Tina Time

The only unfriendly Italians we met while we were there were the concierges at the hotel in Venice. A woman in the evening and a man during the daytime, each was tall, thin, dark and much better dressed than you would imagine a hotel concierge could afford. The hotel itself was small, only 37 rooms. It was quaint and all the other hotel employees smiled shyly at us in the hallway and seemed quite nice.

But the issues with both concierges (they were practically interchangeable in looks, age, demeanor and (lack of) manners) went on and on. When our luggage didn't arrive with us, we had to call the airport to follow up. The instruction sheet was in Italian, as was the recording when I called the phone number, the only thing on the page that I could read. When I went to the front desk, the woman was on the phone, speaking in Italian and not missing a breath as I waited for her attention. When she finally finished her call, she turned to me with a disdain tht let me know that she had much better things to do than to help me.

Later that evening we wanted to get something to eat so we asked at the front desk for a recomendation. Once again, she looked down her nose and said there were no restaraunts open at this time. We mentioned tht we had seen some restaraunts on our way in. "Oh", she said casually, "you don't want to go there, they are no good". But, we were hungry so headed out around the corner.

The small restaraunt we found was plain but full with every table inhabited by interesting looking people and the variety of languages was astounding. While the meal was not the best we had in Italy, it was a decent meal, with friendly service and lots of local flavor. The next day, it was cold and raining and stll without luggage, we wanted to head out and really begin to see the city. Once again we asked the concierge, this time the male version, if there were any shops close by. He assured us, no place we would want to go. We headed to the city, found a small shop across town and continued on to have a very nice day. That evening, while walking off dinner we passed two different mens sports clothes and menswear shops. what gives?

But the ultimate insult came on the last day we were in Venice. We had hoped to tour the glass blowing factory, but were worried that it would be cutting it too close with our train tickets to Florence. So we got up, ate our breakfast, packed our bags and headed for the front desk. Our train left around 11am and we knew our hotel was "somewhere" close to the train station. We headed to the front desk and asked directions. This time both conceirges were there. These were elegant, well dressed and attractive people. Tthe sardonic smile on each of thier faces was just the final touch to create the caricature they appeared.

Thier English was accented, but excellent, so this was not a communication problem. We asked about the train station and they offered directions, saying it was over the bridge (our room looked out over a canal) and then "right there". We took off, confident that if it was as close and obvious as thier directions, we should be able to see it once we crossed the bridge. We pulled our luggage up the stairs, across the small bridge and down the stairs on the other side, looking expectantly for a sign of a train station. There was actually a bus station right there, so we figured we were close. We walked up and once again, no sign of a train station. We asked a policemen, who waved us down a gangway, blocks away from where we had been looking. We headed down the street, down the gangway, but alas, no train stration in sight. There were many people walking in each direction on this alley like street facing the Grand Canal on our right and a quasi-strip mall with a few small businesses facing the walkway. Up and down this alley we walked, dragging our roll behinds, and carrying cameras, purses, and my backpack. We asked several people, at least three, and all directed us one way or another until finally, one gentlemen mentioned that we had to take a water taxi across the canal to the train station! Are you kidding me, not once, at the hotel, at the bus station, from random strangers on the street, did a single soul mention the fact that we had to cross a major body of water to get to where we were going. Amazing. At least most of the people we asked seemed genuinely happy to help, so I cannot say the oversight was intentional.....We finally bought our tickets, jumped on the water taxi and rode to the train station, which was there in sight as we left the boat.

So here it is, coming down to the test. Is this a serious endevour? Am I serious about this? It's the time where the luster has dimmed, the excitement of the performance has faded, the work has begun. So here is the deal, the time has come when I should write, need to write, but prefer or choose to do other things. I find myself making excuses each evening as dinner, homework, family and committments still press in. By the time evening is done and my time is my own, I am exhausted.

As we walk through this process and examine the components of inspiration, try to find where motivation originates, understand the forces that pull us to avoid or embrace the task at hand, I must acknowledge my own weakness in giving in to excuses.

