tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83258028748818660082024-03-04T21:46:20.192-08:00Little Pockets of JoyAn experiment in gratitude.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-12617450272453962952011-01-01T23:33:00.001-08:002011-01-01T23:56:11.913-08:00The Year I Work My Ass OffAs I so boldly <a href="http://littlepocketsofjoy.blogspot.com/2010/02/day-blah-blah-blah-whatevers-came-for.html">announced</a> in this blog early last year, 2010 was supposed to be The Year Things Happen. Around October I was beginning to fear that I was horribly, <i>horribly</i> mistaken. I am learning, however, that things tend to feel unsuccessful in progress, and as I write this now, watching the hours of January 1, 2011 slip away to make room for January 2, I can see that things did, in fact, happen last year. Last year I:<div><br /></div><div>-picked up 400% more clients than I had in 2009,</div><div>-sharpened my business skills, including rate negotiation (always a toughie),</div><div>-had my work published alongside several skilled writers in Prayable.com's first <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1608447995?ie=UTF8&tag=prayables-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1608447995">book</a>,</div><div>-built relationships with several other writers and professionals in both the publishing and film/television industries,</div><div>-made it to the top 4% in the Disney/ABC Writing Fellowship, alongside my brother and writing partner, Phil.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, there were plenty of setbacks, failures, and goals that went neglected (the upkeep of this blog, for example.) But that's okay. I've got another year of learning, failing, and succeeding to keep me moving forward. In fact, while sifting through the chaos in the New Year's Resolution quadrant of my brain (yes, it takes up an entire quadrant), it quickly became clear what this year's theme is.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is The Year I Work My Ass Off.</div><div><br /></div><div>It has to be. I didn't meet all my goals in 2010. But I did open a lot of doors and started flirting with a lot of opportunities. Keeping up this momentum is going to mean some late nights. Even more so, it's going to mean sharper focus. If this were a high school football movie, I'd bust out some inspirational "go-get-em" type words here, but I don't write in that genre. But whatever. You get my drift.</div><div><br /></div><div>So here I go . . . and here's to all the possibilities of this New Year, for me and for you.</div>Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-74031601441157537852010-05-02T12:35:00.000-07:002010-05-02T13:11:02.204-07:00Sunday Pep Talk: Right Round<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4TzRx83Ii35cYncdNkeJNXoTeuYkYlsJEBZhVrJa-mUi_4xNE-2phZwOOiGST_Ulfoysy_Qr00h-ABP_4q7-iXne1N2JDX7sWsDD4NyLoqahge4QSJoqyvH390ThsdlViN6xxhjY4JU/s1600/998728_68278224.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4TzRx83Ii35cYncdNkeJNXoTeuYkYlsJEBZhVrJa-mUi_4xNE-2phZwOOiGST_Ulfoysy_Qr00h-ABP_4q7-iXne1N2JDX7sWsDD4NyLoqahge4QSJoqyvH390ThsdlViN6xxhjY4JU/s320/998728_68278224.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466766569856413250" /></a><br />Last week was not so great. You failed big time. Your loved ones let you down. The world turned dark gray sometime around Wednesday, and by Friday even sweet, little, old ladies were spitting at you.<div><br /></div><div>Time to thank goodness it's over. Because it is. It's over.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe it wasn't last week. Maybe it was only yesterday. Or maybe it was last month. Or possibly last year. Whenever it was, however bad it was, it's over. Today is still new. And tomorrow? Even newer.</div><div><br /></div><div>This week--much like your own dear self--is loaded with potential. Absolutely packed and darn-near exploding with so much glorious possibility. This week you may unexpectedly find the solution to the problem that's been nagging you for years. Maybe you'll get a promotion. Maybe you'll fall in love. Maybe you'll win an award. Maybe.</div><div><br /></div><div>Likelier, though, you'll succeed at some spur-of-the-moment problem solving. You'll attempt something new and the attempt will be more successful than you anticipated . . . or you'll fail and be amused and wiser for the failure. At some point you'll laugh, and at another point you'll make someone else laugh. You might cry this week, and if you do, it will probably be the release you need. For a minute or two, you'll be angry with someone, and for a minute or two you'll reflect on how deeply you love someone . . . possibly the same person. You'll embarrass yourself a little, you'll blush at an unexpected compliment. you'll make someone else blush. When the week is over, you'll be exhausted. You'll have complaints. You'll sleep late, knowing you needed to but wishing you hadn't. You'll feel a bit weary with the cycle of life, with the repetition of your schedule and the feeling that you're only moving in a circle, never changing, never moving up or forward or any direction you're trying to go.</div><div><br /></div><div>But then you'll look at how far you've come in a week . . . at the new things you've learned, the tiny moments of growth in your relationships, the difference between who you are on Friday and who you were on Monday. Who you are in May and who you were in February. Who you are at thirty and who you were at twenty-five.