Easily Influenced

I admit it: I'm easily influenced - like tofu. Willing to take on the flavors around me. Generally open to new things, especially those that are shiny.

Don't get me wrong. I like comfortable, familiar, cozy, matte-finished, too. And even though I readily take on particular qualities I'm attracted to (or eagerly seek the distraction of, oh, just about anything other than what I'm "supposed" to be doing), I do so today from a position of faith, inner strength and integrity that could only be realized after many years of being tested.


My mom grew up in Virginia. To a small child from Michigan, that was The Deep South. I loved trips to Virginia as a kid and still do. Many of my roots are there. Every visit is like going home.


I always loved my southern cousins' accents and was jealous that I didn't have one. So, like tofu, I picked up the subtle flavor of their speech in my own - just the merest soupçon, or so I thought. They were offended and accused me of making fun. But no! I wanted to be like them! I wanted to taste the spice the soft, lilting, upturned accent promised. And returning home, I'd proudly sport my accent - like others bearing the sunny glow of tanned skin. Of course, my borrowed accent faded, just like their tans, until my next immersion in the rich, flavorful broth of a family visit.

When my mother died, leaving me alone to figure out the world just before I turned 11 (to be fair, I later learned how not-alone I really was), my days seemed flat, bland, a little tasteless at times. And for many years, I just wanted to be absorbed into somebody else's life. This could not be the right recipe, I was sure.

As a cook, I've learned to make every recipe my own. It doesn't always work out, but every trial yields a new lesson. Life is a lot like that.

There's so much possibility with tofu. Each block of the stuff has the same basic elements but the texture can be soft or firm or even extra firm. Which one am I? I'm still figuring that out. Perhaps I'll get a little mashed and sliced and diced and maybe a little crumbly around the edges in the process. But I'll hold to my basic elements. In any event, I'll continue to welcome new seasonings.

Je pense, donc j'écris

I think, therefore I write.

Have to. Or I'd implode.

Sometimes my head is so full, I'm afraid it's going to overflow, leaving a telltale trickle in my wake or a puddle at my feet. Ideas, memories, jokes and jingles, worries, shopping and to-do lists, lyrics to songs, dreams, voices and visions. They're in there and they want to be out here.

I'm not insane. I'm a writer. It's only taken me 27 jobs to figure that out.

The first book I wrote was called The Water Gate Elves. I was about six years old when I first started hearing about Watergate from the grownups. I'm sure I heard about it a lot, so it filtered into my reality. I didn't know how to process all that I heard. So I wrote about it.

In my version of the events, an amazing underground world below the United States was populated by elves. And all that protected the elves from the oceans at each end of the country were two gates: the Water Gates.

I can't remember what the underground world was called, but it was surely a name befitting such a wonderful place. In my oh-so-vivid imagination, it was like Wonderland and Oz and Narnia - where just about anything might happen. And like the real world (and Wonderland, Oz and Narnia), forces of good and evil were at work. So my story had good, kind, trusting elves whose lives were threatened by a very bad man who plotted and schemed to raise the gates and flood the land of the elves.

"Ah," said certain grownups sagely. "This young girl really understands."

There's more, I'm sure. Great drama and probably a brilliant, brave, beautiful girl in a red polka-dot minidress (who could fly) saved the day. There may have been a handsome prince - who just slightly resembled my sister's fiancé. In my world, girls could dream of being superheroes ... plus architects or super spies or pilots. I only knew happy endings. I wrote the story I knew.

As I got older, my public writing grew a bit more guarded - less revealing of myself. But I would still write privately as a form of therapy. If I was angry or sad, I could pour all the poisonous, bitter feelings out of me and onto a nice, neutral piece of pink stationery. Or let my fingers fly over the keyboard, feeling just a little bit lighter as my mind and soul emptied of whatever was weighing them down.

