Break and Breathe

Deep breath. Spring break has arrived.

For those of you who don't get a spring break as part of your working year, my apologies. Spring break offers a much longed-for reprieve from what has been a chaotic semester. As an added bonus, this week brings weather predicted to be sunny and in the 50s. For those of you in warmer climes, 50 degrees coming off of a Minnesota winter is sub-tropical. Some spring breaks bring snow emergencies.

So what are my plans for spring break? Sleep. Read. Write. Repeat as needed.

Shavasana (With Pug)

I run and practice yoga. The latter activity is meant to lengthen my muscles and spine (which it does, I was a half inch taller at my last physical, I kid you not), but also to quiet my oft-frenzied mind.

Usually this goal is attainable, but recently I've been having trouble achieving inner peace. Because of Rocco.

Rocco is a pug (pictured here with Gwyn, a border collie who tries to herd Rocco around the house). And he has decided that yoga is an activity he should be involved in.

Rocco is a beloved pet, but much like a stegosaurus I would surmise that his brain is walnut-sized. Pugs originated in China, and unlike most dog breeds they had no utilitarian purpose (rat catching, hunting, etc.). Pugs were bred only to sit on the laps of emperors. Hence, Rocco's only goal in life is to snuggle as often as possible. Rocco is an aggressive snuggler. He launches into laps from across the room and becomes deeply offended if you are trying to work on your computer and won't allow him to sit between you and your keyboard.

Lately his purposeful snuggling has invaded my yoga practice. Forward bends, twists, inversions, all have to be modified because as I strive for stillness Rocco inevitably sidles up to me and attempts to mold his body into a nap position that corresponds with whatever pose I'm in. He always snorts and give me an incredulous look when I shift poses and he is forced to begin the process over again.

Finally, during shavasana, which is supposed to be deep relaxation and meditation I end up with a pug paper weight in the middle of my chest. Some days I find this irritating, but most I resign myself to Rocco's determined cuddles and content myself in the belief that Nirvana without dogs wouldn't be worth much anyway.

Mystery Spirit Lifter

To the man in the Grandview Cafe's kitchen who belted the Jackson Five (ABC, 123) with such enthusiasm that it filled the dining area with a joyful noise:

Thank you. Keep it up.

Learning Cull

Louise Erdich opens her novel Tracks with these words: "We started dying before the snow, and like the snow we continued to fall."

I've been thinking about death and the act of learning. The gathering of knowledge doesn't strike me as an accumulative practice, where wisdom piles up into overflowing abundance we get to roll in at the end of our lives. Learning has a cost. Loss tied to its gifts.

I don't know that I would describe the loss as that of innocence, but each branch climbed on the tree of life puts the ground further below. The possible fall more dangerous.

When learning happens pieces of the old are sheared away. Knowledge gained leaves a mark, beautiful but painful. A tattoo on your essence, exquisitely drawn yet it still cuts, burns, and bleeds - part and parcel of creation. And learning is nothing if not creation, birth and death hand in hand.

Hugh Jackman is a god, but Dustin Lance Black had the best speech

So I'm not generally an Oscar follower (I think I mentioned this in my post about Milk). But I had the pleasure of attending a lovely Academy Award gathering (in St. Paul, not L.A.) and thought I'd rehash my experience.

1) Having Hugh Jackman host was a phenomenal idea. I actually clapped after his introduction. Best musical numbers ever.

2) I cried when Dustin Lance Black accepted the award for Best Original Screenplay. If you have a chance, read his speech. Truly moving and something we all need to hear.

http://glaadblog.org/2009/02/22/dustin-lance-blacks-moving-acceptance-speech/

Still sad Milk didn't win Best Picture

The Short, Hard Month

Only eight days of February left and I couldn't be happier about it. The sentiment barreled me into musings about why the hardest month of the year (at least in the northern climes) has the least number of days.

An investigation revealed that in fact the brevity of this month has nothing to do with weather sorrows (because, of course, it's not this frickin cold everywhere!) but instead with Roman emperors' egos.

Whatever the reason I welcome the close of this frigid 28 days with much rejoicing and await Oestara with not enough patience. Long twilight, warm earth, budding trees all become the stuff of dreams at this point in the year - seeming impossible beneath the shield of ice and snow. March arrives to ease the burden of belief.

Word Murder

Colder and far away.....

During my visit to the Golden State, I was subjected to weather reports warning me of the terrible cold (50 degrees) that had descended on San Francisco.

"Hah!" says the girl from the land of sub-zero, and wraps another scarf around her neck.

Now that I'm back in Minnesota it's time to apply all that wonderful advice from my conference. Namely, I will soon be engaged in adverbicide. The greatest sin of emerging writers, like myself, is that of overwriting. While we may think that big words and flowery prose are gifts to the world, they are in fact obstructions to a great story. Having sinned against my own novel, acts of contrition are in order.