The Stories I Tell ~ from The Word Cellar

New Blog/Site Now Online

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 23:54:00 +0000

I won't be posting in this space anymore. But fret not! All is not lost! Visit me in my new online digs at www.thewordcellar.com/blog.

You know those projects that seem to take forever and then happen really fast? That's what it's been like for me to create a new website. I thought about it forever and felt overwhelmed by the logistics, until one I day I sat down and just did it. And ta-da! A new site.

Please update any bookmarks and come visit me over here. The Word Cellar just got much nicer.

The Road Less Traveled (leads to cows) *updated

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 02:54:00 +0000

A small snippet of where I've been....

Several Saturdays ago I made the half-hour drive to the local berry farm. Strawberries were in full swing, but raspberries were still a week or two in coming. I'd called earlier in the day to reserve several quarts of strawberries. When I arrived late in the afternoon, I found that they were the very last berries on the shelves. In hindsight, I regret not giving a quart to the couple who came in after me, anticipating berry goodness. I considered it, but got greedy and hoarded them all to myself. In the end, I didn't even use them all up before some went bad. As I dumped those once perfect, now spoilt, beauties in the trash, I thought of that couple and felt such sadness that I didn't share.

There was a small pen for sheep and one for lambs near the farm parking lot. The little lambs were so busy munching the scrubby grass, like little eating machines.

These little ones took no notice of me or the cars. But the two mama sheep in the next pen were much more interested in me. Well, one of them was. There was black-headed beauty that was all chilled out and relaxed, as if to say, "Yeah, I'm a sheep. No biggie."

But the other one started baa-ing as soon as I approached the fence, as if to say, "Check me out! I'm a sheep! Don't you love my new summer coat? Check me out!" She even put her big schnozzle through the fence opening so I could pet her. As I reached out my hand, I heard my husband's voice in my head, telling me not to pet the animals. And just as I touched the back of my hand to her furry snout, she opened her mouth -- the one she was using to chew grass -- and let out a terrific AHHH-CHOOO!! That sheep sneezed on me!

I was momentarily terrified, thinking she was about to bite me. But as I picked little bits of grass off of my shirt, I started laughing out loud, wishing my husband had been there to see it.

On the ride home, I took a sharp right-turn detour down an unknown country road, hoping to find a farm stand selling peonies. I'd been longing for pale pink peonies and had nearly resorted to stealing them from neighbors' yards. In the end, I didn't find any, but I did come face to face with these lovelies:

I finally got my pale pink peonies this week, after ordering them from a florist. Not as romantic as finding them at a roadside stand or as thrilling as stealing them, but they're lush and decadent all the same. I don't have a good photo of them (*see update below), but this does them more justice than my camera every could.

"Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?" (Mary Oliver, "Peonies")

I'm going to plant my own peonies this fall so I can have armloads of them in summers to come. I'm going to pet the animals, no matter what my husband says. I'll stop my car along narrow country lanes to photograph the locals. And the next time, I'll share my strawberries with strangers.

Updated
I took the peonies outside today just after a sun shower, when the light was gorgeous, and captured these. Lovely, yes. But I still think this is even more so.

What are we waiting for?

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Thu, 21 May 2009 03:47:00 +0000

image by Diskychick

I don't hesitate to use the good china. Okay, I don't have "good china," but I do have good pottery. I love it, and I use it every day. I'm trying to make this the model for my everyday life.

****************************

I buy pint of organic raspberries. They're like little red jewels, which is an overwrought phrase when it comes to raspberries. But what else can I say? These ruby fruits are my favorite, so I want to make them last. But berries are not meant for waiting. Ripe soon turns to ruin. Eat the juice-full berries. Eat them now, whole bowlfuls if you must.

****************************

A recent Twitter exchange:

Me: What would happpen if I stopped putting my ideas up on a shelf, waiting for more time/confidence/resources? What would happpen?

Me: I'll tell you what would happen: THINGS WOULD START TO HAPPEN!

A friend: BIg FanDAMNtastic shit -- THAT's what would happen. There's something in the air Jenna, LEAP!

****************************

I yell at my husband for things that aren't his fault because I'm stressed about things that aren't his fault. He says nothing. We ride in silence. I practice "I'm sorry" over and over in my head, thinking I'll say it any second now. The words don't come, and then, without me trying, they do. "I'm sorry." All these years and it's still so hard to say. When will I learn? What am I waiting for?

****************************

I fill notebook pages with ideas for stories, articles, books, projects. What am I waiting for?

****************************

Tonight I filled a little apple-green bowl with red-red raspberries. There was no waiting.

Not the Mama!

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Sun, 10 May 2009 01:40:00 +0000

When I was a kid, my mom sometimes told my brother and me that a woman in Iowa had been "mummed" to death by her kids. This story usually followed a particularly harrowing round of "Hey-mom-watch-me!" These scenes often took place in our above-ground pool each summer.

I don't think we ever really believed her, and I don't think we ever felt bad about our incessant mom-ing. Our mother had a plenty of love, patience, and attention to go around. I'm sure there must have been times when she really did feel like she was being mummed to death, but she never showed it.

As many people know, I have a bad case of mommy angst. I started out not wanting kids and then became ambivalent about it. Then all I could think about was how I didn't know if I wanted kids or not. The baby question became an endless loop in my head, making me go slightly crazy. I was being mummed to death in a much different way.

I'm feeling a bit more balanced about things these days, even though I definitely haven't made up my mind yet. But have you noticed that the media is mom-ing us all to death now?

Lately, the news is full of stories I like to call, "Motherhood if Effin Hard, Man!"

This is the obvious counterpoint to the other dominant media message about mommy-dom, which is, "Motherhood: Who Could Ask for Anything More?"

We have lost all perspective.

I watched the Oprah show about the secret lives of moms, in which Oprah and a slew of moms talked about how effin hard it is to a be a mom. Don't get me wrong. I like many of those women, and know at least one of them, albeit peripherally. I'm not saying they're just whiny women who complain about their kids.

Still, I was shocked by the general feeling (real or edited-to-seem-real) of surprise at how hard motherhood is. Who are these people that thought having a child would be easy? Nothing about it seems easy to me. From the pregnancy and birth, to the child rearing itself -- these things seem fraught with stress, worry, and hard work.

