A Cat in Sheep's Clothing

Here's the culprit. Doesn't she look innocent?



Oh yes, she can look so sweet and sleepy-eyed and...domesticated. Even cuddly.



But don't let that fool you.



Anything that flutters, breathes, or wiggles, Maisy considers fair game.

Just ask the neighborhood mockingbirds,
who spent the last two weeks dive bombing her, knowing what lay in store for their nesting babies. (I think the war is over, for this season.)

Ask the hummers who love sipping my Lilies of the Nile. I can watch Maisy out of my front window as I write and occasionally, I'll see a calico blur fly by the window pane. I rush outside to see if I can rescue whatever now sits inside her jaws, because the truth is, she has no will to kill these things she catches. She just wants to play. So she rarely hurts on first swipe.She loves the chase. This Spring, I found a series of hummingbirds inert on my sidewalk after a long game, but one day, I caught her in the act!

She instantly dropped the poor little creature when I yelled at her and looked at me, like, "What? This is what cats are supposed to do."

But she took my theft diplomatically.

The hummingbird wasn't hurt. It was dazed by cat breath. It blinked up at me and I hoped it was going to make it. I took the little thing in my hand and warmed it for a long time. I sat really still and cooed to it. Told it everything would be okay. Soon, it wiggled its toes and I opened my palm up and it helicoptered up in the air and buzzed around my den, flying into walls.

So I picked it up again and held it some more. It hopped on my finger and stayed there, blinking up at me. Eventually, I decided I should let it go. It's little feet were curled around my index finger as I walked outside with it to Hummingbird Nirvana--The Sacred Bottle Brush Tree.

Then, the weirdest thing ever happened.

It would not fly away. It sat there, as if to say, "No way. Uh-uh. Ain't gonna happen. There's a C-A-T out here. Take me back inside!"

So I did. By then it was almost dark. I lifted the little bird up to some wires hanging across my rafters in my den and it seemed perfectly content to stay there. So I hung a bottle brush blossom beside it (in case it got hungry) and we let it have a sleepover.

In the morning, it climbed back on my finger (I know, right?) like we were old friends and let me take it back outside. After a moment, it blinked up at me then buzzed to a nearby flower to take a sip. Then it disappeared into the trees.

(Haikudo)

I have to say, having that little bird trust me not to hurt it after what it had been through was seriously a spiritual experience. It was a moment. Sometimes I hold my finger out to hummers in my yard, hoping it will return and remember me. But so far, no one has taken me up on the offer. But I'm okay with that. And Maisy and I are still friends.

Reflections

Brace yourself for this little profundity:

Sometimes a tree is just a tree. Sometimes, it's a reminder that what we're looking at is a universal nudge.

No seriously, brace yourself. I'm about to speak in metaphors. Take this tree, for instance. I think it's a redbud. It lives at the edge of this pretty little pond in the Botanical Gardens in Fort Worth, Texas. And on this day, when I snapped this shot, I was simply looking at how pretty it was with its reflection in the water.

Today, something entirely different occurred to me as I looked at it. You see how the reflection in the pond isn't the exact opposite of the tree? In fact, it's the underside of the tree reflected in the water, not the tree we are seeing from a distance. But still, we look at it squarely and think, yeah, that's the tree, reflected in the water.

Today, as I looked at this picture, it made me ponder the distortion that frequently enters into that small, internal conversation I often have with myself about...well, me. About my failures, my shortcomings, and my dark, veiny underleaf. That is to say: When you look at me, you just see the tree. I see something completely different.

My vision of me is coming up through the water. Shot through with uninvited shadows rippling the image. Maybe that explains my habitual, none-too-generous assessment of myself and my accomplishments, and underscores all those things I know I should be grateful for:

1.My husband.
2.Our kids.
3.Our grandson.
4.Health.
5.My sisters.
6.Our home.
7.Good friends.
8.Being a writer.
9.Our cats.
10.Trees, reflected in water.

Sometimes, my history floats just under the surface, distorting my idea of myself. And the reflection? It's not necessarily all that accurate. Maybe that's where the old, "Keep your head up," saying comes from. As in, "Don't look down there and scare yourself. Here is where the real tree is."

