The Wonder of Alice

With the release of Tim Burton's "Alice in Wonderland" last weekend magic has been in full force. As I sat in the theatre with Clara, each of us grinning like the Cheshire cats that we are, I couldn't help but remember a time when I myself felt like I was in wonderland.

In the fall of 2002, (My god, eight years ago?! I FEEL OLD! *ahem*), I was fresh meat up for fodder at Meredith College, an all woman's college in "Nawth" Carolina. It was wonderful, new, exciting and...odd. Amongst the pearls and pigtails, the popped collars and the Ugg boots, and the Southern Belles I proudly strutted my citrusy self and rocked my Decepticon t-shirt and faded jeans.

I spent that first year being entranced by all the possibilities that lay before me. However, as the year ran on and I entered into my second year, I couldn't help but feel like a fishwife among housewives. I didn't care how I dressed particularly. I was not into the party scene. I didn't have a car...Quite frankly I wondered more and more if this was how Alice felt in Wonderland. I was a very fitting definition of 'Curiouser & Curiouser'.

Thankfully, this was the year that I also learned of one of the many traditions of my college. Once every college generation, the faculty and staff would produce and perform their own rendition of Alice in Wonderland. The tradition started during the flu epidemic of 1924. Then, most of the faculty and staff lived on campus along with the students. That Christmas, the campus was shut down and quarantined. None of the students were allowed to go home for Christmas break. Seeing the sadness amongst the students, someone struck up an idea...They would put on a play! Something to cheer up the students and keep up moral and be fun for all involved...Thus, 'Meredith College Presents Alice in Wonderland' was born!

The entire production is kept secret as to who is cast to play which part. Dance routines are choreographed, and sketches are incorporated to reflect and make mockery of the current times. Janet Jackson's unfortunate *ahem* ""Wardrobe Malfunction"" for example, was incorporated into the Lobster Dance when the can-can line flashed their flesh colored cloth and red glitter covered ta-ta's at the audience.

The play always opens with one of the music professors banging boldly away on the pipe organ, (usually the favored 'Toccata en fugue'). While the intermission is comprised of the 'Cards' (staffers dressed to the hilt as playing cards), running up and down the aisles to pop music, throwing confetti, paper hearts, and playing cards all over the attendees. Truly a Mad Tea Party if ever there were...

Having a show of this madness and magnitude really made me feel more at ease. Seeing my favorite English professor recite The Walrus and the Carpenter, and another History professor portray a hippie flower were the highlights of my years at Meredith. I regained my Muchness, celebrated my Madness, and Made Magic... What more can a girl ask for? :)

 

My Dear Friends- How do you regain your Muchness and celebrate your own Madness?

Speeding on a Sunday Afternoon

I said I wasn’t going to do it, but I must. I’m indulging in my inner anorak and I’m bringing cars into the equation. But don’t worry, I’ll not bore you with brake horsepower figures or acceleration times; I’ll not even mention my undying love for AMG tuned SLKs or the fantastic Gallardo Balboni.

No, I’m going to talk about my 11 year old Jeep Cherokee. More specifically, I’m going to talk about the amazing afternoon I had in it.

You see, last week I wrote about that little bit of magic that likes to hide in common, everyday things. This week I found a spark of magic that I had forgotten about over the winter. It was phenomenally nice outside on Sunday, my ideal weather. I had gone shopping in the next town over and decided that on the way back I should take the back road.

It is called River Road and there’s a stretch between that town and mine that is perfection. I don’t know when it was originally paved, but I don’t think it’s been touched since then. It is a winding, twisting ribbon of driving fun.

Fate had to have been on my side that afternoon. The windows were down, there was no traffic and, as the white lines of city maintenance disappeared, T. Rex came on my player. I floored it.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am here to tell you that there is nothing quite like driving very quickly on a road you know very well. And there you have it. In that 20 some mile stretch of road, I had found some magic. In those few minutes of driving, I didn’t care that I had work the next day or that I had bills to pay. I had no cares in the world; there was only me, my Jeep, an empty road, and T. Rex.

