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Check out my WiP reader book review that is posted today on Lisa Cullen's Work in Progress blog. The book is titled, You, Inc. by Harry Beckwith and Christine Clifford Beckwith.
I'm attending the 2008 AWP Conference (Associated Writers and Writing Programs) and am about to immerse myself among thousands of other writers, editors, M.F.A. colleagues, etc. I'll fill you in on the experience in upcoming postings. Stay tuned!
"I want you to put your hands on the floor in front of you, just a slight distance from the wall, walk your feet up as close as you can to your hands, then see if you can lift your feet up into a handstand."
Our yoga instructor, Bill, had led us through a pretty aggressive session of yoga. I know that sounds a bit like an oxymoron. But after what felt like my twentieth downward facing dog of the evening, smoothly transitioned to a plank pose, then cobra, over and over again, I wasn't sure what else my body could take. I had stretched it in every direction possible, even some ways that defied gravitational logic, and I'd about had it. I was ready for Savasana, my favorite pose of all, the final resting pose in yoga practice. Savasana means lying on my back in a darkened room, palms up, finding my breath, occasionally drifting off for a five-minute cat nap while a tape plays music accompanied by someone singing gutterally in a language I can't quite figure out. I find this pure bliss.
But no, we are not quite done. Bill has challenged us to do a handstand, and for me this is like challenging Larry Byrd to a game of one-on-one. My passion in my youth was gymnastics, and any opportunity to stand on my hands is a welcome invitation to reconnect to years gone by. Who cares that I'm not sure if my body can take it? What does it matter if I can't walk in the morning? Here was a chance to stand on my hands, take a different view of the world if only for a few moments. This was my chance to prove to myself I can still kick my legs over my head and live to tell about it.
I automatically got into the zone. I walked my feet up as far as they would go before a felt like a pretzel about to snap. I pushed off one foot, rose a couple of feet in the air, but was back in starting position. What happened? I tried again. I was scissoring up, then down, like one of those fake birds you place next to a glass of water that bobs up and down to get a drink. I could get my legs up, I just couldn't get them to stay. Was it fear of succeeding in this task? Was it fear of what might happen once I got up there? Could my arms actually give way and my body get crushed beneath the weight of me should I fail?
I focused hard. I remembered to tighten every muscle in my body as I lifted, to engage my stomach muscles as the legs went up, to push harder with my arms to elongate myself with the wall.
One leg went up, then the other. I held the position while my yoga mates cheered me on. I wish I could say that I took in an upside down view while inverted, but instead I focused between my hands as I'd been trained to do many years before and concentrated on form. It felt good to be upside down again. When I came down, I went back up. I did this at least four times, until the logical side of my brain kicked back in and my body begged for a little Savasana as its reward for a job well done.
As I lay on my back I felt rejuvenated. Even though the world seems upside down sometimes, purposely standing on my hands helped me see that I can stand up to whatever life serves me. I just need to stay focused, engaged, and work hard to keep my balance.
I continued my major home clean-up project this weekend. On Saturday, my daughter helped me clean out the children's bookcase in our loft. We had to start with the loft because the bookcase in my son's bedroom is overflowing, so we had to relieve space upstairs so we could shift books from downstairs, and vice versa.
The big space hogs were the numerous baby books that still graced our shelves. I'm not talking about the classics like "How Much Do You Love Me?" or "Goodnight Moon." Of course being a writer, especially one who dabbles in the children's genre, I cannot part with these, I won't part with these even after my children are grown and off to college. Those are the books I will for many years take down from the shelf, curl up on the couch, read, and remember.
No, these are those chubby books with big, bold pictures and single word text: "ball," "rattle," "puppy," and "shovel." They are small, odd-sized to fit a baby's small fist, and wedge in between all the other books like a doorstop. These books were not meant to spur literary interpretations; their purpose was purely to visually stimulate the little ones and provide a way to lovingly interact as a family.
The other books we'd outgrown were the musical ones, the oversized, cumbersome hard covers that usually featured a "press and play" strip with corresponding sound effects or songs. Since we both agreed that we'd moved beyond Barbie Sings Christmas Carols, putting these in the donate pile wasn't too difficult.
Finally, we came to the "lift the flap" books. I'll admit, these were a bit harder for me to part with. How many nights I remember these were the favorites, and I'd over and over again lift each flap and read what was hidden underneath. And each time I did this, my children's eyes would open in amazement, as if they'd never seen the clandestine pictures before. I remembered some nights tiring of the game, suggesting alternate books just to give my fingertips a break from all the lifting and my brain a timeout from the redundancy. Now the books have served their purpose in our home. It's time for someone else to lift the flaps and tell the tale.
We piled up quite a collection of books that were clearly ready to make their way into other baby fists and toddler hands. We restocked the shelves with the books we have opted to keep. The space filled up fast. We still have too many books. But that's okay.