I told a friend that all that maternal honesty on Oprah was doing nothing to allay my concerns and make me want a baby. She said, "That show isn't for you. It's like doing a show on how hard exercise is. It's just an angle to make it interesting."

But it was the wrong show for me to watch. I didn't need that show. I didn't need to hear about how hard motherhood is, because my concern about becoming a mother is directly centered on how hard motherhood is. The other thing that surprised me is the general message that mothers are glad to finally be telling and hearing the truth; that until now, nobody has been telling it like it is about parenthood; that everyone was just pushing around baby strollers with big smiles on their faces and then crying quietly during their once weekly shower.

Maybe it's taken the mainstream media awhile to catch up, but I've been reading about how hard motherhood is for years now. The blogs -- they are full of it! But I guess it's like Twitter: the media has finally jumped on board.

Now, apparently even some of the moms who were featured on the Oprah show are fed up with the media's portrayal of motherhood as a curse.

Still, isn't motherhood like everything else? Good and bad. Easy and hard. Fun and not fun. Where are the drama ridden exposes about fatherhood? About how much it sometimes sucks to go to work? About the joys and pains of marriage?

Motherhood has long been an iconic flashpoint, a state of being that is bigger than the people in that role. The state of motherhood has been honored, vilified, vindicated, and deified. The interesting thing about the media stereotypes of mothers is that they are so varied. There are June Cleavers, Moms who drink, Moms who work, Stay-at-home Moms, Soccer Moms, Earth Mama Goddesses, Hockey Moms, Stage Moms.

I'm not sure what the media thinks of women like me. What do you call a woman without kids? I don't think there's a label for us, which may be part of the reason we've escaped the media frenzy. We're invisible. And in this case, maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Enough, already.

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Mon, 04 May 2009 22:21:00 +0000

image from Jenna Carver

Things I don't do often enough:

Blog
Exercise
Weed the garden
Write
Laundry
Dishes
Vacuum
Floss
Dust
Shave my legs

The list goes on, on, on. Does yours do that, too?

Superhero Andrea has a recent blog post about doing enough by choosing what enough is. The idea came to her after reading Chris Guillebeau's 279 Days to Success Overnight manifesto, which I discovered a few weeks ago and love. Andrea sums up some things that have been swirling around in my head for awhile now. She says it beautifully, so I hope you'll read her post.

As a work-at-home freelance writer, I have a lot of time on my hands to play with. By this I mean that I can shape my days in almost any way I choose. This is a huge blessing in my life and I don't want to go back to a traditional work schedule. But the downside is that without a set schedule, writing work and domestic work start to meld together. Any time feels like a perfect time to work on a project or to do chores. As such, I'm constantly fighting off the feeling that I'm not doing what I should -- or could -- be doing. Because I haven't set specific goals (exercise three times a week) or allocated exact times for tasks (work on client projects from 1:00 - 5:00), I rarely feel like I've accomplished the day's goals.

I chafe against order and structure. I tend toward chaos. But in my heart, I know that I need a schedule -- as long as it's one that I have devised. I've been trying to do this for awhile now. I finally have some things in place that will help me create order. I'm intrigued to see if I can finally feel like I've done enough by defining what enough is.

What works for you?

Gradbabies

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 23:35:00 +0000

image from by dno1967

You can also listen to this story here.

I saw my aunt and uncle in the grocery store the day before Easter. We met up at the end of the jam and jelly aisle, in an open area near the meat counter. I waved first, since it seemed inevitable that they'd see me. It had been at least a year since I last saw them, and I wanted to give them plenty of time to recognize me out of context.

The only thing in their cart so far was a 10 pound bag of potatoes. Later on I'd see them picking out a ham. Until a few years ago, we all used to gather for Easter and Christmas at another aunt's house. But it looked like everyone would be cooking for their own this year.

"Anything new?" my aunt asked.

I gave the standard, "Not much," and then remembered something new, a growing rarity these days: "I'm going back to school."

"Oh?" my aunt said. "That's interesting."

"When am I gonna be an uncle?" my uncle chimed in.

I knew what he meant. "You're already an uncle," I said, trying to sound good natured. "And you're a grandfather! What more do you want? To be a great-uncle?"

"He's that, too," said my aunt, referring to my other cousins who started babymaking a few years ago.

"That’s right!" I said, keeping up the lighthearted banter just a bit too loudly. "See, you don’t need me at all."

We talked for awhile longer, but the subject of me going back to school never came up again. Nobody wanted to know where or why or how or for what. After that conversation, I wondered how many other people are thinking what my uncle, always the outspoken one, actually said.

Me: I’m going to grad school!

Others: When are you going to have a baby?

At a family visit a few years ago, I stood beside my grandmother while we watched a scene unfold around the clan's newest infant. I'm not overly close with my grandmother, and she's not an overly talkative woman, but I know she loves me. After minutes of silence, she turned to me and said, "Well, your mother wanted to be a grandmother, but I guess that's not going to happen now."

I found this curious for several reasons, the main one being that she is my paternal grandmother: my father's mother. Unless she and her daughter-in-law had developed a strong bond recently, or my mother was much more grief-stricken about my childless state than she's let on, I couldn't imagine this was an actual conversation the two of them would ever have.

I didn't know what to say, so again I played the jester. I gestured to my younger brother and said, "Hey, he could have kids!"

I don't know why my grandmother assumed kids were out of the picture for me. I can't recall ever discussing with her my angst and ambivalence about becoming a mother. And this was just a few years ago, when I was in my late 20s or very early 30s and still spry enough to try for a little spring chicken if I so chose.

All in all, I'm thankful that I don't get much pressure from family or friends about my childlessness. For now, this is what makes sense and works for me and my husband. People generally respect that. But every so often, someone slips, and I wonder how many people are questioning my choices. That happens to everyone, I suppose. At some point, we just need to stop worrying about what family, friends, or society think of the path we choose.