I will probably never get to drive an F430 down the Stelvio Pass, but for an afternoon, I came pretty close. That, in my book, is magical.

Clutter Buster

S. O. S. – I was drowning in clutter: life obligations, distractions, and tangible stuff that wasn’t improving my life or anyone else’s.

My home was relatively tidy, but over the years the corners and top shelves and isolated drawers filled with forgotten things. Newspapers. Knick knacks. Expired coupons. Too tight jeans. The warped dish-rack drain pan that I told myself I could salvage and use one day.

I tried to resist the urge to buy these things, but I went on vacation and saw the perfect souvenir; I caved at a school fundraiser; there was a sale. Two weeks later I often could not remember why I thought my memento was anything but a glittery ball of fired crap.

The intangible clutter was worse. It was all the should-do and wanna-do tasks and events that filled every moment of my day. At least once a month I came close to a screaming fit over the mountain of things on my to-do list. All that stuff sapped my time for the magical pursuits that bring me joy. It was time to purge.

I outlined these steps to rid my life of clutter and make more magic. I’ve been at them for a couple weeks now and they’ve worked.

1. Stop saying “one day.” If I cannot think of a use for it today, it is better with someone else or in recycling.
2. If I’ve forgotten I have it, chances are my life will not be worse off without it. A little research showed I’m not the only one who uses this mantra. I almost danced a jig when I read Eleven Myths of De-Cluttering and A Secret to Happiness: Don’t Get Organized. I like 27 Tips for Keeping Your House in Order.
3. Listen to the husband when he says that I cannot do all things at this moment. Focus on one or two big goals. Accomplish them and move on. Sacrifice some of the other good intentions. It’s difficult, but it isn’t forever. Don’t feel guilty about it. I don’t have to do it all; even Superwoman leaves rescuing kittens to someone else.
4. Develop a plan. (I use Google calendars, accessed through my gmail account, because I can color code each type of calendar entry, choose which to display, share it with the husband, and set repeating appointments.)
1. The husband and I plan menus for a week or more at a time. Knowing what we’re having for dinner and how long it takes to prepare makes me more likely to cook. I also look forward to the nights we plan to eat out.
2. We plan out chores. We break down house tasks into small chunks, like vacuuming or changing the sheets, and set them as repeating appointments. When I finish my chore for the day I can relax because I know everything else will be taken care of eventually. I don’t waste time stressing over it.
3. I write down my work wardrobe for the week. On the weekend I wash what is necessary for that week and try to iron it. In the morning I don’t stress about what to wear, and I can writer earlier.
4. Scheduling makes me see where my expectations are unrealistic. I cannot write, clean the kitchen, read, do laundry, call the family, email friends, and talk with the husband all from eight until nine. That is when I refer to #3 and start pruning my list.
5. Realize clutter is no excuse to ignore magic, particularly writing. Do not wait for inspiration to strike. I find my best writing occurs when I’m in front of the page toiling through a scene. Wordsmith-Extraordinaire and My-Inspiration-Par-Excellence Madeleine L’Engle summed it up beautifully:

“Ultimately, you have to sit down and start to write. And even if all you do is type out ‘I can’t write this morning; I can’t write this morning; oh bother, I can’t write this morning,’ that will sometimes prime the pump and get it started. It is a matter of discipline. It is particularly a matter of discipline for a woman who has children or who has another job.”

That is my list. I hope you can find at least a tiny takeaway that will help you as it’s helped me.

What is your biggest area of tangible or intangible clutter? Any ideas how to fix it?

Magically Scrumpti-licious

Personally: I've not been posting because of the many things that got in the way of being creative. Thanks to the lovely inspiring posts from my fellow spatulans I've been butt-kicked into posting on time this time.

Spatulan: I'm going to try a short

series of "happy inducing" posts. I'm going to share a song/video/photo/quote/story (if i have one) that made me extremely happy and hope you get some joy out of my random google/yahoo searches.

The song that made me happy today was "Handbags and the Gladrags" by Rod Stewart.