Without the chubby books, I noticed a little bit of space left on the bottom shelf. I picked up the Winnie-the-Pooh "lift the flap" book. I started to reminisce while I searched for the hidden pictures. My daughter interrupted me, as she was getting hungry and was ready to have some lunch.
I closed the Pooh bear book and placed it back onto the bottom shelf. It just so happened that it fit perfectly in that little nook.
So I find out today that Ashley Tisdale got a nose job. Yes, I'm talking about that beautiful, 22-year-old actress that delights my family as the sweet Maddy on the Suite Life of Zak and Cody and as the devious, stuck-up snob, Sharpay, in the High School Musical megamovies. As far as young actors go, I've always really liked Ashley Tisdale. She seems, well, kind of normal. A good role model for the kids.
Now she's gone and had a nose job. I'm not too sure how I feel about this.
Not that Ashley would care what I think. The news reports tell us the reason behind the nose job was a deviated septum that needed repair. I can accept that. I've known lots of people whose septums have deviated and needed surgery. If during the process she chose to fix a bend at the end or a bump in the middle, that wouldn't really bother me either. Good for her if any adjustments make her feel good, whether that means breathing more easily or having a more desirable profile.
I'm not certain how I feel because I don't even know what Ashley's new nose looks like yet. The only picture shown with the article was of her former nose. But just hearing about Ashley Tisdale's nose job has put me on full alert. Like many mothers , I've been fielding some pretty tough questions about Britney, Lindsay, Jamie Lynn, and Vanessa -- topics that feel too grown up to be discussing with a nine year old. I would avoid the topic if possible but unfortunately celebritydom is "news". If my daughter doesn't spy it in the newspaper or on the web, she'll hear about it at school.
Ashley's nose job sort of contradicts my positive self-esteem messaging. And without knowing exactly what this nose looks like, I've got to prepare myself for anything. If she ends up with a generic-looking button nose, my whole "everyone is beautiful in their own way" theory goes out the window. If Ashley's kept her nose somewhat close to its original state, there will be hope. A nose job, particularly one that begins with a deviated septum, would in any case be much easier to explain than teen pregnancy or drug abuse.
Ashley Tisdale seems pretty together. At an age when young girls need role models to look up to, this hard working, talented actor seems a good enough bet to deliver. I hope that her new nose doesn't change that.
I sent a bit of laughter up north this week to my good friend, Ann Zuccardy, president and founder of the Vermont Shortbread Company. I just know Ann was telling everyone, "Have I got a story to tell you!"
You see, I've come to believe that to people who live in Vermont, us folk who live south of the border (the Massachusetts border, that is) are a bit daft when it comes to having fun in the cold. Sure, temperatures for us don't plunge below zero too often. And we do start stoking the wood burning stove while our northern neighbors are still running around in shorts.
But to dispel northern myth, Southern New Englanders do get our share of the white stuff. We do come out of hibernation during the winter. And we do like to (try) to make the best of cold weather, despite frozen fingers and frost-nipped ear lobes.
So I called Ann for some good 'ole Vermont advice when one of my wild and crazy ideas for winter fun went slightly awry.
After our snowshoe adventure (see Monday's post), my daughter wanted to make a recipe. She had made some sort of candy treat at a friend's house that involved pouring sugar into hot water. We tried it, but ended up with a dish of hot water with a big pile of sugar at the bottom. She insisted it tasted just right; I could feel my sugar levels exploding through the ceiling.
I then remembered that in Vermont they make candy by pouring maple syrup onto the snow. Supposedly this is a big deal; they plan whole festivals around it. So I started thinking: cold snow, some of that pure maple syrup in the cupboard --certainly we would have a tasty treat .
After heating up the syrup, I carried the hot liquid in my mitted hands out the front door and poured the molten mixture into the pure white snow. My son was positioned in the window with the digital camera, hoping to get a shot of the moment.
Something was not right.
"Mom, I didn't get the picture. I can't see the maple syrup," he cried from inside the house.
Juliette looked on. "Uh oh," she said. "Where did it go?"
You see, no one could see the syrup. Not Nico from the window. Not Juliette from the front porch. Not even me, who practically had my face planted in the spot where I had poured the syrup. Now all I saw was a big, brown crater of slush.
Apparently hot maple syrup melts -- rather quickly, I should add -- through snow. The sorry brown mess looked like -- well, you can use your imagine. But there was no cold, wet, wonderful maple sugar treat to enjoy for our homebound winterfest. Just a goopy hole that I'm sure attracted the curiousity of both wild and domestic critters alike later that evening.
So when Ann called me back to help analyze what had gone wrong, she did share a few maple syrup facts with me in between her hysterics:
If you'd like to learn all there is to know about Vermont maple syrup, visit the Vermont Maple Syrup website hosted by the the Vermont Maple Sugar Makers' Association and Vermont Maple Foundation. Here you'll find information about buying maple syrup, cooking with maple syrup, the famous "candy on snow", and maple syrup events. According to the website, "Vermont is the largest producer of pure maple syrup in the U.S. and was the first state to establish a maple law." These folks know their stuff, so check it out.