</div><div><br /></div><div>Life is cyclical, yes. But with each passing day, your circle gets wider, so that even as you loop back around, the expanding circumference carries you into new territories, upward and outward, wiser and better, so that no matter how much today looks like yesterday, it's not. It's new. It's different.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a very good day.</div>Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-76622458786734773262010-04-25T12:03:00.000-07:002010-04-25T16:23:09.831-07:00Sunday Pep Talk: Let's Fly Away<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kIv5wckO5twifAVmBMKvKU_nZ5Qd_F7MRIkW2kRYGPef1lDZzjGs1qq6_BYLdlvlXJU_cxPYqAprnLimKtkBoRc0ju0HMeuzsbiAMdNeOrLJsXxGOONts8KuK-XcgTD1-1EWmYIFFNk/s1600/961429_20034453.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kIv5wckO5twifAVmBMKvKU_nZ5Qd_F7MRIkW2kRYGPef1lDZzjGs1qq6_BYLdlvlXJU_cxPYqAprnLimKtkBoRc0ju0HMeuzsbiAMdNeOrLJsXxGOONts8KuK-XcgTD1-1EWmYIFFNk/s320/961429_20034453.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464219639737746274" /></a><br />I like to break the process of goal achievement into three handy sections: The Beginning, The End, and The Really, Really Slow Part.<div><br /></div><div>The Really, Really Slow Part happens, as you may have guessed, in the middle. It's the part where you're actually doing things. The part after the Beginning, which is when you're so hyped up on the possibilities that you're convinced you're moving forward at warp speed. The part before the End, which is when you're just waiting to put that final button on your project so you can bust out champaign and--depending on the size of that particular milestone--weep. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Really, Really Slow Part is, in my experience, a lot like the middle part of a commercial flight, after the thrill of take-off has ended and the pilot has given you the okay to bust out your laptop. Rumor has it, planes are really fast. I suppose this must be true, because it only takes me about four hours to fly halfway across the country. But flying doesn't feel fast the way driving does, when you get to see the scenery zip by, the dashes on the road getting sucked up under the wheels of your car, one right after another.</div><div><br /></div><div>No, the view from the window suggests that flying is a slow and laborious process, given that you can see the same stupid corn field for fifteen minutes. Yes, yes, I get the science of it, and the fact that the plane is really far away from the earth and blah, blah, blah. But that doesn't change the way it feels to someone who is more accustomed to land travel.</div><div><br /></div><div>And that's what it is to pursue a previously unsought dream. You may feel stuck, but if you're still working and you're still focused, there's a good chance that you're actually moving forward at warp speed. You may not be able to see it, because you've finagled yourself into a brand new position where everything looks different. But you're moving. And if you keep your focus on what you're doing for a little while . . . on the work and milestones and all that . . . when you peek back out that window later, you'll probably find yourself looking at an entirely different terrain. Mountain ranges?! Where did the corn field go? </div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, you'll get restless over the mountain range, too; we're programmed to get a little antsy. But just know that that mountain range is temporary.</div><div><br /></div><div>So is the time when you're embarrassed by your lack of experience. And the time when it feels like every 20 actions yield one result. And the time when you feel like a bumbling moron because not even you can commit to a firm list of priorities.</div><div><br /></div><div>You <i>are </i>moving forward. You <i>are</i> changing for the better. </div><div><br /></div><div>As the person standing on the ground, staring up at the underside of your plane as it whizzes by, I am telling you you're on your way.</div>Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-85950962681061449462010-04-18T22:45:00.000-07:002010-04-18T23:44:51.546-07:00Sunday Pep Talk: It's Your CallThere just isn't time.<div><br /></div><div>Between personal obligations and professional obligations, between caring for ourselves and caring for others, between catching up and moving forward, there just isn't time.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I write this I am worn out and aggravated that I didn't have this posted this afternoon. I'm aggravated that I didn't do about six things I swore I'd do this weekend. I'm aggravated that when I look at the next days, weeks, and months of my life, I'm not sure where I'll find the time to move forward.</div><div><br /></div><div>And chances are, you've got a little bit of the same thing going on. </div><div><br /></div><div>So tonight, as I sit achy and bleary eyed in front of my computer, I say to myself, "This life belongs to me."</div><div><br /></div><div>All of it. Every square inch of it is mine. Outside forces can hit it, and sometimes they can shake it pretty hard. But how I live is up to me. The same is true for you.