Too tired, too many other things to do, just no energy left at the end of the day or guilt for choosing writing over chores or time with family and friends, have all been excuses I have allowed myself instead of focusing on the goal. No matter what the day has been like, there is almost always 30 min to be found when its a priority. I always think about Woody Allen's quote, "80% of success is just showing up". Doing the work, spending the time, choosing the activity that requires additional focus and energy after a long day, even if its not perfect, even if you're not in the mood, that is showing up.

Another favorite quote from Henry Ford (and forgive as I paraphrase) is "No one is ever congratulated or acknowleded anyone for what they said they were going to do". Any time you find yourself with a dream that occupies your time and thoughts and yet you are not really making any positive moves toward the goal, at some point you must either begin to take those steps, or acknowledge that it really wasn't that much of a dream after all. Too often in my life I have allowed myself to take the easier route of acknowledging the lack of trueness of the dream and simply convinced myself that all that time and energy spent thinking and planning was a lie and the admission that the absence of the dream was an acceptable reallty. The easier but far less satifying route.

So, here I am, committing again, to push on, to suck it up, to see the bigger goal of creating th life I want instead of short term comfort or ease. What makes the difference, how to find the strength, make the tougher choice? I am very interested in this idea, since I have often been so disappointed in my own choices

......tomorrow, back to Italy.....
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I have often kept a journal in different times of my life, mostly times filled with angst or especially frenetic times when there was so much going through my head and feelings filling me so overwhelmingly that writing them out seemed to be the only way to exorcise these recurring thoughts and save myself from an unending and repititious litany of thoughts I could not be rid of. Writing when I knew that no one wiould ever read my thoughts lent itself to a free form, unstructrured thought process that did not and did not need to make sense. It was simply a catharsis of the raw emotions that sometimes have overwhelmed me to the point that they needed an explicit outlet.

Writing out here in the blogsphere, in spite of the fact that I am realistic to know that no one is actually reading my unending prattlings aobut wanting to be important, its different. Here, the words have to make sense, nonsensical rantings and barely developed thoughts are soon revealed for what they are, or are not, when read with a critical eye. And I am too brutally honest to indulge in delusions about this undertaking.

It is, somewhat to be expected. I declare to the world that I will be a writer and speaker with no reflected effort or body of work to show my seriousness about the goal. Just the poems, which I have had a hard time taking seriously. This left me outside of the arena of competing for your time and considerstion. The blog space is like a workshop, an unending opportunity to practice practice practice writing, sharing thoughts, developing ideas.

It's in this space, upon the endless re-reading and editing that you realize that it is so much more than simply sitting down and letting the thoughts, fall, unbidden out of your head onto the paper. The work is in taking a raw emotion or undeveloped idea and present it as legitimate thought, worthy of a readers time and attention.

Now the challenge is to just keep writing, practicing, working. Hopefully something worthwhile will happen...

Venice,

We walked along the canal but were starving, so we decided to stop for a bite to eat. There were so many restaurants along the canal, every one with a small display on the sidewalk, right outside the door. Some were menus or wine racks. a table with dishes or an attractive display, in front of one, there was a small shark, arranged as if he were ready to talk to you, on ice. I had to take a picture, it was so interesting. The city smells a little fish, but we were happy to be sitting at a small cafe right next to the canal, in between the gondola booths.

Because it had rained on and off practically all day, most of the gondolas were tied up at thier stands and the canal was fairly empty of traffic. The gondola drivers were standing around smoking, having conversations in Italian, wearing the traditional striped long sleeved, wide necked tight shirt. Many wore the caps too. It was so much fun just to sit, drinking Italian beer and an odd assortment of meat and grilled vegatables. The rain had finally stopped, but the sky was still cloudy and the air was slightly cold, but we were warmed by our beer and our lunch and we were off to St. Mark's square.

Venice is a fairly small city, and we walked and walked, following our small tourists map and trying to make sense of the Italian names and maze of canals and streets and piazza's. We knew we were close to our destination, but I wasn't sure how we managed not to find the biggest area in city. Finally, we turned the corner and there it was, a huge sprawling square, bordered on one side by the large cathedral and small shops, hotels and restaurants. And the pigeons, like you have never seen, on the ground in large shimmering waves of black and gray, tourists happily feeding them crumbs and bread and the birds scampering after every morsel. Some people thought it was fun to let the pigeons roost on thier shoulders and arms, but for me, not so much.