A friend recently told me, "I'm so tired of trying to manage my image with my family." For sure, that can be exhausting work, full of subterfuge and half-truths. Personally, I've never really felt the need to do that, especially outside of my immediate family. Most of them have never really known me, but only because we run in different circles, not because I'm hiding anything.

While I was growing up, my parents, brother, and I often spent Friday nights at my great aunt's house in the country. This was on my mother's side of the family. There was always an elaborate spread of food for an evening meal, well after dinner time. It felt so decadent to eat after dark. Summers were the best because the table was covered in delights from my aunt and uncle's garden: sliced bright-red tomatoes, deep green bell peppers, shapely spring onions.

When I became a teenager, those visits became less fun, as do most things at that age. This was during my mandatory dark and twisty phase, in which I was trying to embrace the writer within. I remember sitting on a wooden stool at the little bar island in the kitchen, apart from the family merriment in the living room, and writing something along the lines of: These people are my relatives, but I do not feel related or relevant. It was my way of realizing that you can't choose your relatives, but you can’t hide from them, either.

Most of the people from those Friday night gatherings are far away or gone now. Unlike my dad's side of the family, which is teeming with new life, my mom's side has only seen two new additions. If anyone should be worried about my procreation habits, it would be them – if there were anyone left to worry.

As I settle into my third decade, I have a growing hunger for family and relative connections. But I'm also not ready to throw my own eggs into the ring just yet. When I am, I guess we'll all have something to talk about.

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 00:38:00 +0000

Just a little note: Karen of Chookooloonks has a new post up at Through the Gadling Lens, where she writes about travel and photography. She answered my questions about the ethics of taking photos of strangers. I hope you'll check her out because her photography is just beautiful, and her advice and insights are spot on.

The Bride Goes to Graduate School: A parable

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 02:03:00 +0000

image by kozumel

Once upon a time
I'd narrowed down my choices to two gowns. Gown A was my favorite. It looked so perfect on its puffy, satin covered hanger. It beckoned me with its loveliness. I tried it on. And...meh. That's how it looked on me: meh. Just okay. It was a beautiful dress, but I didn't really look that beautiful in it.

Then there was Gown B. It was my second favorite. But when I put it on, I sparkled. The dress and I became more than the sum of our parts. It was clear: This was my dress. We were meant for one another. The dress knew it. My mother knew it. I was the only one having a hard time admitting it.

I tried those two dresses on dozens of times each. During the last marathon shopping session, I put on each one in rapid succession, vainly trying to get Gown A to live up to its on-hanger promises. I wore myself out trying to make myself look as wonderful in Gown A as I did in Gown B. Oh, how I wanted to choose Gown A!

Finally, I did the brave thing: I admitted that I was my most beautiful self in Gown B, and I gently let go of the other dress. Eight years later, I'm glad that I chose wisely, not vainly. Yes, I still think longingly of that other gown from time to time, but that's just how I am. In the end, I sparkled, the wedding was lovely, and my marriage has been unimpacted by my fashion choices.

Once upon a more recent time
I've been obsessing over choices lately. This time around the wedding gowns have been replaced by graduate schools. This is the project I've cryptically referred to recently. Over the past few months, I've worked fiendishly to apply to six MFA in writing programs. And then, to my delight and surprise, I found myself accepted to nearly all of them, including my top three choices.

And that's when the real problems started.

I couldn't choose. Each school had a long list of pros, and very few cons. When listmaking failed me, I tried overriding the analytical part of my brain and listening to my intuition. But everything was cloaked in white noise.

To make matters worse, I already knew which school I wanted to choose. It was perfect -- until I tried it on. And then I realized it didn't fit nearly as well as another one of the schools. I tried those schools on in rapid succession, just like the wedding dresses. And each time, I knew in my heart that the school I wanted wasn't the best fit for me. It took me many days and much angst to admit this. My husband knew it. I think the other school knew it. I was the only one having a hard time admitting it.

Finally, I did the brave thing: I chose the school that fit me best. And I'm excited to say that I'm enrolled in the MFA in writing program at Vermont College of Fine Arts. Yes, I'll probably still think longingly of that other school from time to time, but that's just how I am. I don't like picking favorites or choosing one thing at the exclusion of another. I hate questions about favorite colors, foods, and books. Why must I choose? Can't I love it all? Can't I experience it all?

In some things, the answer is no. Well, that's the answer if everything goes well. You only wear one wedding dress. You only complete one degree per subject. Any more than that and something has probably gone awry.

This is just to say

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Sat, 04 Apr 2009 22:20:00 +0000

I hope
to start
writing
in this
space
very soon.

image originally uploaded by cursedthing

In the meantime, did you know that it's National Poetry Month?

Here's a poem I really like. Share your favorites in the comments.

Vote Hope

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 22:12:00 +0000

Shutter Sisters Dream Assignment: Picture Hope from LittlePurpleCow Productions on Vimeo.

I have something very cool and inspiring to tell you about today. And you can take part in making it happen.

Name Your Dream Assignment is a contest for photographers of all kinds: pros, amateurs, aficionados, dabblers, you name it. The goal of the contest is to find "the most creative, inspiring photo shoot idea out there." And here's the prize: The photographer with the winning idea will win $50,000 to bring her dream assignment to life. Sweet, right?

Two amazing bloggers/photorgaphers/soulsisters have entered the contest. Jen Lemen and Stephanie Roberts will represent the Shutter Sisters community as they travel to capture Hope around the world. (Do you know Shutter Sisters? It's a collaborative photo blog with some incredible women behind it. It's chock full of beautiful photography and several great ways to participate.)

Here's how Jen and Stephanie's dream assignment works, straight from the Shutter Sisters page: "This amazing community will generate the most powerful images of hope we can find. From those images we'll create tangible hope notes for Jen and Stephanie to take with them wherever they travel to tell the world we're listening. At each destination, Jen and Stephanie will introduce the world to a new story of hope while the Shutter Sisters at home show us all the ways hope flourishes in the hidden everyday spaces. From these images and stories, together we'll generate a visual catalog of hope--images that that can be transformed into practical print resources and literacy tools for the hopeful people we've met from around the world. People who know and embody the essence of hope in spite of war, poverty, loss or the threat of despair."