Unlike my siblings, I've never been one for bottling up my emotions or my thoughts, letting them brew and stew inside. Whatever I'm thinking or feeling has to bubble up and out ... somewhere. If not out of my mouth, then out of my fingers. It's not that I need others to know. Not always. I just have to get whatever mess I'm cooking up in my head to a place where I can look at it from all the angles. And often, once I've circled around and poked and prodded and beat the issue to death, I'm ready to kick it into the corner, crumple it up or tear it to bits or burn it. Unless it's Really Important Information That Must Be Shared. In that case, writing allows a lot more control of the message. Still, more times than I can count, something not ready for publication spills out of the big opening in my head.

There are times, when what I write has nothing to do with what I'm thinking. Or at least not what I think I'm thinking. And then I'm surprised to see what came out of me. "Hey, lookey! I didn't know that was in there ... and now it's out here!"

Is that so hard to believe?

I Like Guacamole!

Ah, but that wasn't the question, was it? The waitress asked, "Would you like guacamole with your quesadilla?"

I often answer unposed questions (and typically ask some of my own for good measure).

In this case, the "I like guacamole!" outburst served to further define me among my co-workers. I remember thinking at the time that being offered guacamole was like a little memory gift - a reminder of something I enjoyed but had completely forgotten. A tiny little surprise piece of joy. So I guess my reaction to that was appropriate - sort of like saying, "Thank you for reminding me and giving me another reason to live!"

We need those little bits of joy to sustain us. Or maybe only certain types of "us" do - and I'm one of those types.

Does guacamole really give me joy? Honestly, until the little episode at the Mexican restaurant, my experience with the green stuff was pretty limited. But once I had a reputation to uphold, I figured it was time to experiment in earnest. I began with a Mollie Katzen recipe (oh, I just love the Moosewood cookbooks!) and then made it my own. But Mollie should be credited with providing the basic elements - and attitude.

So at our workplace gatherings - birthdays, holidays and other special events - I get to bring the guacamole. It's a versatile dish that becomes Shrekalicious Booger Pudding at Halloween and Holiday Guacamole (garnished with red pepper strips) at Christmas.

And does a proclivity for guacamole really provide a glimpse into my soul, my very being? Does it define who I am?

This idea is not all that different than the assumptions made at Cindy and Sarah's wedding shower (a joint shower - they were marrying differing people) when I proclaimed one could never have too many corkscrews after they each received multiple gifts of this item. From that point on, my co-workers figured I must be - if not an alcoholic - then at least a frequent drinker, with bottles of the good stuff stashed all over my office and home. I was unjustly accused of having an alcohol-based good humor.

That's just preposterous. The last time I had two consecutive glasses of wimpy white wine in the same evening I was so blurry and stumbly I was afraid I was going to tumble down the stairs. At my advanced age, I do like the soft, furry and every-so-slightly blurred at the edges, warm feeling that comes with enjoying a nice glass of vino, but I no longer find pleasure in the blurry/stumbly sensation.

But guacamole. I confess I don't like all guacamole. Certainly not the bland and puréed-to-baby food-consistency variety that's often served at restaurants. It should be chunky, with fresh bits of real avocado. And garlicky, spicy and zingy - redolent with cumin and fresh lime. Just the right amount of each ingredient, so none overpowers any other, but each can be identified and savored in each delectable bite.

Hmmm. Must be time for lunch.

Ancestors on My Tongue

We watched the inauguration on TV at lunch today. During the recitation of the inaugural poem, Gloria caught me checking my tongue for ancestors when poet Elizabeth Alexander said they were there. I couldn't help it. And I'm sure I'm not the only one on the planet who stuck out her tongue today to see if there were little people walking to and fro. Or dancing. Gloria was sure the poet said they were dancing.

I really wanted Mike to sketch this vision for me, but he spent the lunch hour in his truck eating egg rolls and reading a book. That could easily have been me eight years ago. I don't recall.

The whole thing distracted me so much I waited all day for the text of the poem to post somewhere so I could read it from start to finish and really pay attention. I found it on the International Herald Tribune site:

http://www.iht.com/articles/2009/01/20/america/20textpoem.php

(Funny. I don't recall the ancestors reference being so early on.)