</div><div><br /></div><div>It certainly doesn't feel this way, of course, when a friend is calling for our help and a boss is pressuring us for extra attention and the distant light of our dream career threatens to flicker out with our neglect, but here's the beautiful, hideous kicker:</div><div><br /></div><div>We chose that friend. We accepted that boss. We conceived that dream. We are living the life we chose. Our frustration is born of success, of past goals met and incorporated into our lives. Is it a bit much at times? Sure. But here's the next big news:</div><div><br /></div><div>We choose what happens next. When it's time to let go of old milestones, we can. In the case of friends and family that we want to hang on to, we have every right to consider our own mental and emotional health when we determine how to respond to their needs. And when we approach a new day and a new schedule, we get to do so knowing that each new day is a new opportunity to declare our priorities, to define ourselves, to shape the big, wide open future that stretches out before us.</div><div><br /></div><div>And so, with that in mind, I'll be scraping the pout off of my face and putting myself to bed, so that I'll be plenty rested to seize ownership of the morning . . . another morning that belongs entirely to me.</div>Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-43298920969371145662010-04-12T21:51:00.000-07:002010-04-13T23:42:38.102-07:00Naysayers and Say-Yayers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ggmqVWFV-Z-fdRMvUavOID6MLtQWhtpKOLGpOpWP2kJgudGOBaV5MaqGQQm8Glzb5Fgec67ljs3GZp7ZuBbvhDRY878wg4OEtYNHuRbslUxQVMdgmS_nn9TQlhQKhhcMFN0m571UF8g/s1600/387816_7627.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ggmqVWFV-Z-fdRMvUavOID6MLtQWhtpKOLGpOpWP2kJgudGOBaV5MaqGQQm8Glzb5Fgec67ljs3GZp7ZuBbvhDRY878wg4OEtYNHuRbslUxQVMdgmS_nn9TQlhQKhhcMFN0m571UF8g/s320/387816_7627.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459493510239863474" /></a><br />People <i>love</i> to warn others of impending doom.<div><br /></div><div>When I was spending a summer at my parents' house in Lubbock, right after my college graduation, I signed up with a temp agency, hoping to scrape together enough money to move someplace interesting and theatrical, like Chicago or New York. I interviewed with the owner of the agency, a lumpy, unhappy looking man in a brown suit sitting behind a beige desk in a khaki office. He looked over my resume, then told me they had an opening right there in the agency.</div><div><br /></div><div>"You'd be working full-time," he said. "Permanent. You'd be placing people in jobs."</div><div><br /></div><div>I had a sudden vision of my soul lying limp in the corner of the office, flopped against the wall like a worn pillow, wheezing, "Why, Abi? Why have you done this?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I politely declined, informing the gentleman that I was only planning to be in town temporarily; I was an actor and would be moving to a theatre hub soon.</div><div><br /></div><div>The man made a few notes on my resume and said, without looking up, "Heard a statistic recently. Less than half of one percent of people who try to make it as actors actually succeed." He looked at me then, as if to triumphantly view the shattering of my ambitions.</div><div><br /></div><div>I smiled back, assured him I knew how difficult it would be, and asked him to call me if any <i>temporary </i>positions opened up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me tell you, when your career plans involve acting, you get this speech a lot. Same with writing. And probably with any other art career a person would wish to pursue. What kills me is that so many of these anti-pep talks also come from within. Seasoned veterans with lofty careers warning you in arrogant tones that "If you can do anything else in the world and still be happy, for heaven's sake, do it!" Now, I get this line of thinking for would-be Marines and young women who declare they want to have 12 kids and raise them alone. But for a wide-eyed young artist pursuing what he or she loves best, or at the very least, what he or she believes he or she loves best, I think the statement is overkill. Very few deaths result from young artists pursuing a very difficult career that they don't love enough. Usually the "nightmare" that ensues involves a couple years of frantic trying and failing, several months of your standard early adulthood depression, and eventually a little bit of self-discovery and personal rebirth as our harried-but-wiser artist embarks on a new path.</div><div><br /></div><div>My personal theory on the naysayers is this: people (and I humbly include myself in this) love being able to say, "I was there." Even more, we love to say, "I suffered through that." And even more than that, we love to hold up our suffering and say, "Behold my credentials! Honor my sage advice!"</div><div><br /></div><div>And the result is many young actors, writers, painters, and puppeteers shuffle home with their heads lowered, feeling as though they've failed before they've begun, and weakly promising themselves that they'll still make their dreams come true, even though <i>that</i> person clearly doesn't believe they can.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, obviously I can't very well end on that dumpy note; not in a blog dedicated to Pockets of Joy . . . Pockets of Joy like supportive friends, inspiring mentors, and those few but satisfying moments when your own personal naysayer looks at how far you've come and says, "Well, I'll be."