i am not perfect

Sometimes I do things I wonder if I should have done, but still can't think how I would have done them differently. I think I tend to blame myself for any drama at all that happens in my life. One thing I have realized lately, however, is that I cannot control when drama happens. Sometimes you do everything you possibly can and it still happens. What I'm learning to do is, instead of blaming myself for unasked-for drama, to try to mitigate the effects of it. Sometimes that will help, and sometimes it won't. So in the end, all you can do sometimes is ride out drama, don't do anything you personally will regret, and work on learning something from the situation.

Lately I have been realizing that I cannot be perfect. And when I'm not perfect, accidentally or on-purpose, I need to figure out a way to forgive myself and learn something. That is a hard lesson... One I'm not sure most in my family know how to do. One that I'm just barely getting my head around.

This blog has been neglected for a while. I simply do not have time to post here anymore. I write, and I have to network and tweet and all kinds of stuff. I need to force myself to post here, however. This was my place to write, starting in 2005 before I even married Skywalker. This is kind of the place where I really learned how to write. This blog has been through hard times--a giant spike of traffic when I posted my series about pornography. A period of complete neglect, lately. Today I'll be working on getting my professional website on its feet, I think. Hard work, but necessary. I'm going to start trying to post a few times a week on this or my other blog. Lately I've been coping by playing fruit ninja or Candy Crush Saga for a few minutes at a time during the day. Instead, I need to come here and write for a few minutes during the day. Writing is something I do a lot of, lately... 1100 words at least. But I need to remember it's also my release.

In the past, I have not written during times of personal turmoil, because It is hard to write about. And share, especially. But I think I need to. No need for specifics. Time to put some stories behind me & to rest. But I think it's important. That's what this blog has been, and it's what it needs to continue to be.

Today, a facebook friend of mine, someone from my home stake in California, posted something that (unintentionally) triggered an old hurt. I wrote her about it. I actually un-friended her. These are things I don't generally do. Am I a little crazy right now? Perhaps. She wasn't too happy about it. I probably added to the pain of some things she and her family are going through right now. Am I perfect? No. Absolutely not. But I think admitting we aren't is the first step to becoming better.

I got interviewed!

It's nice to have your face in the newspaper for something nice.... loved how the article turned out, too.

Rivers

It’s interesting how you can be frightened of what you love. I grew up next to a gorgeous river. The South Yuba is a playground of smooth white granite, almost too hot to sit on during summer afternoons, but sizzlingly delicious when you come out of the water wet and dripping. The pools are turquoise-green, and the currents are smooth, strong, and loving. When I was younger, we stayed on the sandy beach, swam out to where the water was just above our heads, and quickly came back. As I got older I allowed my friends to convince me to venture further upstream, fighting rapids, clinging to rocky corners to catch my breath, standing on smooth, tall underwater boulders that we knew about only because we swam it so much. Carefully, we’d edge into the full wash of waterfalls, find a place to wedge ourselves, and pretend it was a particularly ferociously jetted tub.

Jeff and I camped on our honeymoon. We chose a few cheap, spartan tent-sites around Monterey Bay and followed a line along the coast up into the giant forests of Northern California. One of the places we made camp in Monterey was a mile walk from the beach. I remember hiking along a narrow trail through grassy fields overarched by eucalyptus trees. There were a lot of butterflies, particularly swallowtails. We picked some fennel that grew along the path and tasted it. The bay, when we got there, was beautiful--blue, warm and sunny,with a giant rocky arm stretching around to the North. Bodysurfers were using it to launch themselves into the waves. I waited on shore, sitting among piles of bleached white branches that lined the beach, and allowed the water to bury my ankles while Skywalker ventured further out. I tried not to think about giant tidal waves. I was glad when he returned.

We went whale watching. I enjoyed standing on the prow of the boat, but was relieved when we got back to shore. And while they were great memories, I was even more glad when we left the ocean and ventured into the redwoods.