Okay, I warned you about the metaphors. Don't say I didn't.

Buzzed

I was outside today, staring at my vegetable garden noticing that nothing was producing anymore except for these gorgeous little white flowers on my flowering garlic, which is sad because I live in California where you'd think my whole summer would be overflowing with veggies. But it's not. No, my tomatoes are finished; green, but finished. My zucchini has bitten the dust. Likewise my summer squash. I think it's probably my fault somehow because at some point, too early every year, this happens. Too much water? Too little? Who knows? I love to garden but I'm no expert. I throw the plants in there, boost them up with good stuff and hope. That's really what planting a garden is, right? It's a hopeful act. You hope you'll eat off of it every year.

Here's my zucchini in better days.


Oh, sweet zucchini! I loved you!

Its leaves are peppered with fallen purple jacaranda blossoms from my nearby tree. I would swear that (The Artist-Formerly-Known-As-) Prince came up with his song title "Purple Rain" from these blossoms. Well, not specifically my blossoms. But from one of these gorgeous, crazy making trees. (Hint: Never plant one in your backyard.) Do you think this has anything to do with my failed garden?

And here, hiding under pristine green leaves with no trace of the powdery futurama that awaits it, is the yellow squash.


Aren't they little beauties? But alas, they are no more.

So, anyway, I'm staring at my garden that is sliding into its yearly oblivion and notice bees swarming all over these garlic flowers. Totally ignoring me. Unconcerned by my presence. So I took some pictures of them. Of their little shiny, transparent wings.





They were busy, working. Not thinking or worrying about the zucchini flowers that had gone away. No, they were only thinking about these flowers. The ones that still had some sweetness in them. And I thought...bees are naturally wise.

...And Do It Anyway.

In my thirties, I decided that I should do something that scared the heck out of me at least once a year. And I don't mean 'try sushi' or 'drive the LA Freeways at rush hour.' Although, both of those things could, possibly, hold valid fear factors for certain people... People who shall remain nameless... *shudder*

Anyway... I wanted to try something that was so far outside my comfort zone that it would make me break out into a cold sweat, possibly keep me up at night for weeks at the mere thought of how the heck I would ever accomplish it? Okay, I'm a middle child: that need to please, to succeed, and to prove that I, in fact, exist is in the job description.


Writing books was one of my wild hairs. Submitting them for sale, even scarier. Picture yourself stripped naked, holding a flogging strap with a little word bubble over your head saying "Thank you, sir, may I have another? (Name that film.) It turned out, I liked writing and selling books. It became a career.

Teaching writing at a major university extension was like that, too. (I endured an entire sleepless summer wondering how I could conceivably fill a three hour class and BTW, teach anything anyone wanted to learn.) Friends warned me against it, saying it would only interfere with my writing. But I did it anyway, because according to my devious plan, the very idea terrified me. I knew it was a good one. Ten years ago, I conquered that fear and I did not actually expire. I'm still teaching today. Sensing a pattern here?

It's been almost three years since I made the decision to apply to grad school after finding myself smack dab in the middle of an empty nest crisis. I did it with serious prodding from my DH (who understands my middle-child insecurities) but deep down, I relished a new challenge. And I thought it might be a good idea to have a backup plan for the future. Besides writing. Something that might involve a steady paycheck. Like teaching in a real college. So, I applied.

Then, I began to rationalize (Oh, yeah. This was part of the process.) "They won't take me." "I'm too old." "The low residency program is across the country from me. In Vermont. That's just crazy talk." No, I put the application in, I decided, and that was the scary part. I felt vindicated. Relieved. I'd done the hard thing.

Then one day as I was innocently listening to my cell phone messages, counting cracks in the sidewalk, I heard this:
"Hi, Barbara, this is P---, the program director at Goddard. I just called to say congratulations, you've been accepted into the Creative Writing MFA program starting in June..."

The rest I didn't hear. I think I said a four letter word.
By now, this sense of panic was familiar. But this time, I was so scared at the prospect I actually considered not calling him back. It took me two days to even tell my husband about it. But in the end, I did call the director back. And I accepted his acceptance. Because, did I mention? I'm a middle child.

