Juniper Tree Book of the Week

Oh, I am so excited! I just got a package from Amazon with four books from my CNF (Creative Non-Fiction...learning the acronyms of my craft) reading list. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard, Memoirs by Pablo Neruda, News of a Kidnapping by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Persian Girls by Nahid Rachlin. This is my homework! I'm sorry I can't do the dishes, I have homework to do.  How much do I love grad school??

Since I have yet to read these books, I won't recommend them, but look for those titles to show up in the near future.

However, I am in the middle of reading a great memoir that I can recommend:  All Over but the Shoutin' by Rick Bragg. Just after reading the prologue alone, I realized just how far I need to go in my writing. Every sentence he writes is art.  Bragg's stories are his personal experiences, but the way he tells them is like an anthropological study on the poor in Alabama. I now know what it's like to be raised on a cotton farm in north Alabama by a momma who didn't buy herself a new dress for seventeen years because she used every dime she earned to help get her three boys through school.  

 "My grandmother, who fried me whole boneyards of chicken, who got midly drunk on her prescriptions, played "Boilin' Cabbage Down" on the banjo and stomped so hard on the planks so hard it sounded like Jehovah pounding at the door, was gone." 

This book reminds me of why I love (and am haunted by) my southern heritage. Bragg writes,

This is not an important book. It is only the story of a strong woman, a tortured man and three sons who lived hemmed in by thin cotton and ragged history in notheastern Alabama, in a time when blacks and whites found reason to hate each other and a whole lot of people who could not stand themselves.

 All Over but the Shoutin' is a beautifully written memoir about a tragic, but triumphant life lived out in the humid and dirty air of a small southern town.

Yoga, Flip-Flops and Guacamole

I decided to go ahead and get off my ass and go to yoga.  In the end, i chose to go, because, even though i hate to exercise and i especially hate women who exercise and have little boy hips, i can go to yoga in my flip flops. There really is something to getting dressed for a workout by putting on your flops that makes you think, this is not gonna be that bad.  My yoga pants are pretty flattering, too.  There is a nice seam across the middle of my rear that makes it look half the size it is.  Another added incentive to dressing for yoga.

Last week, I went to Pat's class for the first time in about a year. I think after I ran (okay, more like waddled) the half marathon, my body decided that it completed a year's worth of the exercise it needed.  Now, the year is over (last weekend was the Country Music Marathon) and its time to get back to work.  Unfortunately,  Pat didn't get the memo that this was my first time back and she decided to try out something I'd like to refer to as Yoga Torture.  I left after 45 minutes of doing every fourth pose.  I think she got confused and thought she was teaching the aerobics class. We sat in "chair" for 3 minutes, same with "plank". Like I said, I walked out and went to Kroger to buy some chips and dip.

This week was much better, though. After being convinced by some Facebook friendly-fire, I got motivated to lace up my flip-flops and head in.  Pat was much nicer today and remembered that yoga isn't really about exercise, but about pretending to.  Breathing loudly while standing in "Warrior 1" is definitely my kind of workout.  Half way through the hour we laid on our backs and centered our minds.  I particularly enjoy the part where we relax are hips and let our navels collapse. It's really tough work.  I also love doing "The Swan".  I get to look at my smartly pedicured toes, over and over.

There is one girl in class that takes Yoga a bit too seriously, though, and I am debating whether or not to tell her.  She exhales like an exploding tire and I wonder if that can't be good for her.  She looks great in her yoga pants, too. She stands in front with all the other skinny girls who have those little boy hips I mentioned.  But, our instructor, Pat, has healthy hips, so I can keep going without too much inner criticism.

That's what yoga is all about, anyways: Quieting that inner critic so balance happens, inside and out.  If I can just get them to serve guacamole during class, I think I will be able to find perfect peace.

Namaste.

Why I love Tina Fey

I mean, who doesn't love Tina Fey, really? But, I just wanted to write about her.  She is one of my modern day heros.  She is an archetype of the 21st century woman. She is a writer, actor, comedian, and producer. She  was the first female head writer for Saturday Night Live. And she is funny as hell. She is an amazing example of a woman who has achieved success without the expense of her femininity. 

I just spent half an hour googling about her life.  How did she know herself so well that she went directly from college (after getting her BA in drama) to taking classes and then trying out for the improv group where many of the comedians from SNL got there start? I think I'm jealous.  I wanna be a writer for SNL. I wanna write my own screenplay called Mean Girls. 

