Prepare yourself for a week full of quotes

because my thinking box is on the fritz, and I'm at 30,000 (+!) words in my novel, and I'm not giving up on it no matter what.  even though my brain is giving up on me. 

So I've got a bunch of stuff I've been collecting from random places lately, that I keep wanting to post, and now's the perfect time for that.

To start us off, probably the best thing I've read all year, from the genius that is  Neil de Grasse Tyson:

“The problem, often not discovered until late in life, is that when you look for things in life like love, meaning, motivation, it implies they are sitting behind a tree or under a rock. The most successful people in life recognize, that in life they create their own love, they manufacture their own meaning, they generate their own motivation.For me, I am driven by two main philosophies, know more today about the world than I knew yesterday. And lessen the suffering of others. You'd be surprised how far that gets you.”

A little surprise archeology

Doing a little room re-organization around here  - which is to say, in my quest to keep from being buried underneath piles of stuff, I asked for help & people moved my room around.  It actually looks much larger and more open (the wheelchair and going around large pieces of furniture are not good combinations.  Ask any piece of furniture I've ever gone around), and, while it's not perfect, it's a lot closer than it was before.  Of course, move one thing, find another 19 projects that have to be completed, and since we (they) moved every stick of furniture in the room around, you can multiply that by about 300 to get the picture of how much work was unearthed.

In the course of clearing out today's boxes, I found the microrecorder I used way back when I was in college.  Originally, I bought it to take notes, but I quickly realized that I wound up transcribing all my notes anyways, because I needed to read them to understand them better, and so I stopped using the recorder in class.  Instead, it became a way of recording the fights the PUS and Nana were getting into, the aftermath discussions we were holding downstairs in my room, and basically a lot of Nana saying that she wasn't going to put up with this shit anymore, and they were going to be out on their asses.  And by 'a lot', I mean at least 7 years worth of it - just snippets of conversations about the latest brouhaha and her insistence that my former uncle and his family would soon be out of her will, her house and her life. 

Listening to all of that again was like flicking a stress switch in my brain - I remember, so exactly remember, the feeling of impotence, sitting there, listening to her, knowing that nothing was ever going to change.  Until it did.  Until she wasn't there anymore to listen to, and I was left with all these tapes where I could hear her voice, but not her spirit - listen to little pieces of her soul get carved away all over again.  I fast forwarded my way through a few of them, just so I could label them and not come across them accidentally again. ( I know I should toss them.  I even started to.  I think one day I will, but it wasn't today.  Because it's still her voice.) 

I wouldn't have even bothered with the fast forwarding, except I knew that I taped other things during the course of those years - a brainstorming session for a story I was writing here, a research paper's theories there - and I found those too. (And Oh God: does anybody like the sound of their voice, because I absolutely HATE mine: I sound like a snotty little kid all the time, and I don't know how anyone ever talks to me!)

 But  then I came across something I had forgotten - the thing that made my day, and made all the trips down twisted paths of memory lane worth it: A recording of No Longer Youngest Nephew, when he was just a little baby, probably 15 months old - practicing singing "Happy Birthday" for his mama.   His baby voice is both foreign and familiar - It's not him anymore, but wow do I remember when he sounded like that.  I can picture his little chunky self sitting in his high chair, talking about "cake" and "mama" and trying to sing along with us while we prompted him.  It's startling, really, how clear memories can be - especially ones that were tucked away somewhere, waiting for someone, or something, to sift through and unearth them.

(This would be a great time for me to have a wav. file or whatever of the recording, but the only way I could think of getting it on here was running my webcam, and then setting it up that way.  But a) then you would hear my annoying voice and b) I didn't get a chance to even think about doing that, so  you're going to have to take my word that he's adorable.  Then and now.)  

A few links for your Friday Night

Here's one that nearly had me in tears: An Open Letter to the Fat Girl I saw at Hot Yoga in NYC. The part that got me? 