I've now finished reading Praise Song for the Day. I hear it a little differently in my head than the way it was recited earlier today. I'm still processing the pieces and parts, but I like it in general. I especially like the line "In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun." That matches the theme of this presidency, doesn't it? Hope and possibility. Change for the better. I like that a lot.

So about those ancestors. I actually have been thinking about them, so perhaps they are indeed on my tongue - dancing or otherwise occupied.

I could swear I've been told I'm descended from Declaration of Independence signer John Hancock's brother - also named John. My maternal great grandmother was a Hancock. But now I'm going to have to do some serious research because I'm not finding any information about brother John and this connection. Yep, I must not have enough other responsibilities, because I sure can find the time to run down this rabbit trail. Yessiree. Here I was so smugly thinking about good old great-to-the-nth-power Uncle John during the inaugural hoopla and I may not even be able to make this pseudo-historically significant claim anymore! Sigh.

Well, my paternal great great grandmother was Julia A. Moore - the "Sweet Singer of Michigan," probably best known for her notoriously bad poetry. I do know that for sure. I have a lot of respect for Julia. She may have written some really (I hesitate to call it "bad") stuff, but she wrote very interesting, heartfelt obituaries. And she was disciplined with her craft, writing steadily and even supporting her family of 12 (great great grandpa Fred plus 10 kids) for a period of time.

I read on Wikipedia that Julia was an inspiration to Ogden Nash, and The Oxford Companion to American Literature even says Nash used her "hyperdithyrambic meters, pseudo-poetic inversions, gangling asymmetrical lines, extremely pat or elaborately inexact rimes, parenthetical dissertations, and unexpected puns." Well, that's kind of cool.

Ancestors ... each one of them on our tongues. I know it's not about me - or at least not about me alone. But today is a fine day to think of those who went before. Imagining their hopes and dreams. Contemplating their struggles. The sentences they began. The words they left behind.

Hey, Gloria - I can see them dancing, too.

Fair Isle ... or Argyle

How did I end up wearing Fair Isle socks and an Argyle sweater? It could happen. Easily.

I like to build my outfit around the socks. You really can't go wrong there. Take my butterfly socks, for instance. I have these great knee-high butterfly socks that Aunt Linda got me a coupla years ago at a cute boutique on the Eastern Shore. She bought leopard print for herself and polka-dotty ones for Lizz. My butterfly socks are my best mood-enhancing accessory.

When I start with the butterfly socks, I often choose to wear all black on the rest of me. So I'm projecting dark and mysterious - but when I sit down and flash an ankle, I reveal a glimpse of my inner butterfly.

I like that there are no worries about whether or not my chosen socks are unflattering. I'm not thinking, "Ew. These make me look fat." Or, "Bleaggh. That color makes me a wee bit pasty." I wish I could wear my frog socks - the ones with the googly eyes - or the penguin socks Kelly gave me one year - to work. I think they'd do wonders for my creativity. But they're too thick to fit with most shoes. So they wait patiently for me at home.

Besides the butterfly socks (and the fuzzy critters), my favorites are any that are warm and nubbly. Comfort is the most important criterion in my selection process. 100 percent cotton is best for breathability. Although I do like the new bamboo rayon I've been finding. A bit of stretch is nice. Snug and form fitting, yet not so tight that I feel like I have a rubber band wrapped around my ankle or just below the knee. I'd say a crunchy granola-like quality (the nubbly part) is secondary to comfort. (I do like texture in my socks.)

There are days (weeks, months, years) when I would be happy as a clam at high tide puttering around in just my sock selection du jour and my ginormous blue bathrobe. I really do feel almost completely put together - except for missing a few trivial things like pants and maybe a shirt. And the requisite unmentionables of course.

I used to be more of a shoe freak, but I can now say that my sock collection is much larger than my stash of shoes. Some of the shoes are a bit neglected - scuffed, worn down, stained by ice-melt. But I wear them anyway - with a new pair of socks - and feel like everything is right with the world - at least for a little while.

So when I say I want world peace ... and maybe some fuzzy socks for Christmas ... I'm not kidding. Like prayer and meditation, socks can be a source of strength, balance and focus. And particularly when the weather outside is frightful, the right socks can be sole delightful.