I wanna tell jokes about how girls should where cups, too, when they play sports. It hurts just as bad for us to get popped in the crotch.  It's even more embarrassing, though.  Guys get to roll around on the ground, recovering. Girls have to waddle to the sidelines and act like they twisted their ankle, or something.  I got nailed in the who-who one time by a soccer ball and the pain was so intense it radiated to my nipples. Thought they were gonna shoot right off my chest.  Of course, I just stood there, trying to catch my breath, waiting for the pain to subside. I was left to wonder, once again, if it was possible to break your vagina.  See, if I was Tina Fey, I could say that and people would laugh. I bet her mother didn't call her, "My Little Truck-Driver." Or maybe she did, but it was meant as a compliment. 

I love Tina Fey. I love her so much I want to marry her.  

  

Parenthood

I adore the new show Parenthood. I cry every episode. Other than the fact that everyone has amazing houses to live in, the characters are all totally relatable.  The family dramas are very close to home. The sibling rivalries, financial crises, sexual dysfunctions, mental health issues with the kids, competitiveness with the children, etc.  They handle all of it head on and with a sense of humor.  

I gasp every episode at least one time with how "head on" they face some hot button topics.  In the episode entitled "What's going on down there?", they lightly tackle the generation gap between the women who landscape and those who "go all chia pet".   In another episode, the eldest brother and his black sheep sister discuss the integrity of "faking it" after the brother realizes that his wife "fakes it." The sister explains gently that it really is more of an act of compassion than anything else. She explains its like a "Thank you for trying. Come again soon." 

Anyway, check it out on hulu.com. I think you'll find it amusing at the very least. 

Motorcycle Memories

When he called, I was expecting a quick lunch at Puckett’s downtown. That’s feels like our usual place now, even though I think we’ve only been there once together.  But, then at one o’clock, I hear the familiar rumble of his Harley pulling up in front of my house.  I could recognize the sound of Dad’s bike coming from two blocks away. When I realized we’d be taking his bike, my stomach did a quick flip-flop. I hadn’t been on a motorcycle since Ellie was born, 9 years ago.  Not that I had many opportunities to decline a ride, but once I had a baby to take care of, motorcycles made me nervous.

Dad gave me a few options and we decided on the Loveless Café.  I’d never been there, even though it’s like a Nashville hotspot.  I climbed on, worrying that my older, more hefty, middle-aged version of myself would be more than Dad could handle on his bike.  I played the scene of Dad losing his balance and us crashing.  When my brain made the mental check that it seemed unlikely, he revved the motor and we took off.

A smile spread across my face. As we rounded onto 11^thAvenue, the rush of wind against my face was followed by a rush of memories. A flip-book of a dozen childhood scenes flashed through my mind.  I remembered burning my leg on the tailpipe of a neighbor’s motorcycle that my dad forbid me to ride.  I remembered the utter terror of feeling like I was going to slowly vibrate off the back of Dad’s vintage Triumph speeding down the freeway in Atlanta.  I remembered, after taking a huge jump on a dirt track, landing hard on top of the gas cap of my brother’s Yamaha 250, wondering if it was possible to break your vagina. I remembered trying to keep that pain hidden because I was the only girl around and wasn’t sure if anyone had noticed yet.

Now, just like every ride I ever took with him as a small girl, I felt a visceral connection with my dad. His love of story, of adventure, and of me emanated from his back directly into my chest. And my chest was open. I sucked in deep gulps of it as the ride started, relaxing slowly into regulated inhales and exhales as we rode down the Natchez Trace.  The powerful rumble of his huge bike underneath me and the great, open sky above me reminded me of how small, how fragile I am. But, Dad, just like when I was eleven, blocked me from most of it.  His broad back, the gray hair curling out from underneath his helmet, and the soft crease in his neck were all familiar reminders that I was protected from the bigness around me. 

I am looking forward to more Harley rides with my Dad, though I am still a little unnerved by the thought of doing it again.  Adventures and intimacy are always risky business. 

Juniper Tree Book of the Week

Now that I am required to read from a fairly obscure book list (or maybe not so obscure- I've just been had my literary head in the sand), I thought I'd start sharing some of the books with my readers. Vermont College of Fine Arts has some fairly extensive required reading lists for poetry, creative non-fiction and fiction.  I will be studying mostly creative non-fiction, but will be reading from all the lists.