Oh Fat Girl at Hot Yoga in New York, are you at war with yours, too? Has it let you down? Are you angry with it? I am. Righteously furious, actually.

This stupid body that has failed me in so many ways these last two years. It has been endlessly sick. It has required surgery and bed rest and vicious medication that got me well, but made me feel sicker.

I AM VERY ANGRY WITH IT for being sick, for getting fat, for not doing what I SAY.

But I am nice to it anyway, three times a week, at Hot Yoga.

Because I am A-OK, ALL FULL UP, TOTALLY ON BOARD with the being angry at my body. I would excel in that class, were it offered. But I'm sorely lacking in the being nice to it anyway department. She says 3 times a week for 75 minutes, she cuts herself a break, takes this class. I can't remember the last time I had a nice thought about my body and what it was able to do. When even breathing hurts, it's hard to be happy that you're taking a breath. It's hard, but it shouldn't be impossible. So I'm going to work on that.

Then there's the beautiful Kate, over at sweet|salty, who writes (with such grace and clarity) about something a feeling that is neither graceful nor clear:

The word 'anxiety', especially preceded with the word 'my', needs to be benignly neglected in the way that you ought to benignly neglect that kid who keeps saying the f-word at supper. The word 'anxiety', in its reference to a constant and entirely unspecial human state, needs a yoga retreat with a workshop about how inspiration is a myth that will only stunt its creative process and land it in the 75% of writers who will never type The End.

She talks about fitting in, and excluding yourself anyways; about jumping into the ocean and braving sharks, but hiding away while your friends roast marshmallows. She talks about living, really. And fear.

Sometimes, it's nice to know that other people are on the same page as you.  That's how I felt when I read this post from Black Hockey Jesus:

Do you remember, little girl, where we were when we read that book? There was no you or me or the circus of problems where the mind loves to play. We weren’t in a bed in an apartment nor could we be confused with the characters in The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. We were simply gone. We gave way. We became the empty place where stories arrive, where they show, come to be told, appear, where they happen. Because it happened, didn’t it?

The magic of reading is overwhelming sometimes, and in his letter to his daughter, BHJ manages to capture that so, so well.


Lastly, there's this, a quote I had in my files for a while, but I saw it somewhere this week, and it was like a life preserver.  Delivering some hope, when I need it most:

It doesn't matter how long we may have been stuck in a sense of our limitations. If we go into a darkened room and turn on the light, it doesn't matter if the room has been dark for a day, a week, or ten thousand years -- we turn on the light and it is illuminated. Once we control our capacity for love and happiness, the light has been turned on.
—Sharon Salzberg

See you guys tomorrow! 

Another Best Shot, with - surprise! - books

And Lil Girl!

And I can tell that you are all shocked.
 

No, really: I've been trying to broaden my horizon, and look for more things in my everyday life to take pictures of, and so far have gotten quite a few shots of the clocks in doctor's offices and waiting rooms, but they aren't very good (bad light + still trying to figure out manual mode = not the best pictures), so they're not post-worthy yet.

As opposed to this shot of Lil Girl, which I love.

I took this last week while she read me her version of Cinderella: We were baking cookies (of the slice and bake variety) and waiting for another auntie to visit, and Lil Girl wanted me to read to her. I kept having to get up every 3 minutes to check on the cookies (because we still have a suck-tastic oven: New house; new stove!), and she was getting perturbed. So I asked her to read one to me, instead. I also got a little bit of video, where she explains that "Cinderella was a be-a-u-tiful baby! and there were witches, but they's her sisters." Since Lil Girl is sister-less, I think I'm going to have to help her realize that sister does not necessarily = witch, but that's for another day.

On this day, we baked cookies, and read each other stories, and snuggled on the couch.

And if that's not beautiful, I don't know what is.

Oh, wait: I do... Check out some examples over at Tracey's, and enjoy your Best Shot Monday, all!