The joy file

Found this list of things that make me happy in my evernote collection today:

Dancing to star anna and friends
Mountain biking!!!
Being home and running into ppl in prescott
Friend melody
Friend andrea
Spanish club
My ten min workouts
elephants
smart parrots
bengali
Dancing
Finishing and shipping writing
Watching indie movies
Dancing to indie bands
Gardening
Seagulls
Watching kids in the sea center fountain
innkeeper
green chile
tequila
dogs
cats
deep red flowers
sunflowers

The garden: Learning to curate

Last year, I planted seeds hither and thither in the patch of dirt at the front of my apartment complex. Plants came up, tall and short, motley and not. They bolted and went bust. Like a cat lady, but with plants, I didn't have the heart to cull any of them and as the season wore on, the garden went from ugly to hideous. In the fall, as the clouds rolled in and the Pacific Northwest darkness descended, I promised myself that I would curate next year's garden better. And I have. This year, I planted from tall to small, and in a mixture of colors. I allowed the plants to have their season and then I took them out to make more room for those that had grown up robust in their stead. This year, I get all manner of compliments on the garden, strangers coming up and telling me my garden looks good. My landlady says her friends comment to her about it. It worked; I curated and created something worth having.

The awakening

Estoy muriendo a esta vida y
despertando a otra.
Como flores, tenemos estaciones.
Unas para lograr, otras para amar.
Hoy amo, mañana amaré.

Estoy muriendo a esta vida, pues
nunca era mia.
Sino es la de los hombres, de gente
fuerte que lucha, que logra.
Tengo jardines para cuidar
Tengo niños que quieren
ver la luz.

Lo que queda es despertar,
crear, morir.

Estoy despertando a esta vida.

Damaged goods

Some of us came here rough. We don't have dulcet tones singing in our brains as we go. We fight for everything and our scars are shiny and tight.
We're in whipshape because we have to be, but we're a little too quick to go for the sword, too. We're the beautiful, dangerous ones -- the ones who require more forbearance and for all of that, can show you worlds you've never thought to dream of.
Are we better? No.
Are we more lovable? Hardly.
But we're a barrel of laughs, a snootful of adventure and despite the scars and the ticks, we have the biggest, truest hearts of all. We're the outliers: quick, exploratory, childlike, generous, impetuous, funny. We're beautiful, deadly, awesome creatures and once we love you, we'll protect you from death and harm. We'll keep you warm. We'll feed you and make you feel loved.
We burn a little hotter and we cut a little closer. For all the good it does us, we care a little more. So maybe we deserve love, or at least consideration. You could do worse than us.
It's up to you to decide if we're worth it. Some do and some do not. That is the way with us.
To apologize for who we are would be a denial of our gifts and birthright. It would insult God and shame our mothers and fathers.
We are who we are and who we are is complex and beautiful.
And we are here to serve. Always.

"You should write a book"

Funny thing happened today. Two different people from two completely different walks of life suggested I write a book. One of them didn't even know that I'd been bleeding at the altar of the written word for the past...oh my god...decade. And still, she said, she'd want to read a book if I wrote it.
I'm not sure what I want to write a book about. I watch my predilections flop around from human sexuality to relationships to all things science-y and consumable to urban design to behavioral neuroscience. People fascinate me, I guess. We're pretty remarkable creatures.
I could memoir, I suppose, but my memory for details, my regard for the past even, is so thin, that much of it would be fiction, intended or not.
And speaking of fiction, I could do that. I have been doing that, page after hand-scrawled page of a twisted fairy tale where no one isn't damaged but most people are pretty good anyway.
Art imitating life again.
Maybe the goddess is calling me back to the nest, maybe she's putting the pen squarely back in my fist. It's been too long, after all, and my soul is drying out on the edges. To curl back in her arms with some blank pages and the goal of spinning a book out of them might not be a bad thing.
And maybe this blog post is a reasonable start.