There were young men playing guitar or accordian with a case for change in front of them, setting up and gathering up as the rain came and went. A full orchestra accompanied by a grand piano played under the eaves of an elegant hotel, with the rain dripping off the awnings and the lady musicians trying ot keep thier shawls and jackets on while playing thier instruments.

3/22/06

I have always seen and thought of myself as a writer, even though there have been great stretches of time when I was not writing at all, times when I enjoyed the crafting of letters or business communication but just never had the discipline to consistently churn out work for the exercise of finding a voice, developing the depth and breadth of ideas necessary to prove yourself worthwhile. This blog is serving as that tool for me, so I am so delighted to be able to forget about the pressures of what to write about and just relax into the storytelling and descriptions, the delights of writing.

So, Venice! We woke up Tuesday, (our 25th wedding anniversary) with still no luggage. but first, before the rest of that story, I must just take a moment to tell you about our room. Much to my chagrin, I did not take pictures of the ceiling, as it is difficult to describe. The entire ceiling was sectioned using heavy gilded molding materials. A star made of this gold molding encased the French teardrop chandelier and a combination of triangles and squares fit together in a tight pattern, forming a border at the perimeter of the room. Some sections were painted white, some gold, some blue. The walls of room were a soft country blue and the wooden desk, bed bench, night stands and armoire were all delicately hand painted with swirls, flowers and small intricately colored birds. Except for the bathroom, which was updated, the room made you feel as if you had stepped into a time long ago. But I digress....

After breakfast: cold cuts, croissants and assorted breakfast breads, cereal, fresh fruit, yogurt and my favorite new food, Nutella (its like peanut butter, but made from hazelnut and with chocolate. i am not a peanut butter lover but now I eat Nutella almost every day.....it kind of makes me feel like Italy....just a little). Breakfast was pretty much the same at all three hotels we stayed at in the course of our stay, no eggs, no pancakes, but a meat and cheese tray and a huge variety of breads. High fiber cereals and yogurts a staple.

Anyway, after breakfast, still in the same summer clothes that we had been wearing since Sunday and had to put back on after our shower we had had enough. We headed out from the hotel, to find it pouring rain. Right outside the door was a young Middle Eastern man selling umbrellas for 5 Euros each, so we bought 2 and headed straight for the kiosks right across the canal. Keith bought a heavy velour sweater with Venicia embroidered on the front. I, at least, had a lightweight sweatshirt with me and Capri length pants. He was wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, so this was the first time he had been warm (during daylight) since we got there.

We didn't really know where to go, but we knew the general direction of "town" (we were staying near the outskirts of Venice) so we started walking. It was, once again like being in another time or like being on a movie set. Each building is more beautiful than the next, with statues, mostly of saints, carved into buildings, along with other shapes and symbols, arches. The walkways were cobblestone and each shop had a tiny display window, but in most cases, proved to be a long narrow store. Sidewalk cafes were found on every corner of an intricate array of stone lined alleys. But of course they were empty in the rain, except for a few brave souls huddled up against the building smoking.

Venice is known for a few things, blown glass and paper or stationery products. You have no idea of the many types of glass and how many different ways to use it. The same with the paper, beautiful paper, envelopes, note pads and pens. Once again, much to my chagrin, we did not buy any of the beautiful papers we saw. I kept thinking I would get it later. My advice, when you travel, if you see something you really like, buy it right then and there. You almost never go back and the stack of junk you buy that you later regret pales in comparison to the pain of not having what you now recognize could have made the perfect memory.

We ducked into the first clothing store we saw that was not dealing exclusively in lingerie, gloves, shoes or sweaters. The shop we did step into was very small but a lot of clothes space, either hanging and on shelves. The man behind the counter wore a well fitted grey wool suit over a black T shirt;. He was a small, neat man, with close cropped silver hair, a little balding on top and a classic handsome Italian face, straight of one of many memorable movies. He had elegant movements and wonderful accented English. We knew we would be reimbursed for whatever we bought from either our travel insurance or from the airline, so we shopped! I tried on several pairs of jeans (one of my goals was to come home with a pair of authentic Italian jeans) and finally decided on the pair that fit best, a sweater and scarf (all the women wore scarves and I had to have one!) Kieth bought a pair of jeans and a sweater. We were just about to settle up, but I continued to be drawn back to a purple leather coat. It was 40 Euros. I really didn't need another leather jacket, but it was cold and I knew the sweater would not be enough, but a purple leather jacket. You should see it! Its fabulous!

