+ Her Barefoot Heart

Category: Blog (Page 90 of 101)

News of The 70273 Project with a side of Jeanne’s Barefoot Heart

my slug

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except for when i’m really tired, it seems like just yesterday when i first met him.

today is my son’s birthday. kipp is his name; slug is my pet name for him. slug, from the book atlas shrugged by ayn rand – the hottest coal that keeps the fire roaring to keep the train’s engine moving. yep, he is my slug.

he is a true renaissance man – one who loves hiking and skydiving and reading and snowboarding and playing guitar. he’s a wicked good actor and writer, and if you mapped his various areas of intelligence, his brain would light up like our neighbor’s house at christmas.

he makes halloween costumes you just wouldn’t believe and just recently, his idea for a startup company took first place at startup weekend. he’s kind and articulate, and he usually smiles (which is great cause those braces weren’t cheap).

unlike his mama, he’s hardly a picky eater, and unlike his dad, he enjoys post-movie conversations of deconstruction and philosophy. like his dad, he likes fine art and georgia tech, and like his mama, he likes handmade journals and stories. like both of us, laughter is his religion.

he is handy with a camera, and hopefully he’ll pick it up again one day soon and start taking more pictures because he has a way of seeing that stops me dead in my tracks. like the time we rode under telephone wires . . . he looked up at the kudzu creeping and skipping its way across, and said simply “nature’s reclamation.”

wallace stevens was once his favorite poet, now he’s going through a billy collins phase. he’s a good companion to his dog, even letting otto have a pet roomba (the robotic vaccuum cleaner) because he knows border collies just need to herd things.

he is my son, and i frequently wonder what i did in a former life that landed me fortunate enough to be his mother.

happy birthday, kipp.

i love you.

things i have survived:

eating grapes

eating mudpies

cords on blinds

eating hot dogs

a wooden playpen

swimming in a pond with cows

cabinet doors without latches

summers without air conditioning

hanging wallpaper with my husband

eating peaches right off the tree

my high school guidance counselor

a mugging on the sidewalks of new york

roller skating without protective armor

riding in cars without carseats or seatbelts

telephones with no voicemail or answering machine or call waiting

bike riding before helmets, gloves, kneepads, and gears

an F on an undergraduate biology test (i was in love – i’ll tell you about it one day.)

and now: my brother going to afghanistan.

 

he leaves tomorrow night, and i’ve tried hard not to waste our time by missing him while we are together. but every now and then i kinda’ practiced, kinda’ opened that door to my heart just a teensy little bit to see if i could survive him being a world away.

 

why will i miss him?

oh, just let me tell you (some of) the ways:

 

he can keep secrets.

he always – and i mean always – has my back.

his soft spot for animals is about the size of the milky way. maybe bigger.

he’s so damn good on the golf course, i had to learn how to strut.

he has a deep insightfulness that sometimes takes my breath away and always keeps me thinking.

 

he tells the truth.

 

he is funny – i’m talking knee-slapping, side-hugging funny.

he wouldn’t know pretentious if it up and bit him on the nose.

he loves me just the way i am, bossiness and all.

 

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my brother, of course

a.k.a. j3

made some new friends on the twitter playground today & you can, too

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some days the galaxy conspires with me.

either that, or i’m so self-absorbed i see whatever i’m looking for.

whichever way it is, i’ll enjoy it, appreciate it, and tell you about it . . .

to sneak up on the day, i opened the book An Altar in the World by Barbara Brown Taylor who captured my attention and affection with just the title of her first book, Leaving Church. anyway, the book fell open to page xvii where barbara writes about being asked to go speak to a church in alabama. when she asked the priest what he wanted her to preach about, he said “come tell us what is saving your life now.” well, that must’ve ignited something cause when i sat down to write in my journal about 30 minutes later, i pitched a written hissy fit. a good, old-fashioned out-and-out hissy fit. then i tweeted about it, and wound up twalking to some gals i’ve either never twalked to before or don’t get to talk to that much. @happinessinside twasked what my plans were for the day, and when i told her i did have plans for the day, but i just didn’t know what they were, she asked if i was perhaps on the cusp of writing my story today. which tells me she was lurking closeby.

~|~

@efloraross, asked if i felt better to which i said that starting the day off with a hissy fit gives a whole new meaning to the term morning constitutional. then later i gave her advce on dressing for preschool interviews:

@efloraross: Taking DD to tour another preschool today. Guess I’d better brush my teeth and put on some makeup, huh?

@whollyjeanne: for preschool: yes. for high school: no.

@efloraross: A bra would probably be in order, too.

@whollyjeanne: ditto for what i said about makeup.

she’ll no doubt be consulting me daily about what to wear.

~|~

@mrsmediocrity said she has volumes filled with her hissy fits. (she’s usually much pithier, but she had trouble waking up this morning.)