The winner of the Name Your Dream Assignment contest will be chosen by people like YOU who go and vote for their favorite enry. You got that, right? Go. VOTE. Now. Do eet!

Remembering to Act

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Sat, 14 Mar 2009 18:15:00 +0000

image by +cripswalk+++++++

Dear me. I keep forgetting to blog. I spend plenty of time online, mind you. I read dozens of other blogs every week. I get sucked into Facebook on a regular basis. And email? Don't talk to me about email. I'm practically swimming in it. So online communication is not exactly on the backburner for me. But blogging -- actually writing my own blog posts -- keeps slipping my mind.

Here's the irony: My word for 2009 is Action. Over the past year or two, I've noticed waves of envy when I hear about other people's creative projects. This has happened even when the projects were being done by friends. Even when I loved the idea but had no desire to that specific thing myself. So it's not the "sour grapes" or "I wish I'd thought of that" jealousy. Like most unpleasant emotions, this one was merely trying to get my attention and tell me something.

I realized that I have tons of ideas for creative projects, but rarely ever get past the idea phase. As a result, I'd begun to feel like I had no ideas. Finally I realized that the ideas were there. The missing piece was Action.

Since college I've been a big advocate of learning To Be and not getting caught up in the shallow busyness of life. I wish I could say that I'm really good at this by now in some Zen-like way. (Insert the voice of this woman telling me that Zen-like is an oxymoron because Zen isn't like anything.) While I do value my downtime and make sure to get plenty of it, I fill way too much of it with fretting over what I'm not doing. So it's the Year of Action.

Maybe I'm forgetting to blog because I'm too busy doing other things? Okay, that's actually partially true. I've been focusing on making my house more of a nest, cooking nourishing meals for my family, taking care of ailing kitties, and strengthening connections with friends. I've even been working on one big project. So I am doing. I am acting.

But I continually have to remind myself to be a participant, not a spectator. I am in the process of understanding that I can be the one doing cool, creative projects. I can take all those ideas trotting around my head and figure out ways to put them out into the world. I just need to remember to act.

In which I fall down and cry like a baby

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 01:52:00 +0000

I'm back from New York City. It was a good trip. An important trip. But I'm not ready to talk about that yet. So for now, here's a story about another trip I took.

**************************************

I'm standing at the rocky edge of the land, staring out at the cold Atlantic Ocean, and I'm sobbing. I'm crying like a child: loudly, full-throttled, irrationally. I tell my husband that I'm fine, but that I just need to stand here and cry for awhile. He's known me long enough and well enough to understand, so he stands on a boulder somewhere behind me and lets me go.

There is salt everywhere here: in the tears streaming down my face, in the waves crashing on the rocks below me, in the misty air that dampens everything. Salt is a preservative, and right now my salty tears are preserving my sanity. Nothing horrible has happened in this moment. I simply fell down on a slick part of these New England rocks. But my side hurts, my pants and sweater are shellacked with strips of tar, and I broke the camera. The physical pain is bothersome and I know I'll have a big bruise, but that's not why I cry. I wail about the broken camera. Broken on our first day here! And I mourn for my ruined pants and go on and on about how I'd searched for pants like these for 10 years. It's nearly impossible to find the perfect pair of lightweight khaki pants that are perfect for traveling. Nearly impossible!

Mostly I wail about how stupid I was for stepping on that dark patch of sloping rock. I berate myself for being so stupid. So stupid! I say it over and over again, thinking that if I chastise myself enough I'll work through feeling so bad about it all and start to feel better. But that tired tactic never works; I should know that by now.

What works in moments like these is crying like a child. I'm old enough to know that I'm not really crying about the bruise or the busted camera or my soiled clothing or even my poor decision making. Those things are just surface annoyances that release the pressure valve so I can let the real emotions out.

In the end, I don't think too much about what the real emotions were. I cried and then I felt better. We went to the cry cleaner* and my clothes look brand new. My husband fiddled with the camera and it works. In the end, everything was okay.

*Edited to add this note: As Randi points out in the comments, I did write "cry cleaner" instead of "dry cleaner." I would like to say it was intentional, but it was really just an oh-so-appropriate slip, so I think I'll leave it.

Three More Good Things (one word: Squam)

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 06:09:00 +0000

Despite a tiring, rainy day outside, I'm feeling happy and shiny in my soul because I'm off to New York this weekend for a long awaited visit with a friend. The weather forecast is calling for coldish weather, but the lows don't go below 20 degrees (Fahrenheit). After enduring single digit temperatures for a few weeks this winter, anything above the teens feels manageable. So while I'm gallivanting around Brooklyn and soaking up the goodness, here's your second tidbit of soul sunshine. (Don't miss the first part. It's a good one.)

I actually have three things to tell you about today.

First is for those of you who attended the Squam Art Workshops (SAW) last year.

Liz Kalloch (also known around blogland as Athena Dreams) has pulled together a wonderful opportunity for 2008 SAW attendees: the First Annual Squam Art Show: A Vision of Squam. This show is open to anyone who attended or taught at the 2008 Squam Art Workshops. "This show is meant to be the story of how your work may have shifted and grown, how your lives as artists were perhaps changed, how the experiences you had at Squam in 2008 may have allowed you to see your work in a different way, how each of your artistic communities have grown and expanded and finally, what kind of work came out of your experience," says Liz.

The submissions deadline is April 30, 2009. (That may sound like you have plenty of time, but don't be fooled. Mistress Spring has a habit of flitting in and out of the month of March, tempting us all to distractions like flowers, flirty dresses, and cupcakes. The end of April will be here before you know it. So get to it!)

The jurors for the show are Susan Schwake, Liz Kalloch, and Mary Jo Monusky. The show will be held at artstream Gallery in Rochester, NH and opens on September 1, 2009. All of the details about submissions and the show are a vailable here.

Secondly, this is for those of you who attended SAW last year but may feel a little shy about entering work in a juried show. (Like me!) Liz has also put out a call for a Collective Media Submission. All 2008 SAW attendees are encouraged to submit something to this category. Here's how Liz describes it: "These pieces will all be hung in the gallery like prayer flags, like meditations on a moment, like beautiful memories, or maybe even like cocooning butterflies." Doesn't that just sound too lovely not to be a part of it? Submissions for the Collective Media Submission must arrive at artstream Gallery by August 1, 2009. Again, you can find out more here.