My worst nightmares involve tidal waves. I actually dreamed of one the night before the Indonesian Tsunami. Sometimes they’re giant walls of water that send streams of vapor stretching into the sky as far as I can see. Sometimes they’re boiling masses of grey, rising up against a cliff or ledge where I am standing with my family.

The river I live close to now is mostly shallow, wide, and full of bright trout. The rocks on the bottom glow in jewel tones when the sun hits them just right. Grassy islands and trestle bridges, mysterious hollows and miniature forests make me think of some of the darker fairytales. Giant, white-winged birds squat in the middle to fish. In the summer, it is dark green. In the winter, it is an icy jade color. There is a spot at the city park where I can walk out onto a volcanic ledge and watch a terrible descent of rapids pour over jutting rocks, ricocheting out in spray patterns that remind me of feathered headdresses. One of my friends is convinced that the spirit of an Indian chief lives on the island just a stone’s throw from her front porch.

We have a pond in our backyard. I promised myself I’d take my kids out there every day this summer and teach them to swim. I don’t feel comfortable living around water. I worry, and sometimes dream of terrible things happening. But the odd thing is, sitting there right next to what could be (in my mind) instantaneous death can bring a sort of roaring peace. I don't know if it's the calm of sitting just next to ferocity, or the sound of rushing water itself filling the senses entirely so there's no room for anything else, but I am grateful for my rivers.

Review of Crater Lake, by Steve Westover

Steve Westover asked me to review the advance review copy of his middle-grade adventure and fantasy-fiction, Crater Lake: the Battle For Wizard Island.

Crater Lake was a fun and interesting read. It will appeal to its intended audience, and it is a rarity; a story directed to middle-grade boys. We need more of those.
I felt that the legend, geography, mythology and overall imaginative conceptualization of the world of Crater Lake were very well done. The characters are perfect—a quarreling pair of siblings, a jock/bully, a cute girl, the good boy scout. Any kid who picks this up will find someone to identify with. I enjoyed the interactions between the characters. I appreciated that they were generally consistent, without improbable changes in personality or behavior.

My favorite thing about this story is the sense that it’s not a cozy little world Westover has created; there is real danger. Overall there was a feeling of eeriness and impending adventure (or doom) throughout the story, which drives the reader in spite of the disturbing tragedies that occur in the course of the story. I did feel that there was a little bit more of that than I’d expect in a middle-grade book (tragedy, particularly as one of the tragedies remains unresolved at the end) but the violence isn’t such that I would keep my children from reading it. Overall, I recommend this book to anyone with grade-school aged children, boys in particular—they will love it.

You can buy a copy of Westover's book here.

Professional Whining

I'm whining over on my professional site today about how writing sometimes brings feelings you don't expect.

Yes, I realize that whining and professional are pretty much mutually exclusive. I'm not apologizing.

Introducing: Chumba

Our newest edition. (and yes, I used edition, not addition, purposefully. I'm punny like that.)

I was trying to come up with a good blog name for him. I sent this picture to my SIL's wall on facebook,

and she commented that he was a cute little Chumbawumba. IT fits, doesn't it?

Things We Say: Good Job!

So lately, baby Rose (who isn't so much baby anymore as toddler) has been cheering me on.

Rose: Mama, did you change Chumba's diaper?

NSG: yep.

Rose: (gasps) Good Job!




Rose: Mama, are you making lunch?

NSG: yes.

Rose: Oh, good job, mom. Good job!



Rose: Mama, did you shut the door?

NSG: Yep, I did.

Rose: Good job!!! (pats my hand)



It makes me giggle, but I realized something today. I like having a cheerleader. And I do a lot of little things that don't seem all that important but, when added up together, actually are pretty important to some people. Some important people.

So maybe I should let Rose's voice (which, let's face it... isn't always going to be there congratulating me) continue mentally. I should be telling myself, "good job," for the little things.


Or maybe Rose will always be my cheerleader. One can hope.