Broken Heart Lake

One evening a few weeks (maybe even a month!) ago I managed to get myself out of the house to go to yoga at Bally’s gym, only to find when I got there that it had been cancelled. Looking for a place where I could walk alone safely, I found myself at Creve Coeur Park, a beautiful but busy place a few miles from our home in Maryland Heights.

I’d been working on a unit of lessons about Lewis and Clark and learning a lot about the rich history of Missouri. As I walked the path beside the big lake, I breathed in the cool air and enjoyed the soft October light. A few bicycles whizzed by. I passed women in running pants with arm bands hooked to I-pods and kissing couples out for an evening stroll.



On my left a sign caught my eye that said “Dripping Springs ~ Scene of the tragic death of the lovelorn Indian girl whose broken heart is said to have given the lake it’s sorrowful name, “Creve Coeur”.

In all my fifteen years in St. Louis, I’d never heard this story! I was so pleased with my discovery that I made Jeremy and Sophia return to the park with me a few weeks later so I could take some photos. At the time I was hoping to capture the beauty of fall, but it was a little early.




In the end it was my husband who captured most of the images. He went into full-on nature photographer mode. As he shot, I secretly promised myself that one day I’ll know the names of Missouri trees and wildflowers, like a real poet.










These are the infamous “Dripping Springs” up close:




As a writer and would-be poet it’s hard to pass up such a story, so I’ll share some of the thoughts I jotted in my notebook thinking it might make a poem one day:


Broken Heart Lake

Late October sunset
at Dripping Springs.

Sliver of moon rising,
her sweet ghost hovers
beside me.

Silver light
glistens off the
tears on her cheek.

Winter is on its way,
she knows he’s
never coming back.

Only jagged rocks
remember the name of a native girl,
whose sorrow gave birth
to a lake.

***

Happy To Be Home!

Well, I finally made the decision to move my blog back to its original home here at Blogspot. I loved the professional look and some other features of WordPress, but Blogspot is a good place for a writer. I can do everything I want in terms of the creative design (layout, cute widgets, monetizing!) for free.

I know that it doesn’t matter much to most people. I’m well aware that “more people have read this t-shirt than your blog” but I’m grateful to those who’ve taken the time to read and comment on my blog posts. 

I’m slowly building a public platform. I’m a member of She Writes since August of this year. I’ve been working on a fantasy novel lately and trying my hand at poetry. In everyday life I’m a busy mom and a wife, studying hard to become a teacher. In my heart though, I’m a creative person and a writer. It has taken me to the age of forty to be able to say those words to other people:

I am a writer.

More than that, I believe, as Julia Cameron says, that “everyone has the right to write” and that “writing rights things”. It helps us construct and create the meaning of our own lives. Through writing we articulate who we are, what we value most deeply and the spiritual legacy we want to leave for our children. Through writing we become more fully ourselves … and I’m all in for that!

Welcome to my continually evolving blog as I continue my writing, creating, healing, teaching, learning, loving journey!

Not Chaotic … Simply Versatile!

I am delighted to thank Ms. Cat von Hassel Davies at http://www.catrambles.com/ for graciously honoring me with the Versatile Blogger award!



I really appreciate her kind words about my blog. I've always been concerned about my lack of focus. I've considered trying to separate my blog out into various topics such as literature and writing, education or health but it would just be too time-intensive, considering all the other things I have going on in my life right now.

So from now on I will think of myself as a "versatile" blogger. It gives me a sense of freedom. I'm a woman with a lot on my mind and my blog gives me a place to share it. The first rule of the Versatile Blogger award is to thank the person who gave it to you. Please go and take a ramble with Ms. Cat ... she's a fantastically entertaining blogger.

The second rule is to post seven random things about yourself. It's difficult for me to dredge up seven things I haven't already shared about myself in this blog, but here goes:

1. I was born in the "new town" of Glenrothes in Fife Scotland. I have big plans to blog all about it and the link between sculpture and creativity in childhood.

2. I dislike team sports but I love watching gymnastics and competitive ice-skating.

3. I love trashy pop music. My current favorite is "We R Who We R" by Kesha". It makes me dance like a wild woman.

4. I'm obsessed with buying blank journals. Even if I have ten in the house I'll still buy another.

5. I'm very vain about wearing my glasses in public. If I see you at the store and I'm wearing my glasses, I will be tempted to hide from you.

6. Before I wanted to be a writer it was my childhood dream to become an actress. I'm a bit of a ham, really.

7. I've picked out a pretty girl's name for my second child but I'm not sure I want another!

The last part of accepting the award is to pay it forward to five bloggers who you think are deserving of such an honor. I plan to unveil my selection very soon!