~|~

@nicholebernier said: “Venting 301. The FDA recommends it.” now i want you to click on and visit her web site. go ahead. i’ll wait. did you see that she’s working on a book about a woman who leaves behind a diary? well, naturally, i couldn’t let that slip by, so i asked her if elizabeth d ever had hissy fits in her journals to which she replied: “There’s nothing good about a journal unless you can pitch a few fits & tell where the bodies are buried. Probably early 2012.” (you’ll note that she didn’t answer my question about elizabeth d recording her hissy fits, but in answer to my question about when her book would be out, she did tell me that i’m gonna’ have to wait over a year on her book. which is okay cause i’m sure it’ll be worth the wait. i mean go back and read about it. and look at those pictures while you’re there.

~|~

@abccreativity told me: “i love starting my days like that! those hissy fits sparked big life changes for me.” and that got me remembering a tweet from my friend @angelakelsey the other day when i showed a picture of my still-new zafu made of brocade with dragons spitting fire and said i got it on account of wanting to sit on my dragons. “@wholllyjeanne,” she said, “the best part about dragons is the fire.” then she said, “write, speak, paint, photograph, quilt, sing the fire.”

now that made good sense then, and it made good sense to remember it today cause we all know that throwing a hissy fit is a lot like exhaling fire.

~|~

before long, i spied a tweet from @Wendy_Tokunaga mentioning a new lit review called The Sharp-Tongued Woman’s Review, and since i seem well on my way to becoming a class-a sharp-tongued woman, i visited the site and helped spread the word a bit cause i sure liked what i found there. (you oughta’ take about 5 minutes and read meg’s schneewittchen.)

~|~

the morning was capped off with a tweet from @elizabeth_stark with a link here. i once again copied my friend @angelakelsey and took down the sticky note on my computer saying “comma” and replaced it with one saying “write like a mf.” which is what i really want to do anyway, you know.

 

 

 

 

word jewelry

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today, instead of straining myself to make complete sentences, i’m going to just share a (blessedly) little word jewelry. little sparklies i’ve picked up here and there along the way. feel free to bauble amongst yourselves . . .

itinerant: nomadic, wayfaring, roaming. (un huh. yep.)

vug: small cavity in a rock. often lined with crystals of a different material. (the meaning sounds better than the word sounds, don’t you think?)

upsilamba: from Nabokov’s Invitation to a Beheading (which is something i’ve been thinking about doing a lot lately.) (beheading, i mean.) (with or without an invitation.) a fanciful word meaning “a bird or catapult with wondrous consequences.” (which is what we would be enjoying right about now were i not so self-disciplined.)

gnostical turpitude: also from Invitation to a Beheading. a vague crime that apparently has something to do with a disregard for matter. the only reason for invoking this decree is to force conformity. it is a crime committed by those who insist on being different, who refuse to assimilate. (yes, i have already paid my fine.) (okay: fines.)

antevasin: sanskrit word meaning one who lives at the border. (if you happen to go there and if you happen to spot my brain, tell it i said hey and maybe point in my direction, will ya?)

opsimath: one who begins learning later in life. (i’m still waiting to be an opsimath.) (or should i say, i’m still waiting to opsimath?)

tiferet: hebrew meaning beauty, a reconciliation of opposing forces. (check back tomorrow to see it used in a sentence or fourteen.) can represent the place where spiritual and physical realms meet. (it’ll be used in a different context tomorrow, i assure you.)

eu: good. (i tell you what: when we say ewwww around here, we do NOT mean good.)

koru: the unfurling as of a fern; new beginnings; good things. (here’s hoping we’ll see a post filled with a little more koru here tomorrow.)

the road to self-actualization is paved with potholes

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show me a “hello my name is” sticker, and i’ll show you a full-blown panic attack.

call it fear of commitment.

call it fear of pigeon-holing.

call it fear of too much revelation.

whatever you call it, i loathe creating my own nametags. loathe it, i tell you.

i recently (during blogher 2010, to be more specific) decided to go to blogher 2011. so there i was minding my own business, filling in the blanks when up came the dreaded what-do-you-want-on-your-nametag question. stopped me dead in the water. for 45 angst-filled minutes, i labored over whether to use my first name (jeanne), my twitter name (@whollyjeanne) or my full name (jeanne hewell-chambers or just jeanne hewell, depending). (no, not impending or even considered divorce, just a stage in the evolution of moi.)

well, i eventually hammered out something – and i’d tell you what i decided, but i can’t remember and it wasn’t included on the receipt, so i’ll be just as surprised as you are when i see you in san diego next august.

now let’s zoom forward to last night when i was roaming around in the blogfield and stumbled onto this recap of blogher 2010. notice anything? there, just under the chocolate and above the whipped cream. i’ll give you a hint: her nametag has HER PICTURE on it.

true: she’s the bloggess, and everybody knows that she’s a rock star while i’m a forming-pebble, but geez. i’d have those 45 minutes of my life back to spend angsting about something else if i’d’ve known i could include a picture of my blogging self.

i’m over it now. have already made my diy nametag packing list and am resigned to schlepping an extra suitcase for my portable printer, ink cartridges, markers, glitter, rhinestones, synonym finder, baby name book, and various other creative supplies. so hey, if you get there and want a nametag makeover, look me up. i’ll be the one wearing a red carnation . . . which, with my luck, will wilt just enough to cover up my specially-created handmade nametag.

today’s aspiration

 

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when i grow into full bloom, it will be as a blue morning glory.

most definitely.