This video has made me happy today:
The photos that made me happy today were some really neat Alice in Wonderland cupcakes made by Natalie Bode aka obliviousfire on flicker.
And the quote is more Alice in Wonderland from the new 2010 release:
Alice: "Have I gone mad?"Dad: "I'm afraid so. You're entirely bonkers. But I'll tell you a secret. All the best people are."

Permission to Boogie.

My Dear Friends-

Today I give you permission.

Permission to mess up,

to let loose, to let go,

& just let it be.

You have permission,

to be old when you are young.

And young when you are old.

You have permission,

to do whatever makes you happy.

As long as it does not impede

someone elses happiness.

You have permission,

to be happy- to be free

to make magic - and make change

to be still,

...or to boogie. 

;)

Love,

Lucy. 

Tempus Fugit?

It's a little bit scary, isn't it? March is here. Where has all the time gone? Summer will be here before you know it. Blink, and there's autumn.

Indeed, time has passed so quickly that I've been caught off guard. I usually try to write my posts on Sunday so that I won't have to hurry to write something during the week when, as Kristi so astutely pointed out, the evening funk sets in after a tiring day at work.

Alas! Time conspired against me this weekend. A series of intertwining events have left me bereft of wit and something good to post. (In my defense, I was ill all weekend and my cat tried to kill me.)

So with my most sincere apologies, I will pose a query and let that serve as my post. I have said before that little everyday acts can be magical. Hearing a piece of music that touches your soul, reconnecting with childhood memories, the smile of a dishy man (well, for me anyway!); all of these stir emotions in us and impact our loves in small and completely powerful ways.

I've found another little bit of everyday magic. It may not be quite as profound as music or memories, but while I was feeling so very ill this weekend this little bit of magic helped me relax and recuperate. And that, ladies and gents, is the magic of a warm blanket straight from the dryer. There's nothing better.

Or is there? What little bit of everyday magic do you perform when you need a bit of happiness?

March Madness & Spring Cleaning

Ah, March! At last we’re approaching spring and the promise of flowers and no more snow. A lot is going on this month, including Virginia Festival of the Book. The busyness and the spring cleaning made me think about ways to get my life in order.

During March I want to have a dialogue about what impedes us from making magic. I’m going to open a discussion on things that keep me and my friends from making magic and give a few thoughts on how I deal with them. I hope you’ll contribute how you overcome your obstacles.

The Evening Funk

How many of us stumble home after work and head directly for the couch? Some days all I want is my couch and a pair of fuzzy socks. I call this phenomenon the evening funk. The evening funk might occur because work was too demanding or not challenging enough. Some days the public or coworkers drain all energy, leaving none for being civil or putting sentences together. It’s difficult to take care of the necessities: cooking, cleaning, bathing, making magic.

It is even worse when the funk turns from an occasional day into a trend. For a few weeks back in January, I had a lingering case of the evening funk. I settled on the couch and popped in an episode—or four—of Bones. The husband and I had four seasons on DVD to go through; we watched them all that month. We don’t usually watch television, so this type of potato fest screamed something was wrong.

My desire to shut out the world caused laundry to pile up until Pisa called to say they wanted the monopoly on leaning towers. In January, I wrote about 20,000 words on my rough draft, compared to 62,000 I wrote in November. I had to make a change.

But how?

I fell back on what brings me joy and what makes me, me. That statement sounds obtuse, but it can be practical. The husband reminded me I function well in the morning, especially when I write. Writing after 9pm is a sure bet that I’ll be cranky and self deprecating. I go to bed earlier, which is really what I wanted to do all along, and get up early to make some magic when I’m at my best. My motivation isn’t dependent on how the work day goes because it hasn’t happened. The new schedule lets me start my day on my terms. I get to make sure every day starts out as a good day.

The husband and I also plan rewards to look forward to after we’ve slogged through the week.