The first book I want to share with you is juvenile fiction.  I have a huge love for that genre ever since I started teaching high school ESL.  We read dozens of books by Lois Lowery, Sandra Cisneros and Gary Paulsen, to name a few of my favorite authors.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins is an incredibly addictive, fast-paced sci-fi.  It's not as cheesy as Twilight...you won't be as embarrassed for enjoying it.  For those of you who don't normally enjoy science-fiction, I have to say that it doesn't feel like you're reading sci-fi.

You will fall in love with the main characters, the heart-wrenching love-triangle, and the drama of sufferers of a government in the future that is obsessed with fashion and utter indulgence at the expense of its "district" citizens.

Get this book, but be prepared to ignore your family and friends while reading.  Nursing moms: this is one that you won't be sad to wake up in the middle of the night for.  Enjoy!

April Fool's

I was five years old and I walked down the street to the twins' house. It was a bit further walk than I would normally go, but they had invited me over for an official play-date. The twins were red-headed, freckled girls in my kindergarten class in Amherst, Massachusetts, where we lived for a few years. I was excited and nervous. This was a fairly big adventure for me.

Feeling oddly confident, I entered the twins' house and was greeted by their mom and dad. Their dad was seated at a small round kitchen table eating cereal from a bowl — in the middle of the day. This was my first inclination that something wasn't right. My dad was never home in the middle of the day, and if he was, he definitely was NOT going to be eating cereal.

Their dad seemed nice enough, though. He smiled really big and put out his hand to shake mine. He shook it vigorously while the twins giggled at his silliness. Then, he called me over closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Do you wanna see an elephant in the cat's water bowl?" he asked me in a conspiring voice. "Huh?" I articulated. He repeated his question, but with a sense of urgency, "Do you wanna see an elephant in the cat's water bowl?!"

I quickly turned to where he was casting his eyes to see if there was really an elephant in the cat's water bowl. The water bowl and the food bowl, were side by side, pushed up close to the refrigerator. No elephant in sight.

"April Fools!" he shouted. The twins erupted in staccato giggling, one hand over their mouth, one hand pointing at me. "He got you!" they cheered.

I stood there, unsmiling, staring back at them blankly. I had no idea what was happening. I started to cry.

Their dad quickly stood up and said, "I was just joking. It's April Fool's Day. Do you know what that is?" I shook my head and sniffed, stopping the flow of tears.

I don't remember anything after that. No playing in the twins room. No running in their backyard. No snacks. Only the empty kitty bowl.

decided then and there that I hated April Fool's Day. I had never heard of it before and, since I came from a Christian home, I also decided that it must have been a pagan holiday. The Druids probably made it up. That's what my parents had told me to explain why Christmas trees were a part of Jesus' birthday. Maybe those tree worshippers thought it was also funny to tease kids.

That was the last time I visited the twins and their foolish pagan father. Never trust a man who eats cereal in the middle of the day.

What She Was Thinking I Was Thinking...

Click here to read Kristin's inner dialogue.

Girls, girls, girls...By the way, the irony of this: my blog made me think about how much I needed a hair cut. So, I booked one for tomorrow with Kristin. Not only is she a good writer (you should subscribe to her blog), but she is truly a great stylist. Check out her salon Green Pea Salon in the 12 South Neighborhood. Maybe we'll run into each other there and I'll wonder what you're thinking.

What I Was Thinking She Was Thinking

I just finished reading my gal pal Kristen's latest post about how hard it is making girl friends. Even in our thirties, the same insecurities from the junior high locker room still haunt us, they just age. She has bigger boobs than me turns into Her boobs dont sag as much as mine.

Kristin and I just met for lunch last week, in the middle of my Atticus crisis. We just started hanging out recently to talk about writing. She is a writer, mother and uber-cool hair stylist and I wanted to get her input on where she thought I should get my MFA. I was down to two schools (Seattle Pacific U and Vermont College), and was hoping someone would help me figure out where to go since most of my brain power was otherwise depleted. I had to decide by last Friday.

As we were discussing the benefits of each school, I realized there was actually another conversation happening that Kristin had no idea about that exhibits nicely the reason why females struggle so hard to be friends. The two conversations kinda went like this:

ME: What do you know about Seattle Pacific's program? *Oh God. I didn't shower this morning and my hair looks so greasy. Kristin is gonna think I am a total loser. Do you think I am a total loser, Kristin?