 

Blue Morning Glory

 

Voracious, yes. But when you see it,

shy blue flowers blaring like trumpets in spite of themselves,

center star shaped and yellow; when it startles you,

early in the morning, all over a white picket fence, say,

in Massachusetts, you might think “triumphal,” “prodigal,” “awake.”

 

Of course you don’t want it in your rose garden

among all the pruned, the decorous bushes. You don’t want it

in the vegetables, for it will romp through the tomatoes,

beans and peas, will leave no room on the ground, or even

in the air, for the leafy lettuces and cabbages soberly

queueing up in their furrows. It will hog all the sky it can get

knowing as it does what enormous thirst is satisfied by blue.

 

Father Michael says Follow the God of abundance

Says we hurry from the moment’s wealth

for fear it will be taken. Think of this:

 

the morning glory has been blossoming for so long

without permission that in some gardens it is no longer censored.

What does that tell you? See how it opens its tender throats

to a world that can sting it, how, without apology for its excess,

it blooms and blooms, though even yet

it seems surprised.

 

Anne Pitkin

 

my day, in 1 (well, 5 actually) sense(s) of the word

what i saw:

this picture of my mother taken last summer. i was driving the boat. i think it’s easy to see why i ran into that dock.

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what i tasted:

crispy, crispy, crispy bacon done just right. wasn’t burnt, didn’t move when i picked it up.

 

what i heard:

laughter.

lots and lots and lots of laughter – my sides required ben gay –  as my brother and i visited our own special planet and conjured up images and tales of a gang of 3 geese who are bad to the bone . . . i mean, feather.

i guess you had to be there.

 

what i felt:

the cool, smooth silk hand-dyed by my talented friend glennis.

 

what i smelled:

my leftover christmas candle burning. who says sugar cookie scent is seasonal?

self-portrait, 3 (because yes, it’s all about me)

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i’ve never been more sure of anything: i needed a breather. needed to take out my pencil; pen; permanent indelible marker and draw boundaries around my life, around my time, around my desires. now maybe i couldn’t take a full-fledged sabbatical just now, but i could put some space between me and the constant demands on my time and energy. maybe i couldn’t check myself into a monastery, but i could choose how to spend my hours, my words, my attention. in just two short days of saying things like “not now, i’m writing” and “no thank you” and “yes, i would like that” – interspersed with saying absolutely nothing at all – i felt different.

i saw things – ordinary things, things that are undoubtedly there on any given day, just covered up with a flurry of commitments and responsibilities and who knows what all. thoughts came together with delicious ease and clarity. in their relaxing, my shoulders peeled away from my ears. i smiled more.

i’m already looking forward to another, extended quietcation. perhaps next time i’ll take the plastic off my new zafu.

to sleep or not to sleep

i occasionally have trouble sleeping. as in getting to sleep and staying asleep, so the morning after finds me conducting bleary-eyed woman-in-the-street interviews asking a single question: how on earth do you capture the attention and affection of the sandman? here, my friends, is my collection of answers:

~ don’t drink alcohol.
~ have a glass of wine every night.
~ take a shower.
~ take a bath.
~ down a sleeping pill.
~ exercise before bedtime.
~ don’t exercise before bedtime.
~ splurge on silk sheets.
~ get soft sheets.
~ get a soft pillow.
~ get a firm pillow.
~ buy a soft mattress or a firm mattress or a memory foam mattress.
~ make the room completely dark.
~ develop a bedtime ritual and stick to it.
~ go to bed at the same time every night.
~ keep the room cooler than the inside of your refrigerator.
~ make the pets sleep somewhere else.
~ slather lotion on your feet and chapstick on your lips.
~ lay your clothes out the night before.
~ eat light suppers.
~ eat heavy suppers.
~ play music.
~ play nature sounds.
~ watch tv.
~ don’t watch tv.
~ prop your legs up with pillows.
~ read.
~ light a lavender scented candle.
~ don’t take an afternoon nap, I don’t care how tired you are.

my grandmother slept on a feather mattress with a glass of water and a flashlight on the floor beside her. my brother keeps his room so cold that on any given day you can see your breath. my cousin sleeps with one and paper within arm’s reach.

my children declare they sleep best when under the quilt my grandmother made for me.

i find that some of these things work, some don’t. mostly I find that when I travel, I sleep the first 3 days. maybe i should just become a full-time vagabond.

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