And thirdly, this is for all of you who didn't attend the Squam Art Workshops last year. What about this year? Want to try your hand at knitting, painting, or songwriting? How about a class on storyweaving, mixed media art, poetry, outdoor sculpture, jewelry making, or photography? There are even classes on tapping into your creativity and slots for open studio time.

There are two sessions of SAW this year. The Spring Workshops will focus on fiber arts (with a few other types of classes thrown in for good measure) and will be held June 3-7, 2009. The Fall Workshops are more multi-faceted and will run September 16-20, 2009. You really need to check out the website to get all the details. Because the goodness runneth over!

I had mixed feelings after attending SAW last year, all based on my own conflicted feelings and issues. The event itself is fabulous. Over the past five months, the experience has had time to mature and mellow, and to develop a nice patina. I've realized that despite my feelings of isolation while I was there, I was actually developing new friendships that continue to grow and deepen. So I'm looking forward to going back this September. In addition to spending time with these friends, I'm looking forward to playing with paints and words, all mixed up into one messy, thrilling experience.

If you're intrigued, I hope you'll dig a little deeper and consider attending. Registration has been open for a little while now, and spaces are limited. So if you feel this opportunity tugging at your soul, don't dismiss it.

Okay, that's the Goodness Report for now. I'll be back next week with tales from the big city.

You're invited: Be Present Retreats

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 04:41:00 +0000

February is nearly over. Spring has been edging its way into this last week of the month, but I don't expect her to last. She's such a tease; here one day and then gone the next. And March is a mean bastard, full of bluster and the cold shoulder. So I'm not putting away my winter coat for flirty dresses just yet.

If you need something cheery and exciting to keep you going until Mistress Spring returns, I have some goodies to tell you about. Read on for the first one and then come back tomorrow for another.

My friend Liz Elayne Lamoreux has cooked up a new adventure called The Be Present Retreats. "These were born from the belief that creating is a meditation of the soul," Liz explains. "Each retreat will be an invitation to pause in your life and gather in a supportive environment filled with like-minded individuals in a creative, playful, and meditative atmosphere."

The first retreat is June 10-14, 2009, and registration has already begun. The June retreat is called Self-Portrait Excavation and is a retreat centered around the journey that is the self-portrait. Gathering at The Lodge at Gearhart's Little Beach on the Oregon coast (about 10 minutes from Cannon Beach), attendees will immerse themselves in paint and mixed media, words, photography, and the beauty of our surroundings under the guidance of Judy Wise, Jen Goff, and Liz.

It sounds like an absolutely magical and lovely time, doesn't it? I wish I could go, but alas, I cannot. But you? Perhaps you can go! (Do you hear it? That whisper telling you that this is just what you need? Just what you long for? Listen to that whisper. It is wisdom and kindness.) At the very least, find out a more and ponder it.

(see you tomorrow for another soulful treat!)

That Loopy Feeling

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 02:44:00 +0000

image by Derek Farr (DetroitDerek)

I wrote a blog post the other night. In my head. While I was falling asleep. No worries, I remember it. I'm just too tired right now to spin that particular yarn. I'm still working on that project that I mentioned previously. It's nearing completion. But its end could mean just the beginning for something much larger. Am I being cryptic? Ah, but of course! (Say that last sentence in a French accent, s'il vous plait.) (I'm not sure why, but I feel like I'm channeling that lovely blue poppy Elizabeth tonight. You know her, oui? Ah, but of course you do! Or at least should. Go see her blog. She's funny. And charming.) (And for the record, I accidentally wrote "blue ploppy" the first time. It's fun to say. Say it.)

Anyway, I've got the Unnamed Project going on. And on top of that -- and this is the thing that's really sucking my energy -- there's a new project in my life. One that involves my alarm going off at 7:00 in the morning. If you know me even a teensy bit, you will know that this is, how shall we say?, le torture. I am a night owl. My biological clock tells me to go to bed in the a.m. hours and get up in the p.m. hours. So I'm all kerfuffled with this new project. It also requires me to drive a long distance to a real office and work around real people. I have to wear a bra and shoes all day long. It's exhausting. (Sometimes I slip my shoes off under the desk. I think it's only a matter of time until I start unhooking my bra and eventually furtively pulling it out through my sleeve.)

But the Far Away-Ass Early-Must Wear Bra-Project has some big plus sides. One: It's casual work attire. So apart from shoes and a bra, I can basically wear whatever I want. Two: It's good work. Good meaning: steady, well compensated, and pleasant. But wait, before you feel anxious, hear this: I am still a freelancer, people. This is merely a longer term contracted project. So don't worry your pretty little heads about me going corporate again. (As if working for one YMCA and two universities ever made me corporate.) I mention this last point for two reasons: One: To maintain my street cred as a creative contractor. Two: To point out that I'm still accepting additional freelance work. (Look at me, shilling for compliments and clients. Woot!)

So as you can tell by the tone and content of this blog post, Projects 1 & 2 are making me loopy. If, by some off chance, this post is not hilarious (as I suspect it is) and is actually annoying (for you) and embarrassing (for me), please let me know gently. Otherwise I might have to whip you in the eye with my bra. Or throw a shoe at you. Any excuse to get out of these damn things.

And now I'm going to go watch Le Lost. (That's French for Lost.) I bid you bonsoir!

Don't Fear Your Creative Genius

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 22:30:00 +0000

Dear Creative Ones,
Please watch this video. It might be just what you need.

"Elizabeth Gilbert muses on the impossible things we expect from artists and geniuses -- and shares the radical idea that, instead of the rare person "being" a genius, all of us "have" a genius. It's a funny, personal and surprisingly moving talk." (from TED Talks)

Her Morning Elegance

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 06:31:00 +0000

I don't know what I love more about this, the lyrics or the video. The artist, Oren Lavie, is new to me, but feels comfortably familiar. This video seems to be sprouting up all over blogland. Treat yourself to a cup of daydream and a few minutes to soak this in.