Dropped on My Head

Nope, that's not me. But I wish I could do that. Rizzu sent this image to me some months ago when I was having a brain-flattening week. So this little reminder of the need to put things in the proper perspective is posted above my desk at work. I just learned that this feat should be credited to dancer Maureen Fleming (http://www.maureenfleming.com/). Her site is worth checking out.

But I digress.

I'm not really a stand-on-my-head sort of person, actually. Aunt Judy is, though. She's in her 70s and runs up and down stairs like 50 times a day - and does headstands. But that's another story.

I used to make a point of doing handstands at least once a day. Not leaning over and cleverly inserting my hands under my feet. And, I must confess, not doing a free-standing handstand (although I was able to do that and walk around a bit on my hands in my more svelte and limber days, oh-so-long-ago). Rather, I would flip my inverted self up against the most convenient available surface and rest there until I thought the right amount of blood had flowed back into my brain - an especially important thing to do mid-afternoon. Or, if I was experiencing writer's block at any time of the day. Or any time I felt giddy with happiness, I just knew it was a good time for a handstand ... like when I was at Parc Güell in Barcelona a few years ago, and was so overwhelmed by the beautiful day and the amazing space the visionary Gaudi had created, a handstand just seemed the only appropriate response.

I've almost completely forgotten my point.

Oh right: Dropped on my head. Sometimes I wonder. Others probably do, too - the way I go off on Wiki-style tangents. Ann always said I start conversations in the middle and need to catch people up.

I haven't done handstands in a long time. Twisted my arm funny during the photo shoot for the company website a couple of years ago and I've been afraid to re-injure myself. I'm getting old and fragile, after all.

Looks like I'd better build up my strength. I think it's high time I began doing handstands again.

Don Quixote in Grasscloth

I almost forgot about the vision in the grasscloth. Was just taking a trip down memory lane ... came upon a set of bizarre photos and thought, "What the ...? Oh yeah! Don Quixote!"

Ah, now there's a memory.

There he is, clearly galloping across the library wall, only to be revealed once the cats decided the grasscloth had to go. I mean, I was perfectly fine with this nice, neutral wall covering. This was a project that could have been on the five-year list. But Claudette and Pierre had a whole other agenda. So after a few weeks of scraping and stripping, sanding, patching, priming, then applying Venetian Plaster (OK, maybe a few months) ... the walls were transformed.

Seems we had to leave Don until the end, watching our progress as we stripped off all the dusty, dirty stuff.

So today's little journey began as I was searching for my résumé. Dang. It's been more than eight years since I dragged the durn thing out. I've become too complacent in my employment situation. Not content, mind you, but all too complacent (if that's possible). Inertia-d.

It appears I'll have to find an old copy and start from scratch. I found résumés I wrote for others - but not mine.

Not that I'm looking. But it's always good to be prepared.

Out of the Writers' Block

True to form, I'm joining the blogosphere (isn't that what this medium/environment is called?) with scant planning. It just seems it's past time to do it. I'm supposed to be a "professional writer," after all. (How the heck did that happen?) This'll be good practice.

Do I really think others will care what I have to say? Do I want my words - scrambled as they often are - splattered all over the planet?

Well, no matter. I just re-read Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird." I need to let the story that wants to be told ... be told. Or something like that.

The Writers' Block is the team name we gave to our little department when we entered the first grown-up spelling bee for literacy a few years ago. We got logos and t-shirts and everything. Pretty cool. Lost miserably both years we competed. So sure of my spelling prowess starting out (I did come in second place in the county spelling bee in sixth grade - THIS close to going to the national competition in D.C. Harumph). I'll never mis-spell polonaise or mastodon again. Well, probably not.

I don't recall who named us the Writers' Block. Ann? Scott? Me? Denise? So many memories ... mashed-potato sculptures and Haiku for our JPRs. On-Scott and Ann-Star. Handstands. As our numbers dwindle, we need to draw on those good times more than ever.

So, this is my first foray out of the Writers' Block. My big toe dipped in the water.