Once the shopping was done, we were warm and fed and ready to see the sites. Once again we walked and gawked, occasionally buying small items from a small shop or median merchants. Keith was wearing sandals, so we thought about buying him a pair of shoes. We walked into the first men’s shoe store we saw, I asked, American size 14? hahahahahahahahahah (the Italian are not sized 14).

We walked and walked until all of a sudden, there we were at the Grand Canal. It was like standing in a postcard. My next step in blogging is to try to add some pictures to this story, my words cannot convey what it was like to stand there and see a sight I had seen so many times on television, in magazines and books, and I was there. It took my breath away. The crowd was festive and international and people politely took their turn to have their picture taken on the bridge, then yielded so the next family or couple could have their turn.

Finally, we moved on down the stairs to the row of canal side restaurants and stopped for a bite to eat. But we had to hurry; we still needed to get to St. Mark's Square. Once again, we weren't exactly sure where it was, but we kept walking and finally we there.

But, dear reader, the time is late, my eyelids heavy... I thought I would be able to complete a day of Italy each day, but here I am, ready for bed and still much about the first day in Venice to tell. I don't really want to rush through what could be a fun writing/reading experience. If you are reading along, please help me, too much? too little? right pace? love to hear from you!
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3/21/06

So, Italy, so glad you asked! My husband Keith and I celebrated our 25th anniversary with a fabulous trip to Venice, Florence and Rome last October. In spite of the fact that I have told the stories over and over, retelling simply takes me back and leaves me with the pure joy the trip was and through memories still is. First of all, how can you expect to have anything but a great time when the only thing on your agenda each day is what beautiful or interesting thing you will do that day. There are no phone calls, you are not expected to be anyplace at any specific time, except perhaps to catch a tour, on your way to learn more about one of those beautiful, interesting things. Vacation in general is a pretty great thing, but this one was right in so many ways.

Before we had decided on exactly where we were going to go for our anniversary, I mentioned to Keith that while I didn't want to spend our whole trip in St. Louis, I would not mind stopping there on our way to wherever we might go to see one of the last games played in Busch Stadium. It turned out, he had already bought the tickets to the last two games of the season and was going to surprise me. The first night of our trip, at Busch stadium, my favorite Cardinal player, Albert Puhols, hit a grand slam and led the Cardinals to their 98th victory of the season. I knew right then and there it was going to be a great trip!

We left for Italy on Sunday morning, a long flight in coach, but we were so excited on setting out on our 2 week trip that it seemed to pass quickly. We changed planes in London and enjoyed just listening to the lovely accents all around us. It was amazing to see the differences, even in England. We flew on a small plane to Venice and landed in pouring down rain. We were both dressed in summer clothes, having left from Dallas and 90 degree weather, and it was cold and wet. We followed the crowd from our plane to the baggage carousel, cold and wet, watching the other multi national passengers as we all waited for our luggage. There were Middle Eastern men, African men, European women dressed like they had stepped off the front page of vogue. And the shoes!

Anyway, we waited as one by one the crowd left with their luggage until it became apparent that ours was not on the belt. It seems that it was delayed in London and the lady at the customer service counter gave us a print out with a claim number and said the luggage would arrive on the next flight and would be at our hotel that evening. We found our shuttle driver and watched the rain continue to pour, much to our dismay, as he sped through traffic with no concern for the large buses, other cars and large puddles of standing water, the whole time he was turned around talking to us in his beautifully accented English. He was funny and we watched out the windows, eager to soak in every detail of this all new world. I couldn't wait to get a glimpse of my first canal.

