Foggy morning

Next to my bed, I keep a pad of paper and pen (and flash cards and water and ear plugs and an alarm clock…). All the writer’s guides suggest this for writing down middle of the night inspirations. This is a fine plan. I’ve had great results. I’ve come up with solutions to difficult plot situations. Names of evil villainesses. Entire worlds. I’ve remembered doctor’s appointments. Occasionally the light of day reveals something less like a solution and more like the mystery of all mankind: “the plumber trumps! Seventeen children, be aware.” But usually the pad of paper holds something… useful.

This morning’s result:
One word.

Mist.

Is it a metaphor for my future? A laundry detergent? A new name for Sprite? A weather report?

I don’t remember waking. My dreams remain stubbornly opaque. My subconscious mind obviously felt “Mist” to be of enough import to rouse me to reach for the pen. I even capitalized the word.

Hmm. I wonder how many seeds of “great American novels” have been lost in just this way. Born, scribbled in the night, and lost in the morning.

Addressing Daniel’s graduation announcements today, I’m not struck as much by Sunrise Sunset type music in the mental background as I’d expected. (That will be during the ceremony itself.) I’m more awestruck. How did this wonderful human come to be? All my mistakes and neuroses, my grumpy days, times I was late picking him up at school or forgot to drop off brownies or offered to pay him cold cash instead of making birthday cupcakes for his class…. He should be a mess. Instead, he is this beautiful, gentle, good man with a sharp sense of humor and a sharper sense of justice. Capable and brilliant, yes, but …. Good. I am so lucky to even know him. (Okay, now I’m hearing the violins.)

Surprisingly, there is more to making a compost heap than just tossing cucumber peels out the back door. (It’s taking a lot of energy to resist making hokey parallels and analogies to writing and/or life in general.) I have to decide such things as do I want to make this a “hot” heap or a “cool” heap. Well. Needless to say, more research is required.

The real surprising thing is how much I’m enjoying this project. I’m not exactly the Mother Earth type. I wear Birkenstocks only because they are comfortable. Seriously. I can’t imagine driving a Volkswagen van. I have never owned anything tie-dyed. (There are probably more hippie stereotypes that I’m missing, but those are the biggies. Oh! I’ve never smoked pot, either.) And I am not seeing this as an investment in this land, this specific plot of land that is my backyard, because certainly I won’t live here for the rest of my life and probably not even a few more years. Keeping garbage out of the landfills, enriching the yard a little bit, incrementally – are these enough to give me this peaceful satisfaction? I think it’s way more than that. The future is out there and it’s coming towards me, and I definitely am planning for it. But. Today is also here, and I don’t know how long today will last – and I have to live in it. For me, it’s the equivalent of putting all my clothes into a hotel dresser when I am on vacation: for this week, for this time, this is home.

Er. I think I accidentally made a hokey analogy.

Speaking of accidents, day one of the driving teenagers: 0 accidents, 0 speeding tickets. Aaron concedes that it is possible he drove all the way to his girlfriend’s house (about 2 miles?) with the emergency brake on.

Compost

Today I am starting a compost pile, my first ever, and it seems oddly appropriate to also begin this journal on the same day: tossing chopped up veggies and old history and scraps of paper into these two heaps. Of course, I am insane to start any new project right now. I am sixteen days away from heading off to Odyssey and nine weeks away from the start of Scrabble Nationals. I should be studying or writing or cleaning closets.

Before leaving for Odyssey, I need to complete one more story (I've sent two so far). I'm a little reluctant to just grab one from my rough drafts folder. It's not that I don't have plenty to work with. I suppose I want to just start fresh. Odyssey is in many ways a true start for me. I've done a lot of writing. Editors have liked and bought my work. Writing is important, even vital. But I keep holding back from truly going for it, from saying "This is what I do, who I am."

So I say it.

This is what I do. This is who I am.

Before Nationals, I just need to learn all the rest of the words. That's all.

I'm working my way through a stack of flashcards -- actually I'm not quite finished making the flashcards, but will be by the time I leave for Odyssey -- of all the eights that have no sevens in them. I'm alternating this study with my study of stems. Stems are great and useful, but these eights with no sevens are a blast. Sannyasi, papyrian, apoapsis, kalyptra, santalol... I love this list!

Actually, I do want to know all the words. For Nationals, I will be pleased if I manage to get through the event without humiliating myself. (As I'm defining that myself, I will be the one to judge whether or not I succeed.) Oh, and I'd like to avoid having my picture taken much. Simple goals.

On the home front, Daniel and Aaron both got their driver's licenses yesterday. I'm not too nervous yet. I think I'm in denial.