KRISTIN: Yes! It's a great school. I don't know much about the program, but their journal IMAGE is really top-notch. You could definitely benefit from the connections you'd make there.

ME: But, don't you think I have opportunities in Nashville for those same connections? Do you think I should break out of the box and be in a place where my framework is challenged?

*You think I need my bangs cut, don't you? You are totally mocking my hair right now, arent you? You and your edgy 80's punk rock hair-do are judging my greasy, no hair-do hair-do, arent you?

KRISTIN: Yeah! Definitely. That would be a really great experience. You really can't go wrong either place. I'm really excited for you. That's gonna be awesome.

ME: Thanks, Kristin. I'm really excited. Thanks for getting together with me. I'd love to do this again. *You can't wait til I get my nasty-assed hair away from you cause I'm lowering your stock. I know you are embarrassed to be seen with me in Jackson's. You are hoping people don't notice your dorky, uncool friend with her stupid necklace. How do you know how to dress so freaking cute? Bohemian, yet still clean? Whenever I try that I just look dirty. Why do I always look so dirty? Dammit! I hate my hair.

KRISTIN: Me, too!

So, Kristin wonders why it's so hard to make girl friends. Exhibit A should help explain. We are shallow, caddy, critical, competitive comparers who can't just enjoy a simple conversation. I wish I were a boy who just wanted to show off how he could get a wad of paper into that hole other there. Life would just be so much easier...

The Latest

Atticus is the same. Happy boy by day, angsty child by night.

After his EEG, the latest neurologist (the third in one week) relieved us slightly with his take on Atticus' situation. With the EEG being clear, his thoughts were that there was not enough evidence that pointed to Atti's hallucinations being seizures. He also said, contrary to what the other neurologist claimed, that the things he is seeing are unlikely to be related to the "spot" on his MRI and that the spot is most likely an enlarged blood vessel (a highly common occurrence). He recommended that we see an ophthalmologist next.

It's interesting how many people are coming out of the wood-work with their own hallucination stories. You'd be surprised at how many people have had them (non-drug induced at that).

In fact, tonight I just heard another story: when my friend was a child, he experienced hallucinations in the form of his Mork from Ork poster talking to him. Dave, my husband, had auditory hallucinations and is convinced he suffered from a disorder called Micropsia (otherwise known as Alice in Wonderland Syndrome), where perception is distorted and things grow or shrink in size.

I've been given horror stories (several, in fact) of friends who have been diagnosed with Celiac's disease after years of being undiagnosed with symptoms including hallucinations, paranoia, anorexia, and more! Really, I could write a book with the stories people are sharing with me...though, I think I already saw it at a store the other day. The book was titled: A Comprehensive List of all the Illnesses that I could Have: For the Hypochondriac.

At times, I have been grateful for the stories that help me know in which direction to look for answers, but at other times I have felt overwhelmed beyond belief. Believe me, if a dozen doctors can't figure out what is wrong with Atticus, it's a shame if he has to depend on me to figure it out. I'm just not that kind of person. You know the kind, the kind that is so devoted to one system of belief that he or she can heal someone just by virtue of their total commitment to researching and strictly abiding by an alternative way of treatment. I've never strictly abided by anything. I don't even shower daily. Or every three days. Seriously, I have to believe in God, cause I certainly don't believe in my own powers of healing.

The stories from adults about when they were kids help, though. We survived childhood. It was traumatizing, but we survived it. I always hate it when people say in response to all their worries, "Oh, to have the worries of a child..." Do they not remember how overwhelming their worries felt? The insecurities of not having friends, the fear of their parents divorcing, death, eternity, the boogie monster?? Its awful stuff. And yet, we made it. We survived it.

I think maybe this is one of those things Atticus is surviving. Maybe one day, if he remembers, he'll tell the story about these crazy light flashes he saw and how they lasted one month and then never came back. He'll say, "The doctors never figured it out, but now (in the year 2025) they call it Growth Spurt Psychosis. There is very little treatment, just comforting the patient that this too shall pass. It was so weird and totally terrifying. But, then it just stopped. My parents were so freaked out. They prayed a lot and a bunch of their friends from Facebook told them how much they were praying for me...can you believe there was Facebook back then?? Anyway, I learned a lot about how to comfort myself. I still like singing the song from Psalm 121 to myself—I lift my eyes up, up to the mountains, where does my help come from..."