</div><div><br /></div><div>Hopefully you're blessed like me, and your social circle is bursting with good hearts and good energy. Undoubtedly, you also run into doubt in your journey, whether it comes from other people or boils up unexpectedly inside your tender little gut. I want to make sure you're armed against doubt, and that's why I'm starting Sunday Pep Talks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Starting this coming Sunday, I'll be posting weekly Pep Talks, designed to give us all a boost for our weeks . . . a dash of hope here, a spritz of can-do there, maybe a pom-pom or two. Because as my brother, the ultimate Pep-Talker, says, "There's no reason you can't do whatever you want to do."</div><div><br /></div><div>No reason at all.</div>Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-31393540246963699252010-03-25T20:15:00.000-07:002010-03-25T20:42:20.596-07:00The Society of Girls With DreamsNow is the messy part of ambition.<div><br /></div><div>This is, as I have previously asserted, <a href="http://littlepocketsofjoy.blogspot.com/2010/02/day-blah-blah-blah-whatevers-came-for.html">The Year Things Happen</a>. I stick to it. Things are happening. Sometimes more slowly than I would like, sometimes more quickly than I expect, but overall, things are happening. </div><div><br /></div><div>And the more things happen, the busier I get. I am in the middle place right now, balancing new writing jobs with personal assistant responsibilities and the tremendous work of collecting new clients. Oh yes, and the work of editing my beloved novel, which haunts me in my dreams saying, "Don't forget your truest dreams, Little One. Don't forget your truest dreams." That's right, my novel calls me Little One. I never asked her to, but she doesn't ask permission; she just acts.</div><div><br /></div><div>I digress. The point is that my dear friend and (former) cosmetology student, Nora, texted me yesterday afternoon to ask if I wanted to go out after work.</div><div><br /></div><div>I told her, as I generally do on weeknights, that I was busy. I asked her what was up.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nothing," she texted back. "Today was my last day of [cosmetology] school and I thought it might be nice to celebrate. But it can wait till Saturday."</div><div><br /></div><div>I responded with a vague apology and some gibberish about how I'd have more celebratory energy on Saturday anyway and closed my phone. And then I realized how stupid it was to turn such an invitation down.</div><div><br /></div><div>It had been Nora's <i>last day of cosmetology school</i>. It was almost two years since I sat in the passenger's side of her car, listening to her talk about all the new hair products she bought for school as we cruised toward the beach, celebrating her last free Saturday before school snapped her up. I thought about how excited she was then, how she has become the best stylist I've ever had, how she is looking forward to what is bound to be a brilliant career . . . and how she said she was going to do something, and then she up and did it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nora, like many of my friends, has been a big support to me as I've stumbled my way into drawing up a serious writing career. She has cheered me on, and she has inspired me with her own goal-chasing. Skipping out on a night of dancing to work on my neglected novel is one thing . . . ducking out on a celebration of the Society of Girls With Dreams is quite another.</div><div><br /></div><div>I called her immediately after I sent my sloppy, "Sorry, see you Saturday" text and made a date for happy hour. Over sangrias and quesadillas, I toasted her genius and felt my heart swell with gratitude for mutual support and a good excuse to go out on a weeknight.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tonight has been an especially productive night; I think checking in with the Society of Girls With Dreams has reenergized me. And so I publicly extend my contratulations to Nora and my thanks to Nora and to Angie Frazdz and to Sister Angie and to Nikki and to my parents and my brothers and all the other angels who hover around me, offering their support and giving me the honor of being a (somewhat sloppy) support to them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you. With Love, From Abi.</div>Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-75348461648586650862010-03-14T12:21:00.000-07:002010-03-14T12:39:40.265-07:00Shiny, Shiny SunshineI consider the first day of Daylight Savings Time a holiday.<div><br /></div><div>I spoke to my dear friend Frazdziak last night, and she was singing the praises of Spring in Chicago. I admitted to her that that was what I missed most about the Midwest--the soul-exploding Spring. I don't care much for the long, dark, slushy Winter, but surviving the long, dark, slushy Winter is how the Midwesterner earns the eruption of joy that is the Midwestern Spring.</div><div><br /></div><div>Even so, I am enjoying the warming weather in LA. I am enjoying a forecast of blue skies, and a drawer full of skirts that are nearly ready to rediscover the light of day. And most of all, I am enjoying the fact that my day just got longer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, there are the same hours in the day regardless. And even in darkness, I must train myself to be productive and to honor my time. That said, it's so much easier to do all that when the sun stays up until 8:30. It's so much easier to feel that glowing, yellow light inside me, pulling me forward, keeping me awake and alive.