I'm happy to have positive feedback on my blog. I've now moved my platform back to its original home at Blogspot, where I can widgetize and monetize to my heart's content for free. In my next blog I'm planning to write about the connection between versatility and crowded teeth ... there really is a link but that's a post for another time ... to be continued!

New Frontiers

The drive to my doctor’s office isn’t long. It starts getting prettier heading west on I-70. I drove over the Veteran’s Memorial Bridge and the beautiful Missouri river at St. Charles. I’m supposed to teach a unit on the Lewis and Clark expedition this semester, if I get that far given these insomniac nights. I wondered what Meriwether Lewis would think if he was here today. I imagined him standing on the banks of the river with Seaman by his side, watching these huge hunks of metal flying by at furious speeds on an impossibly complicated piece of architecture. Lewis was from a slow world. It took the expedition two years to find the Pacific ocean and make it back to St. Charles for a hero’s welcome.

Some people in the U.K. and even some Americans have told me that this country has no history, but on this late September day before the leaves have started turning, I feel my heart overflow with a rich sense of history and amazement at the sacrifices made by others before us who gave us the life we know today.

I feel good on the drive. I feel like my meds are working. I listen to Better than Ezra and Jack’s Mannequin and think it’s time I found some new music. I sing loudly. These nights are another matter. I sleep fitfully. I wake up feeling dizzy and twitchy. At night my mind kicks into overdrive, making small problems into insurmountable obstacles. How long to get well? How expensive? Will I ever really shake this thing? What will I do if this doctor quits or retires on me?

Lewis and Clark and all the members of the expedition were driven to distraction by gnats, mosquitoes and the dreaded tick. I feel their pain. I’m on my own journey in a new medical frontier of emerging ecological illnesses that our technology is yet unable to detect and that our medicines struggle to treat.

Lewis could probably sketch the Veteran’s Memorial Bridge to scale. The explorers of that time recorded and categorized everything. It was their way of exerting some control over a dangerous and unpredictable environment. It’s now 3:23AM. Meriwether Lewis mapped half a continent by his own hand. I write only to exert some control over a dangerous and unpredictable interior; my own body and mind.

A *Normal* Life

One of the yoga teachers at the Bally’s gym near my house loves to talk about the philosophy behind each yoga pose. We’ll be stretched out some pretzel-like twist for ages while she talks in a gentle voice about what each movement is doing for us spiritually.

A few weeks ago, it must have been before my Lyme relapse, I remember her saying that in yoga philosophy, life isn’t a single straight line from point A to B with times of total joy followed by times of total sadness. She said to think of it as two parallel lines, like train tracks. One of the track lines represents our joys and the other our sadness. Even as we have joys in life, there are still moments of difficulty. Even as we have difficulties, the joy is still there alongside us, waiting for us to become aware of it.

Even after ten years of learning yoga as meditation and kind of looking down on hatha yoga, her words still struck a chord with me. I’m sure there’s a complicated Sanskrit term that sums up the concept she was trying to teach. If anyone knows they can share it with me. Our joys are deepened by our sorrows. Our sorrows are lightened by our joys. If there was anything to convince me of the existence of God and life after death, it would be this beautiful symmetry of life; the way the universe seems to be continually supporting us through tough times as we learn and grow. Maybe it’s just the way I see it.

I’ve focused a lot lately on lamenting my sorrows in this blog. I’ve learned that I can’t get too caught up in disappointment and anger. I have to try to think about normal things and try to have a normal life as much as possible. I have to focus on my joy. Which is a long-winded way of saying that I finally got around to figuring out the new camera Jeremy got me for my birthday and excusing myself for posting some photos of my kid.

Pretty self-indulgent, right? But hey, it’s my blog, and there’s just so much joy in these photos.   Namaste, y’all.

“Life is so generous a giver, but we, judging it's gifts by it's covering, cast them away as ugly or heavy or hard. Remove the covering and you will find beneath it a living splendor, woven of love, by wisdom, with power.”

Snapshots from Lake Erie

I’ve been doing something unusual for me in my writing lately. It’s kind of half-journal, half poetry. I don’t claim to be a serious poet, it’s just another way for me to “lay track” for myself as a writer. It was fun to capture the moment with Sophia when we visited Lake Erie with my husband’s brother and his wife. This is the journal version before it gets edited for the poetry critique group I just joined!


The day we went to the beach
at Lake Erie
Jin-hui packed turkey sandwiches,
plump, dark purple cherries
and neon orange Cheetos.

We picnicked while Sophia
cried as though the sand
was an angry monster
ready to gobble her whole.

