I have 21 more days before I am going to the Great Northwest for a month. Do I make or break any habits that I've been thinking about before I go? I plan on writing music, writing words, being outside, keeping a record of what I'm doing and much more. I want to come back changed and full of vigor. I want to come back and know what I am doing. I have nothing left but a few tools, many people rooting for me and a spark of faith that this may actually work.
I've been practicing the guitar because I am going to accompany myself on one song when I get to Montana for a benefit for Haiti. My sister is going to play the piano on the other song. There will be quite a few artists there. I may be the only one with a one song repertoire (at least with instrumentation, you want a capella? I could sing for days!).
My fingers hurt from "playing" the guitar and yesterday I nearly passed out at a personal training session. In my family this means your doing something right! I plan on putting myself through many more ringers. (Is that even a word?) I will also be kind to myself in the process. That is something I have learned all on my own.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Tuesdays with...
It's a gorgeous day outside and I can't shake the grey sleepies that are following me around at work. Every time I go outside I get a jot of awakedness, of alertness. I'm happy outside. Perhaps I should live outside. So different to be able to make that choice than to have that be what you have to do. I would like to live more outside though. Growing up in Montana, the outside was a part of your everyday. The elements were a part of your decisions. That is definitely true here in New York as well, but it leads to such different things. Snow in Montana-get your skis, there's fresh powder to be explored. Snow in New York-get your parka on, you've got a long commute ahead of you. It will be beautiful for approximately 4 hours, and then the black slush comes. Slush comes to montana as well, always on my birthday. Weird. And now for a story...
My junior year of high school I was super involved in everything. I wasn't a cheerleader or really involved in school, but I was overly involved in church (a parent's dream). I was on worship team at one church, was going to a discipleship class at another and went to a Bible study and i think i was doing something else in there as well. I was a mess. I was having a time of learning and teaching and losing my mind. The pressure I felt was more than I could handle eventually. I had a good friend throughout named Michelle. She was wonderful. She told me one time while we were driving in my parent's van "part of your problem is that you are like your mother AND your father AND then you are yourself on top of that". It was true. My parents are wonderful and I like to believe that in the right dose I'm not so shabby, but that's alot of personality rolled up in one. I had one of my first break downs that year the weekend of my birthday. I was suppose to get in a church van to go to some retreat. It wasn't feeling like a retreat at all for me. I could not breathe, I could not cope and I could NOT get in the van. michelle told me I didn't have to. We called my mom and told her what was going on. I stayed all weekend without anyone knowing I was in town except for my loving mfamily and my loving michelle. I wore my pajamas to the Winter Carnival parade and enjoyed every minute of the first slush on my birthday.
My junior year of high school I was super involved in everything. I wasn't a cheerleader or really involved in school, but I was overly involved in church (a parent's dream). I was on worship team at one church, was going to a discipleship class at another and went to a Bible study and i think i was doing something else in there as well. I was a mess. I was having a time of learning and teaching and losing my mind. The pressure I felt was more than I could handle eventually. I had a good friend throughout named Michelle. She was wonderful. She told me one time while we were driving in my parent's van "part of your problem is that you are like your mother AND your father AND then you are yourself on top of that". It was true. My parents are wonderful and I like to believe that in the right dose I'm not so shabby, but that's alot of personality rolled up in one. I had one of my first break downs that year the weekend of my birthday. I was suppose to get in a church van to go to some retreat. It wasn't feeling like a retreat at all for me. I could not breathe, I could not cope and I could NOT get in the van. michelle told me I didn't have to. We called my mom and told her what was going on. I stayed all weekend without anyone knowing I was in town except for my loving mfamily and my loving michelle. I wore my pajamas to the Winter Carnival parade and enjoyed every minute of the first slush on my birthday.
Monday, November 16, 2009
And now...
So I'm following up on this blog almost a year later. I've been feeling itchy to write it out again. It's a nice day here in NYC. my husband just got back from Iceland and I reconnected with an old friend. All this and then some has left me encouraged. I have been feeling a bit out of sorts lately-far away like there is a pane of glass between me and "it". You know? I'm trying to breathe above water while I'm bobbing up and down. I must keep moving though. I must. (That's the double soap opera repeat for emphasis.)
I'm at my day job. Some days it is very hard to deal with the tedium of it, but seriously if I complain about it I deserve a handslap. I just prefer singing that's all. I prefer meetings and writing and deciding what to wear and rushing from one thing to the next and blasting my voice out. Yes I do. I am fighting the desire (don't know if I should fight it) to think of alternative things to do. Maybe singing isn't everything etc. and all that. Aaahh, but it still is isn't it missy? You're just trying to keep it down because losing it hurts way too much. True. Preach it! So, I continue the fight to remain true-to get up and keep on trying. I will not give in to the alternative. At least not today.
I'm at my day job. Some days it is very hard to deal with the tedium of it, but seriously if I complain about it I deserve a handslap. I just prefer singing that's all. I prefer meetings and writing and deciding what to wear and rushing from one thing to the next and blasting my voice out. Yes I do. I am fighting the desire (don't know if I should fight it) to think of alternative things to do. Maybe singing isn't everything etc. and all that. Aaahh, but it still is isn't it missy? You're just trying to keep it down because losing it hurts way too much. True. Preach it! So, I continue the fight to remain true-to get up and keep on trying. I will not give in to the alternative. At least not today.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Hello!