I now do little things to make me smile throughout the day. I bring fuzzy socks in my purse and slip them on while I sit at my desk. I listen to podcasts while I work, which gives me ideas for my magic. I made a mascot, Frazzled Fred, who sits on my desk, reminding me to lighten up. A coworker personalizes her space by putting cute photographs on the walls with googly eyes affixed to them.

Make magic just for yourself. I write short stories and journal entries that are ways to work through my thoughts or exorcise my frustrations. Clara said she writes stuff no one else will see as “Draino for the creative pipes.”

I also take advice from people who know a thing or ten million about balancing life and magic. Author, blogger, wife, mom, artist, and musician Maggie Stiefvater swears by egg timers. Yes, you read that right: egg timers. I read the egg timer proselytizing on her blog a couple times and heard her say it in person before I was ready to give it a shot.

Maggie knows what she’s talking about. The incessant tick isn’t distracting or annoying. It marks the time as sacred. I don’t worry about intra-office relations or what to do for my mother-in-law’s birthday until the buzzer sounds. Once I got the egg timer, my focus increased, my energy level sky rocketed, and I finished the rough draft. All that for $3. Can’t beat it.

I heard New York Times bestselling author David L. Robbins talk about the voices in his head. Okay, so I’m paraphrasing, but he basically said he can’t waste time when his characters are in his head reminding him they have guns pointed at theirs. He takes care of creativity first; then, he goes on to do leisure and other work. Family and friends will still be there after the scene is written. I take this advice as a blessing to respect my characters and make time for them, too.

Of course, there can be lots of subtle reasons for the evening funk, which I plan to discuss later in the month. Stay tuned.

For now, do you ever have the evening funk? If so, how do you combat it?

Yours for the Taking: A Mini-Manifesto.

 

Welcome. You're here. You're alive. So now what'dya do? 

 

You go on, 

you allow yourself to make mistakes. 

You keep yourself from making some of the bigger ones. 

And you love as many people as you possibly can, 

for who they really are. 

You pull out all of the skeletons in the closet, 

and you keep as many from getting back in as possible. 

You find the deeper meaning, 

not just in life, 

but in others. 

You forgive as much as you possibly can, 

and be thankful that you didn't get hurt worse. 

Life isn't about being perfect, it's about being perfectly yourself. 

Letting all those around you see it, 

and revel in the glory of all that is around you

and in you. 

It's all there, 

and it's all yours for the taking.

February Varitation: Fourth and Final

Well, folks, this is it. This is the last of my rebellious posts for this cold and cruel month. I hope you liked them, because I sure as heck got a kick out of writing them. I've been working on François since 2007, when I lived in that great swampy southern state. It was refreshing to plumb the depths of his character, even if it was only in these small little glimpses of his story.

I would dearly love to write up more little stories in the future, and I certainly plan on doing so. But not right now. Unfortunately, real life is getting in the way of my fun, so for March I will be sticking more closely to the assigned format of this blog, which I am sure Miss Lucy will be glad to hear.

Fear not, though, for when my freedom comes in April I will be right back to dredging up old characters and stories and breathing life back into them. Until then, dear reader, enjoy the last of François Boudreaux.

No. 4: Change

Despite what he thought, François was never truly alone in his swampy home. True, he had Marguerite and he adored her, but there is only so much company one can get from an alligator, especially a dead one.

No, François had other companions. He never saw them, but he knew when they were around. He had first heard them after he was shot and killed. When he woke up in his own bed, instead of the bank of the swamp or in the strange grey cavern, François could hear the whispered voices drifting down the hallway. He followed them to their source and discovered a part of his home that he had never seen before.

There, in the shadows of a bookcase, François made out the edge of a door frame, but just the edge. The rest, if there was any, disappeared into what François was sure was an outside wall. He certainly hadn’t noticed it before he died, and he suspected he was insane when he had first heard the voices issuing from the phantom door jamb.

Although he would never admit to it, François had become somewhat lonely after being brought back to life nearly three hundred year ago. He secretly looked forward to the voices calling out to him. Sometimes they whispered strange spells to him, and other times they told him what was happening in the world beyond his sheltered home.