The waves were bigger than the ones I knew
from the cold North Sea of my childhood,
the surprise taste of fresh
instead of salt water on my tongue.
In the lake, I hold my daughter
tight against my chest and
unbearable possibilities.

But she flails and wails,
“I wanna do it
by my  Self!”
Reluctant, I let go
just enough to give equal parts
safety and
freedom.

Her small body
floats gently in my arms
and on the waves
as they roll under us
towards the future.


“Look, I’m swimming mama!”
Her head tilts towards the sun,
her laughter for a moment
drowning the sound of the sea.

A Flock of Hands …

The village of Yellow Springs, Ohio was founded in 1825 by a man called Robert Owen, who wanted to create a utopian community similar to one he’d helped build in previous years in a town called New Harmony, Indiana.

This was fascinating to me. I spent ten years of my own life studying with a spiritual teacher who shared a vision of a world where everyone could achieve physical and emotional health through his meditation and energy healing practices. In his ideal world, everyone would live to be of service. Their spiritual focus would make them fulfilled and at peace with themselves and others.

Unfortunately, it didn’t stop his followers from gossiping, back-biting and generally being unkind to each other, even during his lifetime. When our teacher died, the ‘spiritual’ group split into angry factions. There were bitter arguments about who the rightful leader should be. Just like the town of New Harmony and the utopian community at Yellow Springs, things fell apart. From the outside, it looked like a total failure of our teacher’s vision; proof that in the end, people just don’t get along.

I’m old enough to know that we’ll never live in a perfect world, but I’m young enough to be hopeful. The spiritual values of service I learned from my teacher continue to influence my life today. The quiet whispers of Robert Owen’s utopian dream lingered on in Yellow Springs too. It became one of the last stops on the Underground Railway; a place known for its racial tolerance. It’s a little town with a big heart and a thriving artistic community. It’s a place where people go to find inspiration for their creative lives and a sense of belonging.

In the end, I believe that nothing we do towards the common good is wasted. It seeps into the communal memory and carries on, even if only in small ways, for future generations, like a flock of hands, holding up the sky.

Olga Ziemska’s sculpture, “Flock of Hands”
Yellow Springs, OH

Antioch Writers’ Workshop

At the beginning of July, I attended the Antioch Writers’ Saturday Workshop in Yellow Springs, Ohio. It was the first time I’ve ever honored the writer inside me by going to such an event. In fact, I don’t even belong to a writers’ group here in St. Louis. Maybe there was something about it being far from home that made it feel safer for me …

Tim Waggoner (Nekropolis) was the keynote speaker. I studied the concept of “Voice” in the morning breakout session with narrative poet Chuck Freeland followed by “Creating Great Characters” with new young adult author Kristina McBride (The Tension of Opposites).  The afternoon session I went to was called “Unstuck and Undone” with Rebecca Morean/Abbey Pen Baker (In the Dead of Winter).

I didn’t think that it would take courage for me to attend the workshop but for many reasons, it did. Even though it’s a straight shot from St. Louis to Ohio I still managed to get myself lost along the way. The navigation on my phone conked out just as I was arriving in Xenia, Ohio where I’d booked my hotel. Stuck in the middle of what felt like a hundred miles straight of cornfields, I learned my first lesson: always bring a real map. It seemed like a good metaphor for my life as a writer. I’ve never had a map. I didn’t even know that maps existed in the creative world.

I’ve always wished for a safe place to call home; not only as a writer but in life too. I’ve never believed St. Louis was that place, and I’m used to being an outsider. Wherever I go, I never seem to quite fit in. In tiny Yellow Springs, Ohio though, I was really just a tourist, which I haven’t been for a long time. It brought up all my fears that I’m ‘just a tourist’ in the writing life too. But since I’ve come back from the workshop, I’ve been writing every day. I’m beginning to feel at home in this exact place and time; I’m beginning to feel at home with where I am as a writer. I’m not quite a tourist, not quite a resident, but at least I know there’s a map through the cornfields!

Good in Bed

I just finished reading “Good in Bed” by Jennifer Weiner today. Yah, I know I’m waaay behind the times but I’ve already explained in this blog how I don’t get much time to read (or write) for pleasure because of the baby, grad school, yadda yadda. The novel was so good it floored me, or rather ‘couched’ me and ‘pinned’ me to my bed for the last couple of nights and most of today. Damn. That stuff might be “chick-lit” or whatever other condescending term they’re using for popular fiction (especially by women) these days but it was good! The main character 'Cannie' is so vulnerably sweet and the plot twists are riveting right up to the end. No wonder this was a New York Times best-selling novel.