Sun been down for days
A pretty flower in a vase
A slipper by the fireplace
A cello lying in its case

Soon she's down the stairs
Her morning elegance she wears
The sound of water makes her dream
Awoken by a cloud of steam
She pours a daydream in a cup
A spoon of sugar sweetens up

And she fights for her life
As she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
As it pours
And she fights for her life
As she goes in a store
With a thought she has caught
By a thread
She pays for the bread
And she goes...
Nobody knows

Sun been down for days
A winter melody she plays
The thunder makes her contemplate
She hears a noise behind the gate
Perhaps a letter with a dove
Perhaps a stranger she could love

And she fights for her life
As she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
As it pours
And she fights for her life
As she goes in a store
With a thought she has caught
By a thread
She pays for the bread
And she goes...
Nobody knows

And she fights for her life
As she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
As it pours
And she fights for her life
As she goes in a store
Where the people are pleasantly
Strange
And counting the change
And she goes...
Nobody knows

Whiteout

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 03:43:00 +0000

image by Badgurl

Yesterday was bright and wet here. The sun came out, the sky turned blue, and all the snow started to melt. Everything was sloppy and sparkly, a real treat. Usually I hate to see the snow melt because I love the look of a winter wonderland. But it was so pretty outside yesterday that I didn't mind. Today we were back to the grey, grey skies of southwestern Pennsylvania. If you don't live here you may not know this, but we have a lot of overcast days. I think everyone I know has a Vitamin D deficiency.

On Friday, I found myself in the middle of a total whiteout. I've never driven in such strange conditions. The snow was coming down so fast that everything was white: the ground, the air, the sky. The road was covered and there were no visible car tracks. Visibility was so low that I couldn't see a school bus coming toward me in the other lane until it was almost upon me. For part of my trip, I saw no other vehicles. I felt like I was totally alone in the world. It was very strange, like something out of a Sci-Fi movie.

With everything in the same shade of white, I started to lose my bearings. At several points I literally didn't know where the road stopped and the abutting hillside began. It was like being in a shaken-up snowglobe. This sensation triggered my claustrophobia. I felt trapped in the big wide open. Maybe that kind of fear all comes down to a loss of control.

The whiteout was a good physical incarnation of how I've been feeling for the past few weeks. I'm in the middle of a large project that I care about very much. I was working furiously to meet deadlines last week. I was immersed. I was in it, you know? I could barely tell which way was up for a few days.

Things aren't quite so frantic now, but the project isn't done yet. I have my bearings now, so if it gets crazy again, I think I'll just pull over for a few minutes and enjoy the beauty of it all until the storm passes.

Pitfalls of the Blogging Writer

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 07:49:00 +0000

image by the trial

There are many things I love about being a writer. There are many things I love about blogging. But sometimes, being a writer who blogs can be a real drag. Actually, being a writer has a number of pitfalls. I live in constant fear that I'll mispronounce the word "nuclear." I worry about undetected grammatical errors infiltrating my daily speech. Writing a quick email is never quick or easy. Words are my trade. Unfortunately, those very same words are what we English speakers use to communicate. So every written or verbal interaction is like a landmine for writers. One false move or double negative and BOOM! Not good.

I love using this space to tell stories. I also love that it's a place to make you laugh, share truth, and generally form and kindle connections. That's what I love about writing in general. So when I'm quiet for a few days (or nearly two weeks), it's not because I'm not thinking of you, dear reader. It's because I feel constrained by my role as Writer, capital W. I want to stop by and say, Hey friends, how's it goin'? It's cold and snowy here. Oh, and I've been working on a cool project. What's new with you?

But that's not very story-ish, now is it? (Plus, dropping the letter "g" from the ends of words could get me in trouble with the word police.) Even writing this post feels like a cop-out. In the back of my mind, I'm always aware that what I write on this blog can be used to judge me. Of course, that's true for all of us who blog or share our words in a public way: There's always the risk of judgement when we put ourselves out there. But that's a whole different emotional animal that deserves its own series of posts.

I mean that I know that potential clients and editors can come here and judge the quality of my writing or the content of my posts. I have no statistical data on this, but I believe that what I write here may be a factor in whether or not someone hires me. So I feel an unspoken pressure to make sure it's always good.

But that kind of pressure in this kind of format leads to no writing. While I often use this medium to share stories, a blog is something different than a book of essays. Sometimes I wonder if I should make it more like an online publication and less like my little corner of the virtual town square. But I've developed real friendships and made good professional contacts as a result of blogging. Erasing the community quotient from this space doesn't feel right.

I'd like to know how those of you who make your living creatively feel about this topic. Do you feel like everything you write must be a reinforcement of your personal "brand"? (I know, I know: many of you hate that term.) Does this issue of quality control impact other artists as much as it does writers? What about those of you in other fields? How do you balance staying in touch and building community with the need to provide quality content on a regular basis? And while you're at it in the comments, How you doin'?

The Portfolio Project

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 07:23:00 +0000

image by Badgurl

Remember how I asked you to come back for this post if you like it quick and dirty? (Yes, I know: It's a stupid, base joke, but I can't help myself.) Well here you go, folks. You're just in time to play a great new game to help you overcome whatever has been blocking you from fulfilling your creative dreams.

The Jens Extradordinaire (that would be Lee and Lemen) got together and cooked up an idea they're calling the Portfolio Project. Here's how Lee describes it:

We came up with a 12-week action burst that would focus on daily production goals that will dramatically expand our body of work. This is a big game. What would your landscape look like, if 12 weeks from now you had 50 new paintings, or 100? If you had 50 new poems and short stories? What if they weren’t all amazing–don’t you think the odds are that plenty of them would be? That it would feel good to fish for the best from a vast ocean instead of a puddle of projects

The basic idea is to do your creating quick and dirty, not pretty and perfect. There is no room for perfection in this game. Just create, create, create, and see what comes out of it.

Ms. Lee is producing a series of podcasts exploring the ups and downs of the Portfolio Project. They're chockablock with little nuggets of wisdom and encouragement, so I highly suggest that you check them out and consider subscribing to find out when she posts a new one.