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today feels like a new beginning, a new shot of energy, a new blank page waiting to be filled.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yay.</div>Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-91775450863033117982010-03-08T18:14:00.001-08:002010-03-08T18:23:12.520-08:00And On That Day, A Scinti Was BornHere's to starting 2010 off with a bang! Or, at least, my version of a bang, which sounds more a like a loud POP to the coat-throat, 18-hour workday, wildly ambitious leaders of tomorrow. But for this girl, who likes to work methodically and quietly, a few new clients and communities in a matter of a couple months definitely constitutes a bang.<div><br /></div><div>One of my most recent delights has been the new opportunity to work among the inspirational and insightful bloggers of Scinti.com, a new personal development blog that was born yesterday. As the handy "About Us" page so eloquently explains:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(34, 34, 34); line-height: 19px; ">"Scinti is a place to share our stories and unique perspectives on life in an effort to help each other. In short, we want to be the <strong><em>spark</em></strong> in people’s lives. There are many amazing personal development sites out there to help you live a better life and we plan to feature the owners here over time. We would like to complement those sites by sharing our life stories as examples. If there was an official handbook on life, we want to be the real life examples you can reference along with the manual."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">So come on down and <a href="http://www.scinti.com/">get yourself sparked</a>!</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></div>Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-84785054223322165732010-02-20T12:08:00.000-08:002010-02-20T12:25:53.694-08:00In Appreciation of ListsMy boss <span style="font-style: italic;">loves</span> lists. So much.<br /><br />This makes some sense to me, because I am rather fond of lists myself. Even so, my fondness of lists cannot compete with hers; she has a list for every thing. <span style="font-style: italic;">Everything</span>. It seems to give her a sense of calm--to know that she has reliable records of where everything is, how everything is organized, what she needs to do, what she has done, where she did the things she has done, with whom, and for how long. That woman picks up a list and this perfect peace falls over her face, like all is right with the world. <br /><br />As I said, I cannot compete with a love of lists that runs so deep. My fondness for lists is more shallow--I care for them, but I view a list more as a charming organization specialist who stops by, evaluates my situation, and tells me how to move forward. With each new step, my world becomes clearer. Cubbies in the closet, files alphabetized, pens in the pen cup thingy. Then at the end of the day, I shake the organization specialist's hand and say, "Thank you! You've been a big help today, and I will now watch you walk away with a quiet sense of accomplishment and gratitude."<br /><br />Then the organization specialist walks away, leaving her card behind and knowing that I will call again soon.<br /><br />I like my list. In fact, I am about to make a new one now to sort out the millions of things I have to do today. Then I will do each thing one by one, seeing my day and my plans fall carefully into place, feeing a sense of perfect accomplishment as I draw that perfect little line through each task completed.<br /><br />Yes, the list is good to me. But if a list is looking for a really serious, really deep love, it'll want to go find my boss.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-67226644431459995842010-02-14T14:08:00.000-08:002010-02-14T14:16:33.236-08:00A Bright and Marvelous World!My cup, as they say, runneth over.<br /><br />I have just had the most delightful birthday run. On Thursday night my brother took me to the Justin Townes Earle concert, which was (as I'm sure you would by now expect) a marvelous, wonderful, perfect occasion. I will refrain from going into detail, as I am sure you have all had your fill of JTE by now.<br /><br />Last night, the night of my actual factual birthday, I went out for a delightfully gluttonous meal with my friend, Nora. Our birthdays are six days apart, so we celebrate together every year. We went to one of those Brazilian restaurants where they keep bringing you meat as long as your "meat beacon" is set on green. It was a meal to remember. <br /><br />And now, here I sit this morning, beside the bay window of my "nook", a dark amber-colored tea in the glass tea pot my parents sent me, with a list of work to catch up on and birthday calls to return. The sun is shining and I'll probably take a walk later. <br /><br />What a blessed thing it is to have love in all its forms!<br /><br />Happy Valentines Day.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-54469686721192138162010-02-10T20:06:00.000-08:002010-04-10T12:00:22.881-07:00For the Love of the Game<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMrroK8wgQ1pTIWkk7v_LT0SJCrOaUVzXfJaxF_lnIjHbOp2Sn4152__M6-u7RXIP4LE-ug1-ojLDqrsFyKNUloqxQklFcUdxCGp1D45fnHJ80AvkMo8_hWtTgXknbzaCkbh5xCb36CWc/s1600-h/100_4532.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMrroK8wgQ1pTIWkk7v_LT0SJCrOaUVzXfJaxF_lnIjHbOp2Sn4152__M6-u7RXIP4LE-ug1-ojLDqrsFyKNUloqxQklFcUdxCGp1D45fnHJ80AvkMo8_hWtTgXknbzaCkbh5xCb36CWc/s320/100_4532.