Our hotel was small, 37 rooms, and decorated in European Victorian with hand painted furniture, large sculptured ceilings, blue and gold striped floor to ceiling drapes. It was all charm, complete with haughty concierge and mud brown coffee. We got to our room, but of course had no bags to unpack, so after we oohed and ahhed, we decided to take a nap and wait for our luggage. the room was on the second floor and the windows looked out over a small canal. We found that the windows had large wooden shutters that when closed, made the room as dark as night.

We woke up around 8pm (we had been up since early the morning before) to find no luggage had arrived and calls to the phone number on the claim check yielded a voice message in Italian. Though our quaint little hotel had a small bar and served breakfast, it did not have a restaurant inside, so we asked the desk clerk about where we could eat. She told us there were no good restaurants close by, but as we were still wearing our shorts and Hawaiian shirts, we opted to stay close to the hotel. Ins spite of the warning from the hotel clerk, we found a cute little restaurant down the street and ordered our first Italian mean, including wine to help us warm up. The waiter was charming though he spoke little English, but by pointing to the menu, we were able to order and enjoy a delicious meal. Once again we enjoyed the accents of a German family next to us and several Italian couples having dinner. We took our time, laughed about the luggage and finally finished and headed back to the hotel. (Stay tuned for more later!) Our day in Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples.

3/15/06

I am always brilliant, during the day while I am walking up the stairs at work, in the car. Topics, ideas, words role along in a really superior way. And then, the day winds down, I sit down at the blog to put some of that brilliance on paper and cannot recall a word. The Big Blank Page does indeed, loom daunting, an awesome responsibility, an incredible opportunity, an open invitation. This is where the real work starts, the thinking work. Structuring an idea and following it through to the depth and breadth of a fully developed thought. But then, sadly, I sit and look at the blank page and try to think of something worth saying.

3/19/06

It has occurred to me that the next step to master is discipline. This is the difference between achieving your dreams and dreaming your dreams. This is the middle of the process, the tedious part. Once the excitement of making a decision and announcing it is over, the friends and family have all gone back to their lives, the spotlight is off, you (I) have made my intentions known. It is before any of the benefits of achieving the goals I have set for myself are available. It is the time where the consequences of not doing something each day is practically non-existent. (I set a goal for myself to do at least one thing a day related to my plan, no matter how small. I am fairly, though not perfectly successful at this approach so far, but doing much better than if I had set no goal).

Though I seem to be stuck on the idea of not knowing what to say, on circumspect, I don't think it is the real issue. Truth be told, I speak with people every day and offer insight and observations as asked. I honestly do believe that the things I believe and the basis of the reason I believe I am destined for a larger voice is the universal acceptance and encouragement my words and ideas have received.

It is not the content that is proving illusive, it is the discipline to open the computer and focus my thoughts. I started out by committing to blog every day. This, as you can see, has slipped a bit as I allow the shopping, cleaning, kids, work, volunteer, friend world, translated as my life, occupy my time and energy.

There is just no doubt that this is an obstacle that must be overcome if I am ever move to the point of engaging in my dreams instead of just dreaming them. And on close examination, the real question is: is it the time, the energy, the ability (or lack of), the interest, or fear that causes the reticence or simple lack of following through.

This is a somewhat painful question, as I expose my inner struggles, since the answer may reveal some less than proud admissions. Success comes to those who figure out the answer to this question and then do what needs to be done anyway. Those of us who spend too much time dwelling, stewing, fretting, choose your own method, but spend our time and energies finding excuses or explanations or understanding are standing still trying to figure out or justify our past behavior. But the net result, no matter what the answer, is that we are not doing the things we know for a fact are the things that need to be done to make our dreams reality.

Not one second, in this questing mode, is spent looking for a way to change or move forward or achieve. All of us who are on a path to a goal know what needs to be done to get us there. We are not questing to understand what the right move, that’s obvious: make more calls, write more poems, get more customers, sell more ideas. We know what to do. It’s just the doing it, in spite of being tired after having worked a full day, attended an extra curricular meeting, cleaning the kitchen after dinner checking homework for tomorrow. All good reasons for being tired, no doubt. But, still not getting the job done.

So where does that “extra energy” come from? Woody Allen said, “80% of success is just showing up”! Doing something poorly, or doing it when you are not always fresh and eager may not seem worth the effort. But the difference between doing it less perfectly than you would like and not doing it at all is everything compared to the difference between the less than spectacular performance and the perfect.