Although our maple syrup candy adventure was a mess, we did satisfy our desire for a sweet treat by making a fresh batch of warm sugar cookies -- the kind made from a box mix, of course.
We got blanketed by snow overnight. The snow was that light but sticky type; not slushy, but perfect for packing into snowballs, snowmen -- and for snowshoeing.
We got into snowshoeing a couple of years ago when my mother gave the family snowshoe gear for Christmas. That first year we had a few occasions to try out this winter activity, both on the trails that wind behind us and on groomed trails when we traveled north to visit my college roommate, Ann, the famous "Vermont shortbread" lady. Although only ages seven and four at the time, my kids managed pretty well and naturally took to stomping around the snow with oversized paddles bound to their boots. Keith, me, and the other grownups managed to maneuver around without making ourselves too much of a spectacle.
The joy of snowshoeing is that it gets you outdoors during the winter so that you can enjoy fresh air and exercise during these most indoor of months. You can do it alone or with your family -- it's fun and healthy whether you do it alone or together. There's no lift tickets to purchase or long trips in the car. You can stomp around your neighborhood, head out to a local park, or make your way around a local golf course. Calories burn and your heart starts pumping. You can hold a conversation without losing your breath.
As soon as we saw the first wintery coating of the new year, I hurried down to the basement in search of the family's snowshoe gear. To my amazement everything still fit; no adjustments needed even though the kids' shoe sizes have grown at least two sizes. We were ready to go!
I no sooner tightened the bindings on the kids' snowshoes and they were off. My daughter did one lap 
around the house with her brother close behind her. When she passed me still adjusting my straps she exclaimed, "What's the big deal about snowshoeing anyhow? This is easy."
I took my first lap around the house, then two. Juliette was right. Either my yoga and elliptical training were doing wonders for my aging muscles, or this didn't feel as tough as I thought it would. My confidence growing, I began to test out some advanced skills, running sprints and doing figure eights in the front yard.
I decided to walk uphill to the corner, my children behind me. Hmmm, I could feel a slow burn starting in my quadriceps. We went a short way down the street. Then we hit the trails. As we descended into the woods, I could definitely feel it in my legs and my butt. 
This was a work-out. Of course, the kids were bounding down the hill as if they were wearing running shoes. I instead carefully placed my poles in front of me, each step of the way, and followed.
By the end of our trek, we all returned to the house wet, tired, and ready for some hot chocolate. We watched through the window as a beautiful red-headed woodpecker worked its way through the snow-covered bird feeder, looking for a midday snack. No cars passed by. The peacefulness of winter settled across the yard, our tracks in the snow the only evidence of our presence and brief interruption of this serene scene.
I just finished shredding piles of old bills, papers, and other assorted paraphernalia. I found them in one of those banker's boxes, the kind you usually fill with old check stubs or important files like tax returns. I must have tossed them there the last time I attempted to clean out my loft/office.
You have to first picture my loft to understand the challenge I am under. My office area consists of two folding banquet tables, the long ones you usually pull out when hosting a really big Thanksgiving feast or setting up for a family reunion. We thought we were being quite wise to utilize this expanded table space instead of purchasing one of those smaller, multilevel, ergonomically-correct office desks. Boy, we were wrong.
The expanded space is covered with stacks of paper -- for my writing, graduate school papers, finances, kids' school papers, artwork, and the always popular "miscellaneous" pile. Not only have we utilized every cubic inch of space to collect paper, but my back and neck muscles get to contract and constrict as I strain to look up at the monitor that's about two inches too high for eye level, given there is no space to put it anywhere else on the table.
But this is the year I've vowed to clean out my life, once and for all. The paper has become overwhelming, and a vision of what could be if I only cleaned out my house, keeps me focused on the task at hand. I imagine a nice comfy couch from IKEA in the corner. I see bright artwork on the walls. Maybe I'd even paint bold, bright colors up there if I could just expose some wall space.
Before I can hang a picture or sit on the floor, I need to get rid of the paper. I begin with the box of archaic materials. The process takes me about an hour; I empty the canister into a big, green garbage bag three times. Now I have all those little paper shreds all over the floor that I have to vacuum up before they stick to the kids' clothes and make their way to other parts of the house. I've already found several runaway curly q's on the steps.
I remember the good old days when getting rid of paper meant crumbling the throways into a ball and savoring some enjoyment from free-throwing into a garbage can several feet away. Some of the more sensitive documents would get torn in half, or the ones that might really get me into trouble would get ripped into quarters, so that the pieces might scatter clandestinely amongst the more disgusting garbage, like banana peels and leftover spaghetti.
But today we need to shred. Tthere are people in this world who make their living scavenging through other people's garbage. One cannot be too careful.
I finish the box. There is still a lot of paper to sort through before I can rest my feet on the arm of the couch and rest.