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436835622628959234" border="0" /></a><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span class="" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Add_Image" title="Add Image" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="addImage();" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);;ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" alt="Add Image" class="gl_photo" border="0" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px; ">I’ve never really “gotten” baseball . . . which I’m pretty sure is a vile transgression, considering I come from baseball people. My father was named after a baseball player. My brothers spent their childhoods in little league uniforms. And to this day, when I think of St. Louis summers, I think of the sound of cicadas mingling with Jack Buck's voice on the radio.</span></span><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia">But I never could find my way to embracing the sport.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When my mom offered me her ticket to a Cardinals game during my visit to St. Louis last fall, the only thing that drove me to take it was the opportunity to spend some time with my dad.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It had been a while since he and I had hung out, just the two of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia">So we went to the new Busch Stadium, with its Rockwellian design and good-timey baseball feel. My dad treated me to a hot dog and a grossly overpriced beer, and we sat, side-by-side, to watch the game. And then it happened . . . my dad taught me things.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia">They say that teenagers have a natural resistance to the wisdom of their parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was not that teenager, but to some degree, I am that adult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s not that I doubt I can learn things from them; it’s that I’m finally beginning to learn things from myself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And as that happens, as I begin to embrace and assert myself as an actual, bonafide grown-up, I find myself trying to make it clear to my parents that I am an adult now—that my opinions are just as thoroughly thought-out, and that they can feel free to learn from me, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When I really think about it, I don’t think I do this for their sakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I think they know I’m grown up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I do it for mine.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia">When I was a little girl, trying against the nature of my language-oriented brain to learn the numeric values of money, my dad would invite me into the dining room, where he would spread his pocket change out on the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I would stare at the nickels and dimes and quarters, trying to make meaning from their sizes and colors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I watched, transfixed, as my father’s long, thick fingers slid the change around on the dining room table, his steady voice explaining each move with patient genius.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He worked with such confident ease . . . no need to calculate or count. He just <i>knew</i></span><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia"> that dime, dime, nickel was the same as one quarter. He was <i>that</i></span><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia"> smart.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia">It became hard for me to hate the science of money, because I loved the way my dad taught. I liked the reassuring steadiness of his voice and how fascinated he seemed to be with the options of money, with the strategy involved. He grouped the coins to show me that a nickel and five pennies were the same as a dime, and when I began to catch on to the game--when I began to arrange and present my own strategies--he smiled broadly and said, "Yes! That's right!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia">That's what it was like to be at the baseball game with him, to be at his side, watching a sport that has always been beyond my interest or willing comprehension. I asked him what I was seeing, and he taught me the same way he taught me change: in a careful, patient way, his manner approachable, his voice welcoming. He taught me with an obvious fascination for the strategy of the game, and once again, learning from an enthusiast made it difficult not to be enthusiastic myself. Before I knew it, I was observing the game using the new terms he'd taught me, and, just as he had twenty years before, he smiled broadly and said, "Yes! That's right!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia">And suddenly, I was a true adult, admitting to myself that I liked learning something from my dad, that I liked bringing him my curiosity. I am my father's adult daughter. I am independent, self-sufficient, intelligent, and solid. I can think for myself, fight my own battles, and solve my own problems.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family:Georgia">And the more confident I am of these things, the more willing I become to learn from my parents again.