Nike captured this as succinctly as is possible, “Just Do It!” If it’s important, if next year you want to be somewhere different than you are today, if, when you look in the mirror you want to be able to say “I did it” instead of “ I didn’t do it because…….”. Just do it! Even if you’re tired. Even when you don’t want to. Even when you’re sure it might not be time well spent. Focus on the goal. While you are in that moment of decision, ask yourself: am I going to turn on the TV or am I going to move a little closer to my dream? See the end result of attaining your vision and ask yourself, as you are acknowledging how tired you are, how much of your energy has already been expended, how much you have already had to do that day, and ask yourself where you want to be next year at this time: on your way to achieving that dream, or being exactly where you are today, still just thinking about the dream.

Show up and see how short the path from there really is.

I have to go write a poem!

3/14/06

So, here we are, I have said to the world, "I have something to say". I set up the forum, and now what? I stare at this very blank page, with the entire universe of topics to explore and realize that this is where the work begins. Its so easy to dream in the big picture, to see yourself living the life you dream, accepting the rewards and accolades and benefits of the realization of the dream. You may even be able to envision the work itself, in a romantic and not too specific way. But here we are, where the pavement meets the road, as they say...go ahead....create....be clever....it seems so easy in verse. Half the fun of verse is organizing the words in a non traditional way that offers a certain licence and lightness to the words. Prose seems so serious, so important.

I think about what it means to inspire....inspire what?....Dr. Wayne (one of my personal hero’s) Dyer says inspire means "in spirit". I have been trying to figure out what inspires me, and what does it mean, to say, "I am inspired?" I associate it with a feeling of wanting more, feeling excited about doing something new, feeling both a confidence and an enthusiasm about tackling that next great challenge or that pesky daunting task. And I'm not talking about the bribery or reward system we sometimes use to coax responsible or performance setting behavior from ourselves. More, inspiration is about the reaching into the core of our being and touching that place that holds the precious answer to "what is my passion? what is my purpose?" When anything you read, or hear or feel or just know causes you to look for that place, to begin to search for it, to recognize or acknowledge it, or most importantly, to act on it that is to feel inspired.

So to even say the words aloud (or, in print) that it is my goal to inspire, that more than anything in the world I want to be an inspirational speaker, is to presume a place I am not quite sure I am qualified to command. My very small self whispers, who am I to dream this huge dream? to assume this large voice? The fear forces doubts and questions, uncertainty and lack of confidence. How can I see and feel this "burning desire" or a very clear vision and yet not have the confidence to go for it.

And yet, there are the assurances of family and friends; that they have been touched and inspired. There is the undeniable ability to articulate thought in a way that helps translates complex or confusing ideas. (I know that is a bit of a pat on the back, but, as a my Grandma always said, "if it's true, it aint bragging".) And this is really the ladder I find myself climbing to get out of this whole I have dug for myself. There is simply no sin in acknowledging one's gifts and having the expectation and satisfaction of using those gifts to the utmost for the benefit of all and any.

Especially when doing so makes you giddily, inexorably, undeniably, goofily, crazily happy............


There once was a girl who loved rhymes
In the best and the worst of the times
So she honored this knack
And acknowledged no lack
Writing love into each of her lines

Since she knew what she needed to do
The obstacles she faced were quite few
Kept her eyes on the goal
Work well anchored in soul
Somehow knew that her dreams would come true

For the folks who supported her art
Left her humbled and grateful of heart
As she grasped the connection
Found in the reflection
Of Spirit’s grace eagerly sought



Spirit's grace eagerly sought......now that's a line! You have no idea how l struggled over the last line of this little limerick. Traditioally, the last line in any poem is the most powerful and important one. It carries the message you are trying to impart. And, I care about the sound of the words and the feelings they impose. This started out as something silly and then, halfway through, started to become important to me. By the end, I needed it to say what I felt, but I could not seem to make it fit or work. The rest of it had just flowed, but the last line was proving a bear! I really did not want to change the rhyme in the first two lines (of the last stanza). So I turned off the TV and covered my face, cleared my head and asked for some help.......Of Spirit's grace eagerly sought was my gift.