I'm starting to play the Portfolio Project today and invite you to join me and the others. The beauty of this game is that you can start when you want and make up your own rules. I've decided to set aside one hour a day to work on whatever kind of writing I want, free from the worries and constraints of getting it "right" or being "good enough."

Call it a game, a self-help project, an experiment. Just don't call it a New Year's resolution; those things are loaded with fear and failure rates. Be kind to yourself and start writing, painting, drawing, playing music, taking photos, making collages, whatever creative pursuit suits your fancy. And let us know how it's going.

2008: The Quick & Dirty Review

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 05:38:00 +0000

image by color line

At the start of last year, I posted my retrospective on 2007 and my hopes and plans for 2008. This year I'm taking a less introspective approach and giving you a quick and dirty look back.

I saw this idea on Jena Strong's blog, Bullseye, Baby! Jena apparently stole it from She She, who got it from Magpie Musing. (This internet sure is a tangled web, eh?) Below are the first lines of my first posts for each month of 2008. I'm not sure how well they capture the year as a whole, but I like this kind of word collage. I think it creates a sort of "found" poetry.

(Oh, and if you like it quick and dirty, come back for the next post, which will contain details on an exciting new project that encourages us to be just that in our creative pursuits.)

And now, I give you the first lines of 2008.

I can feel the hopes and goals for 2008 gently swirling around the outskirts of my thoughts.

Ten years ago, when I still lived at home with my parents, and my husband was just my new boyfriend, I inadvertently caused a car accident.

My Dear Body, Oh the times we've had! Do you remember when...

You know what? You're somebody.

There's a springtime snowglobe swirling outside my window.

I gave myself until 2:07am.

Your present question marks are going to succeed.

Thank you to everyone who left a comment on the last post, emailed me, or sent their support via Twitter.

At the beginning of the year, I wrote a retrospective on 2007 and a Mondo Beyondo Prospective for 2008.

I don't usually promote my other writing here, but the other day it occurred to me that perhaps a little link love might not be such a bad thing.

Awhile back, I wrote about my failed attempt to rename myself and the lingering desire to try it again.

What I learned from spending the day with a friend, a toddler, and a newborn:

Repost: How to Be Ready for Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 07:00:00 +0000

Christmas tree, January 2007

I originally posted this last December, but thought it might bear repeating. I especially needed to re-read it as I find myself getting a little too frazzled this year. If you're plum out of patience or time due to the holiday crunch, just skip to the second to last paragraph. Here's wishing you joy and peace for the remainder of this year and all of the next.

"I must not have enough obligations," I said to my husband. "I don't get why people stress out over Christmas."

Before you hate me, bear with me. I'm trying to bring tidings of comfort and joy here.

Yes, it's true: my holiday obligation list is pretty short. For starters, I don't have kids. From what I can tell, this cuts out about 90% of holiday stress. It means I don't have to fight other parents over a Freak-Me-Out-Elmo, or worry about finding non-lead-laden toys made in the U.S. of A., or queue up for hours on end hoping to score a Wii. (But if I did, I'd make jokes about having to "pii".) I don't have to field questions about the reality of Santa or why he isn't in the nativity scene. I don't have to put together a bike on Christmas Eve or worry that the kids will wake up in the middle of the night and blow the whole deal. I don't have to struggle with the pressure to buy mountains of presents to keep up with expectations or explain to impressionable young minds that Christmas is about Christ and not about who gets the most candy canes and DVDs.

The extent of our child-focused activity for Christmas (or any other time of the year for that matter), revolves around my husband's two Godchildren. Our overall shopping list is short. Beyond each other, it includes four parents [edited: sadly, now three parents], three friends, two kids, and one grown sibling. It's pretty manageable, even if a few of those folks are nearly impossible to buy for.

I don't break a sweat about sending Christmas cards. Most years, I don't even do it. Not because I'm boycotting anything, but because I forget, or can't be bothered, or run out of time, or don't find cards that I like. Every few years I have grand plans of making my own Christmas cards, like several of my crafty friends do, but it hasn't happened yet. (So if you've been wondering why years go by without getting a card from me, don't be offended. You weren't singled out for some slight or grievance; I neglect everyone on my list equally.)

I don't have an annual menu of holiday goodies to make, or dozens of cookies to bake for a swap or exchange or whatever you do with cookies when you work in an office, are a member of the PTA, or know your neighbors by their first AND last names. If I get around to making something special, like my dark and dense gingerbread cake (from scratch, thank you very much!), it's a nice treat.

Family gatherings are also rather limited, with a nice five-person get together on Christmas Eve and two bigger stops on Christmas day. But since the hubs works in retail and is pretty much MIA from Thanksgiving until New Year's, we've occasionally bucked the system and stayed home all day long on Christmas day by ourselves: just the two of us, whatever movies are on TV, and some tasty ham sandwiches. It may sound lonely, but trust me: it's quiet bliss when you haven't seen your spouse for more than a few hours here and there for a month.

We always get a fresh tree (even that year we technically stole one and then didn't put it up), but usually not until about 10 days before Christmas. This year we were early and got one the first week of December. It's been sitting in our living room for over a week without lights or decorations. We'll probably get to it by the beginning of the next week. There are several wreaths hanging around the house. Granted, they're autumnal wreaths of orange and yellow and brown, but wreaths nonetheless. I'll get the winter/Christmas decor out of the basement and up before Christmas Eve. And if I don't? Maybe I'll put it up in January. Or not. Because that's how I roll.

When people ask me if I'm "ready" for Christmas, I sometimes try to explain that I don't consider Christmastime something to get ready for, but rather, something to enjoy. When that would sound too pretentious or just be too exhausting to get into, I simply answer "Yes." And what I mean is: Bring it on! I'm ready for Christmas.

(Here comes the comfort and joy part.)

