Eureka!

Hi all! This is my second attempt. Like Diane, I don't know where the first one went. But I did manage to sign on all by myself (after several aborted starts). Now the trick will be to see is I get this "entry" to publish and not evaporate.
I just want to thank you all again for your support. The workshop was FUN! What a relief! I still don't want to work at 'being a writer', though I'll never stop writing in a sense. Just don't want to play around with submitting to publishers again. Many years ago I received an ENGRAVED rejection slip from The Saturday Evening Post. My writing teacher at the time said that was very good -- just one step before being really considered. I added it to the pile of not-engraved ones I already had, and it took
years before I realized there were some other things I wanted to do with my time. My hat's off to you who are sticking to it.
BUT, being able to write to someone else's prompt, share, and receive friendly critiques, especially in such a wonderful setting, was delightful! Muchas gracias!
Barbara

Thoughts on Epiphanies

I've been slowly working my way through a little book written by Robert Ellsberg entitled The Saints' Guide to Happiness. It was recommended by Phyllis and Ragan, and, although I am neither Catholic, nor an evangelical Christian, my life principles come from the Christian tradition, and this collection of thoughts has been wonderful for stirring me spiritually. Today I read Ellsberg's reflections on the transfiguration of Christ. (For those of you unfamiliar with the story, it is from the Christian scriptures in the New Testament of the Bible. It can be found in either Matthew 17: 1-13, or Mark 9: 2-13.) Each time I read about a miraculous event, before I can accept that it holds any significance for me, I first have to get myself over caring whether or not it actually happened. If I spend too much time in the literal versus symbolic debate, the high-pitched squeal of the internal feedback loop nearly sends me into seizures, and I'm useless for the rest of the day. So my almost newly trained reflex is a default to symbolic. This detours me around the time-space-physics questions, and gets me to the heart of the story.

This story is about seeing beyond the moment, stepping outside daily humdrum, and catching a glimpse of the bigger picture -- experiencing what really matters. It sent me to thoughts and feelings I had the other day while reading an email from a friend in New York. We were trying to find a time to see each other for a few days this summer, and he attached a list of his professional engagements. It included words and phrases like: "Carnegie Hall", "National Symphony", "State Department Engagement", "Las Vegas", "Julliard", and "Queen Mary 2". All I could put on my list was: "Move kids into their apartments in August." I felt so mundane, so Plain Jane, so middle class.

Stay with me . . .

His email was my time on the mountain with Jesus. My friend's wonderful career, his success, his full and busy life, became my moment of enlightenment. My glimpse of Jesus, with Moses and Elijah standing alongside him, chatting about things that matter -- ethereal, eternal intangibles -- not wasting energy on the blase' tasks and urgent little grass fires that are always popping up, but concentrating on moving beyond, transcending life's trifles. Of course, it's ridiculous, even misguided to assume that meaning is only found in big accomplishments and mountaintop spiritual moments. In fact, the best stuff is often found in the little things. But I desire an openness to, and an awareness of significance when it presents itself in a situation. That's my goal: opening myself to meaningful moments. Stringing together epiphany upon epiphany, so that, eventually, it all matters. No wasted thought, no wasted action.

Hello all,
I'm reading the blog, but haven't been able to contribute. I'm having some kind of BR withdrawal or maybe its menopause. Upon my return home, I went immediately back to my routines of kids, work, tv. Writing just wasn't in there. I visited my Dad for a weekend and woke up wanting to write, so I did. How simple is that. It just isn't working in my own home. So I cry, because I want to be alone, but I love my family life. Its dumb really...I just need to change my routines. For now I feel stuck and blue and like a scratched dvd. (translate 'broken record'). This job I have has got to end. I just can't find the exit sign.

The Growing List

I love seeing new people in the list of members. How exciting to have a roomful of writers gathered in cyberspace. I can't get over how awesome -- wait, the new term is off the hook -- this Internet thing is for keeping people connected. Welcome, Phyllis and Ragan. Since returning from California, I've been reluctantly running at full speed. Besides the normal catch-up time required after being out of the office for a week, our son is graduating from high school this week, and I'm amazed at the number of piddly, time consuming tasks connected with the event. He and his sister are skydiving next week . . . my wife and I will watch the whole horrifying event from the ground. Then three days later, we leave for two weeks in Italy. I'm a wide-eyed Linda Blair, head spinning uncontrollably. No writing taking place, a little journaling, and some obsessive blog checking just to see if any of YOU are actually writing, but I'll be back in the groove eventually. I learned MUCH about the I-can-do-it factor while at Bishop's Ranch this year. No matter what I feel, despite my physical or emotional condition, I can produce something . . . something, it does not matter what. I just have to push something out. It's a valuable memory to carry around. Hope all of you are doing well.

What...No Spell Check???

Good Evening...should anyone wonder by and type in the right write words...

Jean Blackburn just (Tuesday afternoon) stopped by for a quick visit to 504 Duncan. I asked her what she was going to do now tht she found she could write fiction. She talked about getting nothing done since BR and her need for discipline. I think that may be true for the vast majority of us. What we need is a Marine Corps Drill Instructor!

We are trying to get back in stride after the trip out to California. I certainly felt the week at Bishop's Ranch was very special. I just know some good writing is going to come out of BR 2007.

This entry is really more of a test to see if I could get through the system. So far so good and quite easy.

Hugs to all.

Ragan

This Present Moment

". . . we are alive in the present moment, the only moment there is for us to be alive.