I found myself crying like a baby towards the end and it reminded me of something author Tim Waggoner (Nekropolis) said at the Antioch Writers’ Workshop that I attended last week. It was about the restorative power of literature, and the way that certain kinds of writing can truly sustain us in times of need. He said that it’s not always the ‘best’ literature that does it for us. Sometimes it’s the trashiest novels; the most disparaged science fiction, mystery writer or 'chick-lit' author du jour whose writing helps us. Sometimes they simply transport us to another time and place; somewhere far away from our problems. Other times they’re able to reach in and entirely re-arrange the inner furniture of our emotional lives.

There’s a certain delicious mystery to the way that reading a novel pulls us apart with the character and then slowly mends us back together in a different (more beautiful) shape than we were before. As I read Cannie’s story, her struggle with body-image, self-acceptance, failure, success and abandonment issues, a separate part of my brain was dealing with all of those concerns in my own life. I ended the book feeling healed along with Cannie; feeling altered in a good way by the reading of it.

Writing, both great and ordinary is incredibly powerful and it changes lives. I always knew it, but I gave my power to other people for a long time and I’m only just beginning to find my voice again. Feels pretty good.

One Hour in the Snow

It’s the first day of my Spring Break. J & I woke up and turned on the television to see the school closings ticker at the bottom of the screen and footage of downtown St. Louis covered in snow ... again!

It’s going to sound strange but I get a little unnerved when I have a block of free time. Spring Break! So much to do, so little ...  All the conflicting roles within me start yelling for attention. The Marvelous Mummy says, “Spend time with Sophia or else you’re not a good mother!” The Prissy Perfectionist says, “Get the basement organized, you’re not a good home-maker!” The Good Student says, “You can’t play, we have homework to do.” The Writer says, “Why do you always ignore me? Write our novel!” The Diva says “You don’t look so good these days. You need a facial!” and “Let’s go clothes shopping!”  (Ms. Diva’s a force to be reckoned with).

The thing I notice is that these voices are all pretty critical. They all need to start talking nicely to me! I started panicking on Sunday evening (yesterday) because I wasn’t sure I could please them all. So this morning I wrote for an hour. Then on a whim I grabbed my camera to take some photos of the snow. I’m not a photographer by any means but it was fun. I ended up taking a walk in the snow to our local park. Just my camera and I.

Crazy woman in the snow ...

It felt like one of Julia Cameron artist’s dates. I had to quiet some voices to keep going, “You look like a crazy woman taking photos in the street!” and “You’re going to catch your death of cold” (That’s my mum talking). It was true that taking photos in the snow is odd because everything starts looking monochromatic. Water did start seeping in my boots at a certain point but it didn’t feel too bad.
I took pictures of the little deer statues in one of the houses down the street and the frog in the park. Such artistry :)

A Study of Vlasis Park, St. Louis in Winter :P

I felt happy because by the time I was on the way home, all the voices had stopped.

Happy Froggy

It got quiet for a while. Walking back home along my street it got loud again. The air was filled with the sound of starlings. All the girls: Mummy, Prissy, Student, Diva and I looked up into the trees at the same time.

New life ...

“My my, do you hear that!” We all stood there in wordless unison, breathing the wonder of nature in and out at the same time.

Creativity in the Midst of Tragedy

Yesterday was a tough day dealing with the terrible news coming out of Japan. I was up early with baby girl who has an ear infection. At about seven o'clock I heard the word 'quake' from the radio in my bedroom and I thought, "Uh-oh, here we go again."

I spent the day caring for baby and doing housework; dishes, laundry, and fresh sheets. I flipped between the local news and CNN, checked in with the Yahoo updates. In amongst all of the tragedy I felt sad for the suffering and loss of so many people. I also felt the thrill of fear waiting to hear what would happen with the Fukushima nuclear reactor.

For the last three days I'd been working on an exercise from 'The Creativity Book' by Eric Maisel, in which you create a special ritual to honor your creative dream. You can find the book on Amazon. I'd been struggling since the New Year to carve out a slice of my life in which to write, something I've never committed to despite my long-standing dream of writing a novel. Suddenly *oompf* I felt deflated. None of that mattered any more compared to the events unfolding on the world scene.

It was this idea that there's so much going on in the world that it's frivolous and selfish to write for pleasure and be a creative person when there's so much to be done out in the world that prevented me from writing anything for ten whole years. In one of my favorite on-line communities today I wrote this:

"I'm not going to tell myself any more stories about how I'm not allowed to create because of what happened ... It's daytime in Japan now. The news stories are about the Japanese people waking up to the full extent of the damage. I can't and won't avoid those stories because to offer witness, even silently is to honor the dead and support the living as they negotiate the difficult business of being survivors in the aftermath of such an event. Life is so precarious and precious."

Today I  write, thinking of the suffering people in northern Japan.