</span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <!--EndFragment--> </span>Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-48742954955361463152010-02-08T21:53:00.000-08:002010-02-09T00:11:26.074-08:00A Lot of Power in a Little HonestyThis will be my third post on Justin Townes Earle. Does this mean I have a problem? Perhaps. Perhaps I do. Nevertheless, I feel I must mention him again in anticipation of Thursday night . . . the night the alternative-country love of my life takes the stage in LA and sings (I will imagine) just for me.<br /><br />I love JTE for the same reasons people all over the world love their favorite musicians: because he makes music that cracks my soul open, that speaks to me, that moves and inspires me. When I listen to Justin Townes Earle--cheesy as it sounds--I catch myself thinking of the type of person I want to be.<br /><br />It's not that he's singing "Man in the Mirror" type songs. It's simply that he's singing truth. He sings about the good and bad in himself, in the people around them. He sings about how he's loved, how he's failed to love, how he's been hurt. These are, of course, standard topics. But there's something pure and simple in his delivery. Something very honest. No forced poetry, no attempt at clever phrasing. Just stories . . . true stories, shared with deliberate openness.<br /><br />Take for example one of his most popular songs, "Mama's Eyes." As the son of a largely absent, but fairly well-known father (Alternative Country artist Steve Earle), Justin wrote "Mama's Eyes" to, as he says, "set the record straight." Justin skips past the typical angsty descriptions of his relationship with his father and instead sings in earnest simplicity about the dark habits he learned from his dad. "I ain't foolin' no one," he sings. "I am my father's son."<br /><br />After a length of singing about being the same as his dad in all the wrong ways, he pays tribute to his mother (and communicates his discovery of his own personal strength) with no great poetic displays of adoration. He simply leans into the microphone and sings:<br /><br />Now it's three a.m. and I'm standing in the kitchen<br />holding my last cigarette.<br />I Strike a match and I see my reflection in the mirror in the hall<br />and I say to myself,<br />"I've got my mama's eyes,<br />her long, thin frame and her smile,<br />and I still see wrong from right,<br />'cause I've got my mama's eyes."<br /><br /><br />Pure and simple.<br /><br />There is something marvelous about an artist who isn't trying to force emotion out of you. It takes tremendous confidence and balance of mind to be able to simply speak the truth--to simply tell the story--and trust that the clear and simple truth is enough.<br /><br />This is how I would like to operate as a writer. No manipulating my audiences, simply writing truthfully and trusting that truthful writing will be enough.<br /><br />This is also how I hope to live my life. No games, no affectations, just pure and simple honesty. And when I am a little bolder, some deliberate openness of my own.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-86915830119103248162010-02-07T12:19:00.001-08:002010-02-08T22:28:57.663-08:00The Day the Blah-Blah-Blah-Whatevers Came for TeaI burst in to 2010 like a . . . thing that bursts really quickly in to something else.<br /><br />And now this. As you can see by my attempt at metaphor (above), my well is drying up a bit. The well of creativity, the well of motivation, of inspiration, of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">intrepedation</span>.<br /><br />It was bound to happen, despite the season I am in. Not Winter . . . I mean, the season of my life. I announced to my brother in early January that this is the year "things happen." 2008 was the year of figuring myself out--figuring out what I wanted and where I was headed and who I hoped to become. 2009 was the year of outlining--of making plans and preparing, of clearing out the things that don't belong in my life and ushering in the things that do.<br /><br />And when I woke on January 1, 2010, I could feel that gentle breeze of continuing motion. I have been doing nothing but moving forward for the past month, keeping my sights focused on my goals, my mind bursting over with a million ideas for achieving them. Yes, indeed. This is The Year Things Happen.<br /><br />And then it happened. I woke up yesterday with an overwhelming desire to stay in bed. And when I finally talked myself into getting out of bed, I wanted nothing more but to wander purposelessly through the day--to spend long moments staring at walls, to check my email seven times in a row in the hopes that something interesting would happen <span style="font-style: italic;">to</span> me, to brew tea and then forget to drink it. It was a severe case of the "Blah-Blah-Blah-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Whatevers</span>," and I am sorry to say that it continued on to this morning.<br /><br />But here, my friends, is the blessing: regardless of how I felt yesterday and how I feel today, this is <span style="font-style: italic;">still</span> The Year Things Happen. Therefore, this is the year I learn to deal with the Blah-Blah-Blah-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Whatevers</span>. This is the year I learn to acknowledge them without judging them, then interact with them civilly in a way that encourages their exit without forcing it . . . because they cannot be forced out, and they cannot be stifled.