Every breath we take, every step we make, can be filled with peace, joy and serenity.

We need only to be awake, alive in the present moment."

Thich Nhat Hanh

When I Grow Up I Want To Be . . .

I thought I wanted to be a skinny African American woman, but since I'm NOT black, and I'm NOT even CLOSE to skinny, and I DON'T have a vagina, I'm sort of having to rework my life's dream. Second choice: I want to be Michael Buble'. He has that awesome Frank Sinatra vibe without the dated crooning, and he's also sort of Harry Connick, Jr.-esque -- coolness factor without the N'awlins attitude. I'm obsessed with his vocal stylings this week, but the thing that keeps me listening to the guy is how much he loves women . . . and I mean he LOVES women. He sings "Try a Little Tenderness" on It's Time. That tune has been covered by a dozen other artists, but his interpretation oozes empathy, admiration, and, well, tenderness. Man, to have that skill. Better than that, to have that heart. Mmmmmm-hmmmmm.

Lost Blogs

I have absolutely no idea where the blog I wrote on Monday went. I'm assuming it's in outer space or something. Needless to say, I'm new at this and my kids - experts on any and all types of emailing, IM'ing, Face Book, My Space, etc., are at school.
Monday was not the best day. Besides trying to re-enter life after my idyllic week at the Bishop's Ranch, I discovered that I'd somehow scheduled my annual mammogram AND GYN appointment for the same day. Holy Moly. Tuesday was a huge shop-o-rama at Costco, given that the college kids are filtering back home (at least my son could carry all the guano up the stairs from the garage to the kitchen). Yesterday I also had two appointments and today, blessedly, nothing. I am determined to type up my writings from Nightwriters and write something new this afternoon.
Steve, I am sorry about your father. It sounds like you have a realistic view about his condition, which reminded me of a story. I began seeing a acupuncturist last year after I got 'frozen shoulder' following a severe dislocation/fracture of my left shoulder I received while skiing. Her name is: Raimin Liu, pronounced, "Ree-mee Loo." She is originally from Shanghai, where her parents and extended family live. Somehow we got on the subject of death and were comparing how the Chinese and American cultures deal with it. This is the story: One morning her grandfather came to breakfast and told the family that he'd dreamed about 'mother'. Everyone thought he was talking about his recently deceased wife. When questioned further, he said he meant his mother. The family knew, right there and then, that he would die soon. Chinese believe that when you have dreams like that, it means you will die. So they went out and bought him a brand new suit and had his hair cut. His death was something they were looking forward to - it meant he was simply going to a different place. It was nothing to be sad about. I marveled at the differences between their culture and ours.
It's supposed to be 94 today, so I'm getting ready to fire up the A/C already. UGH!! Gus and Emmy both have lacrosse games this afternoon and it'll be a scorcher. I miss you all and hope you're doing well. Take good care. Love, Diane

Ma'am thoughts

In one of my stories recently, I used “ma’am” as a doctor spoke to the wife of a patient. In reviewing it, Kirsten asked if doctors in Texas always did this, as doctors in California weren’t so deferential. In thinking about it, and talking to Jane we realized it was a universal part of Texas and maybe the South. We came up with several observations regarding this tiny title.

Ma’am and sir are equivalent but based on gender. To say ma’am to a male or sir to a female is a serious insult and is never done.
Ma’am defines a level of respect, makes the person one is speaking to know that you recognize them and will not cross the line of that respect. I found it particularly useful in connecting with older patients or African-American patients.
“Yes, ma’am” is the only acceptable response to a mother or grandmother’s question or command. Ex: “Will you get me a quart of milk?” “John, clean up your room.” No ma’am, or any other negative response, is not usually considered an option. Deep sighs, rolling eyes, books shutting and doors slamming can accompany the response to express displeasure, but the only words allowable are “Yes, ma’am.”
Ma’am may be used sarcastically when speaking to a younger woman or girl, indicating that the speaker is displeased with the level of respect being given. It is a siren warning of an approaching tornado that is usually recognized in Texas children by age five.
For a child to say “Yes” or “OK” or “all right” rather than “Yes ma’am” labels that child a smart aleck, which is a precursor to a life of crime.

Jane tells me that our son-in-law Matt has only recently stopped saying ma’am to her with every phrase. He married my daughter three years ago, and this is about the right time frame for him to relax a little. But he was raised by a fine East Texas woman and I am sure it is hard for him.

Everybody Dies

My dad got his prognosis yesterday: nine to twelve months, with or without treatment. He was practically giddy. My mother was devastated. I just watched. I felt like the character in "A Chorus Line" who sings, ". . . and I felt nothing, I felt nothing . . ." My dad's reaction was, "Well, I need to wrap up the sale of that business." Then he turned to me and said, "Let's make sure you have that Power of Attorney." He seemed pleased to have a goal, a task to complete before reaching the deadline. Taking care of business. That's what men in his generation do . . . or maybe that's what all men do . . . or maybe that's what people do. My mother just cried.

I made it

I'm back at work now. Not working though, as you can see. My heart aches when I think of the abrupt change from greenery to gray cube. I have a few bug bites and a few pounds left to remind me I was in a different world just a few short days ago.

The Gardens of Bishop's Ranch

The downward trail which led from the mountaintop stirred melancholy. That week, filled with discovery, laughter, tears, and intense connection will not soon be forgotten. Your faces, your voices, your stories --- all frothy with substance --- produced the desire for more and more and more, and also rekindled the fire inside. Thanks for letting me in.