with the other dogs when we open it.


Knowing that my little puppy is somehow scaling her way to the top of the plastic fence and free falling off the top does little to instill confidence that the she is safe at home and in no danger of getting hurt, which kind of defeats the purpose of the playpen. She's great about staying in the rare times we put her in when we're home, but turn your back and she's suddenly Hairy Houdini. Clearly, my little friend has no concept of how big she is NOT.

It's not so much that I worry about the other dogs harming Lily on purpose (they are sweet and very patient with her), but they get excited sometimes and I would hate for her to get trampled if she got underfoot (paw?) while they were playing or enthusiastically barking at a squirrel outside the picture window. But, alas, Miss Lily has other ideas.

Sychronious Occurences

So, I logged on today thinking about whether it would be a good idea to allow one free day a week in my project - a kind of day of rest. It doesn't necessarily mean no writing, just that if I choose to (and I'm not saying I will), I can take a break from posting or take the time to work on some other creative project. And what do I see but a comment reminding me of Paulo Coehlo's blog?

There are a number of reasons why I love Mr. Coehlo's work. The Alchemist is, as I've mentioned before, among my favorite books. Although it is technically prose, it is filled with poetry. I love that I find new things each time I read it and that it fell into my hands just when I most needed it. Moreover, it happened through a seemingly random series of occurences. The experience of that book is, for me, one of those reminders that things happen for a reason, that teachers come when students are ready, that every meeting has its purpose. If I hadn't gone on a one time lunch date with a guy I randomly met at a party in LA, I would not have made friends with the book nor would I have discovered one of my favorite authors. It is only because our meal was fraught with awkward silences that he even recommended the novel in his attempt to find something we might have in common. I'm telling you, it's almost like when Earl learns about karma from the Carson Daly Show!

And so at the encouragement of a kind reader, I wandered over to the Coehlo blog to read a bit while the back of my mind mulled over the question of breaks. And what did I find? This! I think it answers my question pretty nicely!