3/12/06

I've been thinking a lot about the state of the world and all the things going on these days. I've also been thinking about my very clear political views, ones I hope align with my core values and beliefs, but are no doubt concerned with the physical and human part of our experience vs the spiritual and infinite self about whom I usually try to connect. And while I plan to keep the lines clear between my politics and by poetry, the urge to take a stand politically, and in verse, is tempting and alluring. I have an overly active political interest and knowledge and (without sounding vain) use my intellect and persuasive abilities easily in the political pondering arenas. So my expectation is that I would be witty and clever and get my ideas heard by wrapping them in verse. The idea intrigues me and calls me and on one hand I believe I could have a say here, (after much time spent learning and dues paying yada yada yada). Anyway, the thing is, I am not sure it would be a good thing in other ways.

My political side seems, without much provocation, to bring out the other side of the perpetually happy, and generally enthusiastic demeanor I have been blessed with since childhood. I've noticed, lately, that when I begin to discuss my very definite political ideas, for instance, at parties, with neighbors, I am soon sounding like the harsh opinionated boor everyone runs to avoid. I'm not sure I yet understand exactly what is going on, but I can feel the transformation from the relaxed conversational tones of catching up with long time neighbors to the shrill campaigning pitch politicians sometimes slip in and out from happen as both my temperature and volume increase.

Its not that politics and the world condition and how we manage global situations are unimportant. Not so, its more that as I feel my general tension and intensity start to rise, I know in my heart, to quote Dr. Wayne Dyer, that I am moving toward a low energy experience and away from the high energy "high" that follows creating or sharing my verses. I know this near anger and frenzy politics leads me towards is not my best self and needs to be kept in check at all times. I do not want to deny my interest, and yet continue to struggle to think objectively about world situations while maintaining my best self view that has very different objectives

It is a conundrum, for sure, (I'm sure I feel a poem coming.) Its funny, at times like this, I get the idea for a new poem, start out thinking that I am about to express a specific thought when, once started, I suddenly realize the work has taken on a message of its own, one I had not necessarily planned on. It will be interesting to see where this one takes me. Stay tune, who knows....

3/11/06

So here it is, life has gone on, the big day has come and gone and for everyone else life must seem pretty much the same as before that day, but for me, it is a whole new world. To have the answer to the question on what are you here for? or what is my purpose? or what is my gift? is amazing, euphoric, simply unbelievable! and while I am realistic enough to know that this honeymoon, energized feeling will not last forever, I also know I will be able to look back and draw on this memory and this happiness anytime.

In fact, if nothing more ever happened to me concerning poetry, I could be totally satisfied with knowing that I am able to touch the hearts of my friends and family. Of course, I long to have a larger voice, to reach and touch outside the circle of my immediate and current life, and this is the crux of this endeavour, to raise this voice and see if it still stands with strangers.

But the outcome of the first attempt to share a body of work, vs a piece or two, was so welcomed and encouraged that it has fueled me to the point where I cannot be stopped in the pursuit of my dream!

I don't think I explained the concept of Personal Verses well at the reading, but this is the type of poem that Personal Verses refers to, one written to a specific person or for a specific occassion. I would be delighted to write one for you.

This is for all of you who were there with me, those who could not be, but sent your thoughts and well wishes and prayers:


After the Glow...

The dawn has just broken on what looks to be
A brand new life waiting, one I can’t wait to see
Your being there with me, as I climbed the first rung
Listening intently as the words rolled off my tongue
Meant more to my heart than mere words can declare
The love filled the room up because you were there
I’m so grateful and humbled that you took out the time
And shared with me what had been previously mine
Your kindness and encouragement have helped me to know
That ideas make a difference and help us to grow
I’m inspired to work hard to mature in my art
And invite you along and to please play a part
Of the journey that stretches as I struggle to decode
And make sense of the gift with which I’ve been bestowed
For no doubt exists from where this talent extends
The rhymes and the rhythms are not mine in the end
I just solve the puzzle of what words to put where
Rendering dreams whispered as they float in the air




so, let me know if you are reading this blog, leave me a comment, would love to hear from you... Tina Ann