I was the kid who wanted her friends to read her journal. I wanted them to know me. I thought by having them read what I wrote I would be understood, loved even. At the very least they would think I was fascinating, complex, revolutionary! in my thinking. People don't always want to read your journal, and now that is more than fine by me, but I will always want to write one. I continue on with my need to write things down, and clearly wanting someone to read them is not entirely out of my system. I'm nervous though, about obsessing over words, or wanting to rewrite, or get it just right-to explain correctly and thoroughly. I'm nervous about being judged for my bad grammar in my sentences. BUT, the fact that I have admitted in writing, to you who read this (and to I who write this) that I am nervous about anything at all is a pretty good place to start.
I received my first journal from my sister. I still have it. I have all of my journals with the exception of the ones that were stolen.
It is not that my words are so incredibly valuable that one could snatch them up and sell them to the first passerby, but I have been known to keep a messy car and in that messy car there were bags and in those bags were journals and bras and Bibles and videotapes and toothbrushes-you know, valuables.
My mother got me started on the writing. I was level 10 intense and complex and on. I was a very hyper and happy kid who could get a little spazzy and spin right out of sight up up up and then crash down in a pool of tears and agitation often meeting the ground with a head wound or two.
This would also describe my early 20's.
My mother's remedies always included prayer, sleep, food, hard work and waking early. My mother's remedies for ME, along with all of those things, included running around the house before bed and always keeping a pen and paper in my hands.
THANK YOU MOM!!!!!
I moved, talked, and thought constantly-racingly. God was my patient listener. Writing helped me to get it out. Dancing helped me to get it out. Singing made me feel like a bird.
more on that later
Working out, as it would suggest, helped me to get it out. I was the youngest member of the Downtowner Health Club at age 11. Sports hadn't served me well and running around the house at night is not always practical, so my mom joined me up at the gym. I had gone there in 4th grade on a field trip to an aerobics class. I lost my mind. I loved it. Music and jumping around AND specific clothes just for the occasion? What's not to love? My mom made me workout clothes from scratch. My favorite pair of spandex were neon pink with black polka dots. They were awesome. I also had a lovely half shirt with pastel paint splatters that I would pair with a different colored bottom piece over shiny nude leggings. This particular outfit was topped off with huge bunchy socks (matching of course) and aerobic hightops. Again, awesome. I would go to class and then head into the gym to lift some weights. I loved being tough. I loved feeling like I was one of them. Just a dude, working out, keeping healthy, keeping strong, pumping iron.
I have had glasses since first grade and a wicked depth perception problem to boot-basketball gets tricky. I preferred to get to know my "opponent", not blocking them from a satisfying move on the court that they could be proud of! Needless to say, I have won my fair share of "Spirit" awards.
The Dowtowner had a hottub outside which my friends and I would sit in after our workouts. We would wear swimsuits and ski hats in the winter, steam rising up and snow falling down on us. It made for crispy hair.
If you are from a cold climate, you can understand that wet hair in winter makes for frozen locks that seem as though they could snap off at any second. No worries though, they don't.
It's a chilly November 24th, no snow today, but I am currently wearing my hair short.
I received my first journal from my sister. I still have it. I have all of my journals with the exception of the ones that were stolen.
It is not that my words are so incredibly valuable that one could snatch them up and sell them to the first passerby, but I have been known to keep a messy car and in that messy car there were bags and in those bags were journals and bras and Bibles and videotapes and toothbrushes-you know, valuables.
My mother got me started on the writing. I was level 10 intense and complex and on. I was a very hyper and happy kid who could get a little spazzy and spin right out of sight up up up and then crash down in a pool of tears and agitation often meeting the ground with a head wound or two.
This would also describe my early 20's.
My mother's remedies always included prayer, sleep, food, hard work and waking early. My mother's remedies for ME, along with all of those things, included running around the house before bed and always keeping a pen and paper in my hands.
THANK YOU MOM!!!!!
I moved, talked, and thought constantly-racingly. God was my patient listener. Writing helped me to get it out. Dancing helped me to get it out. Singing made me feel like a bird.
more on that later
Working out, as it would suggest, helped me to get it out. I was the youngest member of the Downtowner Health Club at age 11. Sports hadn't served me well and running around the house at night is not always practical, so my mom joined me up at the gym. I had gone there in 4th grade on a field trip to an aerobics class. I lost my mind. I loved it. Music and jumping around AND specific clothes just for the occasion? What's not to love? My mom made me workout clothes from scratch. My favorite pair of spandex were neon pink with black polka dots. They were awesome. I also had a lovely half shirt with pastel paint splatters that I would pair with a different colored bottom piece over shiny nude leggings. This particular outfit was topped off with huge bunchy socks (matching of course) and aerobic hightops. Again, awesome. I would go to class and then head into the gym to lift some weights. I loved being tough. I loved feeling like I was one of them. Just a dude, working out, keeping healthy, keeping strong, pumping iron.
I have had glasses since first grade and a wicked depth perception problem to boot-basketball gets tricky. I preferred to get to know my "opponent", not blocking them from a satisfying move on the court that they could be proud of! Needless to say, I have won my fair share of "Spirit" awards.
The Dowtowner had a hottub outside which my friends and I would sit in after our workouts. We would wear swimsuits and ski hats in the winter, steam rising up and snow falling down on us. It made for crispy hair.
If you are from a cold climate, you can understand that wet hair in winter makes for frozen locks that seem as though they could snap off at any second. No worries though, they don't.
It's a chilly November 24th, no snow today, but I am currently wearing my hair short.
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