This particular day, the voices were shouting. There was a presence in the swamp, they told François, a presence that he should welcome. He hated to hear it, but they told him that the time had come for him to venture beyond the bayou and, they added, to stop being so lazy. When the voices had stopped, François went out and waited with Marguerite growling at his side.

François watched, amazed, as the mists parted. A boat was coming through the fog, his fog that he had conjured to keep people out. Still, he could do nothing but watch and hope that this wasn’t another ghost. He allowed himself a small groan thinking about the last time he had dealt with a spirit; he would rather die again than have anything more to do with ghosts.

The boat came closer as the fog cleared and François couldn’t be certain, but it seemed that the figure in the boat was holding aloft an umbrella. The sun broke through in dancing rays and lit upon the soft blue fabric of a small ruffled parasol. It was a woman sitting calmly in the stern of the boat, quite a startling contrast. The boat was battered and in need of fresh paint, but the woman sat like a queen on a bier. One pale arm rested on the rudder, the other held the parasol. François could just make out the hint of red lips smiling from underneath the shade it cast on her face. The boat bumped against the bank and the woman stepped lightly onto the shore.

“Monsieur Boudreaux, I’ve come a long ways to meet you.” Her voice was eerily calm, considering she was talking to a man in dry rotted clothes and who had a zombie alligator at his side.

François was wary, but he heeded the voices and silently commanded Marguerite not to eat the visitor.
“Who are you, and why are you trespassing in my swamp?”

“My name is Charlotte Foxtrot, and I have a proposition for you.”




Um, I guess I should say François is copyright to me. Be decent, don't steal.

Introverts Unite...Or Not

Happy Monday. Did you recharge over the weekend? If you did, how was it accomplished? Did you party with friends or hide out at home?

My weekends consist of time with the husband, dinner out, reading, watching movies, writing, and finally washing socks so my feet don’t freeze. Did you notice all of those are relatively solitary activities? It’s not that I dislike people. I like people. Well, I like 99% of people 99% of the time, but I am a shy introvert.

I dub myself misanthropic because it was the title applied to me by people who didn’t understand why I brought a book to all public appearances. I went through years when family, teachers, and coaches harangued me about my preference for solitude. “Socialize with my teammates,” they’d say after I’d already been on the softball field with those women for twelve hours. Literally. The last thing I wanted was to go back to a shared hotel room or out on the town. But I was kicked out of the door and was thoroughly miserable the entire time. It wasn’t because of the other people. It was because of me.

At first I blamed myself for the perceived defect. It was, after all, considered negative by many people. School graded us on participation, but I went an entire semester in a college class without speaking, which cost me half a letter grade. At my wedding, despite being ecstatic I was marrying the best man on Earth, I was terrified of so many people. I told the photographer to stop taking photos of me. On the wedding video you can see me balk when I walk into the reception and see so many faces. I never did the wedding speech though many people insisted I should. With these judgments and social snafus, naturally, I thought I was messed up. Some chip was missing in the design.

Only in the last few years have I accepted that being a shy introvert is a normal personality, one that doesn’t require shock therapy and celebrity telethons. I found a career in museum collections that lets me be alone for hours a day. I write, which is an introvert’s dream. My husband mercifully understands the anxiety attacks before social gatherings.

The internet lets us introverts find each other without fear of hives or hyperventilating. Shrinking Violet Promotions is a fantabulous blog that affirms Myers-Briggs “I” are not subhuman and destined for career failures. In fact, the featured authors are pretty kick-ass. I also love their Introvert’s Bill of Rights. I wanted to stand up and sing “Hallelujah,” but that would have attracted too much attention.

I met New York Times bestselling author Maggie Stiefvater at her book launch for Ballad. She was gregarious and captivated the crowd. I was shocked when she admitted she’s an introvert. She even did an interview with Shrinking Violet Promotions. We introverts have good company, if we decide to accept it.

Are you an introvert or extravert? Shy or outgoing? Whatever you are, embrace it. Don’t force yourself to change. You are magical the way you are.