I'm ready for cold winter nights that sparkle with lights hanging from rooftops, with fake deer standing sentinel in front yards, with garland wrapped around lampposts. I'm ready for carols that remind us to take heart, to take stock, and to take pause. I'm ready for the gift of honoring the people I love with presents that will truly touch their hearts. I'm ready to find myself and my God in a hushed, candlelit sanctuary at midnight, full of mystery and secrets. I'm ready to remember that Christmas goes beyond the hype, the uber-consumerism, and the doorbuster sales. I'm ready to celebrate pagan rituals that have been co-opted into the Christian faith because the truth of God shows up over and over again in the myths and archetypes throughout the ages. I'm ready to celebrate the birth of the true Sungod Saviour during the darkest time of the year, when we need light and hope and a reason to get up on cold, dreary mornings.

I realize that your lists for baking, buying, visiting, and hosting may be much longer and more complex than mine. But I hope that amidst it all, you can be ready for Christmas, too.

Meditation: Winter Solstice

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 21:00:00 +0000

image by hdiwan

After weeks of overcast skies, the sun has finally returned on this, the darkest night of the year. Today is the First Day of Winter, the day of the Winter Solstice. Tonight the darkness will last longer than at any other time of the year. Tomorrow, daylight slowly returns to supremacy, with light outlasting the dark.

Sunset is in just under an hour. Right now, the sky is my favorite color blue and offset with perfectly puffy clouds. The grass is actually dappled -- dappled! -- with sunlight. From inside my cozy (read: cluttered) studio, the wind blowing the leaves across the quiet street seems friendly and playful. Being outside is another matter: the current temperature is 27 degrees Fahrenheit, with that frolicsome wind making it feel like 12.

Midwinter in Southwestern Pennsylvania is a doleful affair. Grey grey grey is the order of most days. Sometimes it's the type of moody sky full of gradations of grey and luscious layers of clouds. I like those days. The dark, bare tree branches stand out in sweet relief against slate grey and blue. The world is my favorite palette on such days.

But those days are rare, it seems. More often, the world is a washout of whitish-grey, an opaque cloud of sadness shrouding everything. I don't even mind those days sometimes. A little bit of melancholy is always good for me. But lately, they seem to consume the landscape and last for months on end. In turn, I get anxious, lethargic, unfocused. I think this is getting worse as I age.

My brother moved to Arizona several years ago, but always comes home for a few weeks around Christmas and sometimes for a bit in the summer. He admits to missing the seasons we have here, the smell of tree and grass, so different from the smell of cactus and sand. But he can't move back. He's been christened in the sunshine of the Southwest. He tells us that things are easier there; people are more cheerful and friendly. And apart from two months out of the year when it's too hot to do anything, he says, it's always perfect weather for going and doing something. The Southwest is a continual grand adventure, all thanks to the sun.

But as much as I rejoice at the sight of bright blue days here, I don't think I could live in the land of eternal sunshine. After awhile the strong rays wear me out, jangle my nerves, make me twitchy and insecure. Besides, I like thick winter coats, striped gloves, colorful scarves. I've heard that the sky is perpetually blue in Colorado, even after snowfall. Perhaps Denver has the best of both worlds.

In the time it's taken me to type this, the sun has waned and everything has taken on that soft, lovely hue just before sunset. Twilight is my favorite time of day, when everything is blue, comforting, and mysterious. Try as I might to reset my internal clock, I am an undeniable night owl. The sun sets and I come alive. This is my time to think, create, connect, to be most myself.

Tonight, on the darkest night of the year, I embrace the gifts of the dark and wait for the coming light.

33 Things for Me

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 01:19:00 +0000

image by Michael_Lehet

My birthday was a few days ago (the 13th). I'm 33 this year. I'm very pleased with that number: it has good symmetry. It holds promise. My husband says he thinks this is the year we finally become adults. I prefer to think of it as continuing to come into our own.

James also asked me what I want for Christmas this year. I'd given him a wish list (at his request) but he said that nothing on it was "jumping out" at him and asked me to give it some more thought. There are plenty of things that I like and want and would appreciate receiving. But I realized that so much of what I desire isn't sold in stores and doesn't come in boxes.

So to celebrate growing up, coming into our own, and appreciating that we have more than we need, here's my wish list of 33 things I'd like to do, have, or be.

1. Learn all the words to "Carol of the Bells."
2. Have a surprise birthday party.
3. Get an MFA in writing.
4. Write a book. Get it published. Repeat.
5. Make perfect Yorkshire puddings.
6. Build (or buy) the cottage of my dreams.
7. Spend some time on the West Coast, specifically in Big Sur, Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia.
8. Act in another play.
9. Go snow skiing.
10. Sip espresso in an Italian cafe.
11. See elves in Iceland.
12. Go back to England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales to visit my old haunts and see the places I missed the first time around, like Cornwall, Devon, and the Isles of Iona, Skye, and Mull.
13. Develop the patience to learn how to take better photographs.
14. Keep my house clean, tidy, and beautiful more often than it's not.
15. Attend TUBACHRISTMAS.
16. Remember to plant spring bulbs in the fall.
17. Drive a car with a manual transmission without fearing hills.
18. Be bilingual.
19. Achieve and maintain a healthy weight and strong body.
20. Visit New York City during the holiday magic of December.
21. Spend a week with my tribe gathered together in one beautiful place.
22. Live near the sea.
23. Go on a zero gravity flight.
24. Stay out of debt.
25. Write poetry again.
26. Skinny dip under a full moon in a warm pool of water.
27. See the Northern Lights.
28. Compost.
29. Make art on a regular basis.
30. Write everyday. (And not feel guilty if I don't.)
31. Get a pair of cat-eye glasses.
32. Live in a lovely small town with big city amenities.
33. Add 67 more things to this list.

Featured in BlogHer "Soulcare" Post

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer/The Word Cellar) — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 18:01:00 +0000

image by Badgurl

I'm so pleased that one of my blog posts is featured in "Soulcare: What Gift Will You Give Yourself?", which is Rachelle Mee-Chapman's most recent BlogHer column. Rachelle is known online as Magpie Girl and is always full of intriguing, uplifting, and challenging thoughts on living the spiritual life. She has a knack for creating community wherever she goes, be it in person or online. In this week's BlogHer post, she brings together several women's perspectives on taking care of ourselves during the holidays. Please hop on over there for some great ideas and musings on how to be good to your soul this month. Then leave your own suggestion in the comments if you'd like.