Then, for the rest of the spring, I had a hard time sleeping.

Stay tuned for the stories of my Haunted Dorm Room and other grad school adventures. Meanwhile, inquiring minds want to know: Have you done anything to really scare yourself lately? I'd love to hear.

The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is...

Kathryn at Tender Graces asked this question today-- Who are you? How do you label yourself? And how do you validate yourself about what you do? Great topic, Kathryn!

This is a question that comes up with my students over and over. And to be honest, it's one that rears its ugly head with me as well. Students who struggle for years with their own writing wonder if they'll ever get published. I wonder if I'll find the level of success I want. It's easy to fall into the trap of comparing ourselves, our careers, our publishing advances with others. After all, most of my friends are writers. Published, unpublished, I've found that the way success looks on the outside doesn't always match what the writer feels on the inside.

One friend talked about making the New York Times for the first time and being elated. For a minute. Then she started to worry how long she'd stay there. Would her next book make it onto the NYT? And if it did, would it move up the list? Would she feel like a failure if it didn't? These fears are really no different from the ones unpublished writers have. Will I ever sell? Will this rejection be better than my last one? And if I win this contest, will it make me feel like a writer?

The line that we draw in the sand as our measure of success shifts constantly as we take steps toward our goals. We redraw the line and erase the one behind us. But why can't we be happy about our successes? Is it just human nature to forget what we've accomplished in favor of driving ourselves forward?

Maybe.

But here's what I know. Spending time worrying about things out of our control like publishing, sales figures, book lists and reviewers will only keep us from what we're really meant to do: To Write. Worry keeps us from putting our butt in the chair and doing the work. Fear freezes up creativity. It is the bogey-man of artistry. Whether you write, paint, compose, or do anything that fulfills you, Fear's only job is to stop you in your tracks. Most often, it comes in the form of small negative voices-- maybe the naysayers in our past-- who chip away at our confidence. But all we have control over is what we do. If we paint, we paint. If we write, we write. No one can take that away from us. And it cannot label us. Only we can know who we truly are.

And now a word from my Id (as in the Freudian neuroses to whom this post was really directed.) "That was very enlightened. But can we just readjust this sand line here a smidge?"

"No."

You see sometimes, I need to listen to my own advice. Thank you.

Easily Swayed

A couple of years ago, I decided to adopt a furry friend. Though we'd always had cats and for many years, a dog, they were all sweet memories now. I was officially in the dog camp now. I couldn't help myself when one would pass me on the street. I fell in love. Yes, I wanted a dog, preferably. One who would get me out of the house to walk, sit beside me as I wrote and make me laugh. My husband, David, wasn't as enthusiastic. He saw the writing on our (traveling) wall. Me, worrying about the dog. Me, with separation anxiety that always settled into my relationships with my dogs. Me, saying no to going out of town because of the dog... You get the idea.

But I was undeterred. I campaigned, I scoured shelters. I was determined.

Finally, I found a cute little mutt who needed a home. I twisted David's arm and dragged him to the shelter and tried not to notice he was lagging behind me, dragging his feet. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: "Wait til you see him. He has the cutest eyes. I think they're hazel."

Him: "Hey, look. A cat house. Let's go look in there first, just for fun."

Me: "But I want a dog."

Him: "We're just looking."

Me: (actually falling for this line) "Okay."

We prowled through the cat aisles. There were so many of them. Young, old, chubby, street-thin. One little tiny calico with a waist I could wrap my fingers around, peered lovingly up through the bars at me and meowed.

She was the most beautiful calico I'd ever seen. I nearly caved. But I steeled myself. I came for a dog. A DOG, understand?

We kept walking. And soon we saw a cage with a lump of a towel in the middle. No cat. Naturally, David had to see what was under the towel. That's just the way he rolls.

We weren't prepared. Nothing could have prepared us. Under the towel was a black and white long-haired beauty of a cat, hiding and madly sucking his thumb.

David had to have a closer look. He took him out of the cage. In the little private room, he cuddled him. I let him curl on my lap where he continued the thumb-sucking, and the paranoid glances up at us from under his inch-long lashes. And then, I was toast. His name was Sylvester and he was 11 1/2 years old. Who else would take this neurotic puddle of anxiety? He'd been raised with his brother (who had already been adopted away) and he was alone and scared. We had to have him. The note said "No Dogs. No other cats."

What??

That can't be right. He was raised with a brother. Look how he's missing him. I went back to the calico's cage. She looked deliciously up at me and meowed. She was a baby. 9 months old. If we were getting Sylvester, then we were also getting this one. This little girl for Sylvester. We weren't sure how it would work. But we hoped. I gave up on the idea of a dog. For now. I'm easy. Did I mention that?

We signed the papers. The little girl needed to be fixed. We would have to wait a couple of days. So we took Sylvester home alone. And he promptly disappeared. We found him under couch skirts, in closets, hiding amongst the towels in the pantry--sucking his thumb! Oh, dear.

Finally, the calico came home. We named her Maisy. We separated them by a door. Maisy meowed. Sylvester miraculously appeared from his distant, unrevealed hiding place. Sniffed under the door. Talked back to her in cat. She answered him. We opened the door.

A love story was born!

Sylvester and Maisy.

Maisy and Sylvester.

Picture them (music over) running in slow motion across a field of flowers toward one another... fur blowing in the wind!

They make me laugh.

It all couldn't have worked out better. Sylvester sits on my lap while I write and (of course) sucks his thumb. The long walks? Well, I have to do those on my own.

PS. That little mutt got adopted that same day by someone who is less of a cat cream puff than me.

Be good to yourself, Barbara

It's The Journey, Not The Destination. Right?

First, I wanted to thank all of you who stopped by and left such sweet comments on my last (uh, first) post, buzzing by from sweet Sarah's blog. I am thrilled to meet you, hear your thoughts and to visit some of your blogs--which I will continue to do as I go. Wow, this can really be addictive! You're all so interesting!

Years ago, (don't ask me how many) I found a book called "The Writer's Journey" by a guy who taught at UCLA Extension named Chris Vogler. It has since become something of a bible in the screenwriting world when it comes to developing structure and it was based on Joseph Campbell's 1000 page epic, "Hero With a Thousand Faces," which, if I had two hundred years, I might attempt to plow through.

Vogler's book ( a condensed version) was kind of life changing for me. It was all about myth and The Hero's Journey. You know...character arc and figuring out how characters change in your story? Anyway, there are these stages that characters go through--out of the darkness and into the light? It's all very riddled with adventure and angst! At least, that's the way it's supposed to go. His title, "The Writer's Journey," eluded me for a while. I was so distracted, figuring out how my characters could use this structure in my stories.

But as I embarked on this new empty-nest chapter of my life (ie.-- flapping like an under-feathered baby bird in the grass, crying "Mommmeeee!") it occurred to me one sleepless night as I channel-surfed mind-numbingly bad infomercials that I had just stumbled into my own Inmost Cave! My own Tests, Allies and Enemies! The inevitable Crossing the Threshold! (Sorry, that's Vogler-speak for the *&^% is about to hit the fan!) All that I knew to be true was about to be tested. I was up a tree and some nameless force was throwing rocks.

What? I'm a character in my own life?? Hmm. This was an interesting concept. And as I looked around me, I realized it was true. And not in any archetypal sense either. For real. And most of my friends had inadvertently stumbled into it, too. We were all suddenly in this weird scary place, smack dab in the middle of our lives and none of us could figure out where the light switch was. The trick was, how to get to the other side with the prize. My own personal prize--if I could find it--would be to be figure out who I was. This new me.

I began to plot my way out of this fix. I decided to be--(er, I contemplated being) proactive, like any good hero. (Okay--in the interest of full disclosure, my husband latched onto this new idea with the optimism of man whose last floatation device has just drifted by.) He literally sent me dozens of emails during the day full of possibilities for story lines, ideas for jobs, connections for jobs.... Finally, he ran into a friend who had just come back from this fabu place in Vermont where she'd apparently unleashed the inner Her! She had a One-Woman show going up that had been part of a project she'd done for this place. My husband forwarded me the web site. Then, an application. He was relentless.

So, of course, I did the next logical thing. I applied for Grad school.

Be kind to yourself--Barbara