<br /><br />This morning, I opened my blinds, in a gesture that told the Blah-Blah-Blah-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Whatevers</span>, "Please make yourselves at home. I just hope you don't mind a little sunlight." Then I took a long shower, all the while saying to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Whatevers</span>, "I'll be with you in a moment, I just need to refresh a bit." Then I cleaned up my room and cleared off my desk. By this point the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Whatevers</span> were awkwardly sitting in the corner of my room, with a look on their faces that is often reserved for those moments when one is the only guest at a dinner-party who is not privy to all of the inside jokes.<br /><br />And here I sit now, on my freshly made bed, easing into the work of the day with some writing designed primarily with my own mental health in mind. The Blah-Blah-Blah-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Whatevers</span> are still here, but they're glancing at their watches and trying to think of a good excuse for leaving so soon.<br /><br />And I am smiling to myself over a small victory. I realized this morning, that lying in bed next to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Whatevers</span>, resenting them and thinking of how I should be pounding out proposals and words at the speed of blind ambition only made me feel overwhelmed by laziness. But a slow and steady response has apparently put me back in control.<br /><br />Good to know, seeing as how this is, after all, The Year Things Happen. And I have just found a tactful way to make unwanted guests leave.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-54926899777392710582009-09-14T23:44:00.000-07:002009-09-14T23:59:33.079-07:00The Edits You Take Are Equal To The Edits You MakeI'm back to blogging after a bit of a hiatus. Things have been crazy between work, life, and my biggest writing/editing project yet, helping emerging author Jeannette Katzir get her memoir ready to go to print. We're almost there . . . just a quick meeting to tie up some loose ends tomorrow and we should be good. The next steps: query letter, book proposal, and the rest of her magical marketing package.<br /><br />It's been such a pleasure to work with her, especially since it's been more of an editing/coaching situation than just a straight up "Here, I fixed your punctuation" type thing. Everyday I can see her writing get more solid, more fluid, more impactful. Be proud, JK. Be very, very proud.<br /><br />I'm discovering that a couple months of serious editing work has really paid off in my own writing as well. It's true what they say--editing someone else's work can strengthen your own. I didn't even realize it was happening until I revisited an old story of mine tonight and recognized weaknesses in it that I had never been able to identify before. But now, with that editorial voice ringing in my head, shaking a scolding finger at passive voice and tsking at extraneous words, I am able to see the faults I often miss, blinded by the knowledge of my intentions.<br /><br />Yay.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-60296329093155020462009-05-21T23:19:00.000-07:002009-05-21T23:46:27.350-07:00Sites That are Good for the SoulI have recently started to collect good karma websites . . . the ones that promote sharing and creativity and all that wonderful junk. So if you're looking for a pick-me-up, I recommend investigating one of these jobbers:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pandora.com</span><br />This little gem is rising in popularity, but I continue to be floored by the number of people I meet who do not know this site. The beauty of Pandora is that you get to design your own radio station, based on artists or even specific songs that you love. Pandora will play music with a similar style, including music from artists you may never have heard of. So not only do you have control over your own radio station (you can tell Pandora when you don't like the song that's playing), you also get to discover music that doesn't make it on to conventional radio.<br /><br />Good for the little-known artists, and thrilling for listeners, too.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">BookCrossing</span>.com</span><br />Genius. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">BookCrossing</span> is an exercise of free-love, hippie-meets-message-in-a-bottle book sharing. You register a book onto the web site, journal about it (your review, etc.), write a message on the inside cover explaining <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">bookcrossing</span>.com and giving that book's own specific ID number, and then you leave it in a public place. Just leave it. Just set it down any old place and walk away. Ideally, someone will pick it up, open the cover, and see the instructions guiding them to log onto <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">BookCrossing</span> using the ID number. They they read it, journal about it on the website, and release the book back into the wild to do it all over again.<br /><br />All the while, you can track the book's journey . . . how far it goes, what lives it touches . . . I get a high from every book I abandon in the corner of a coffee shop.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">BookMooch</span>.com</span><br />This is another get-a-book-for-free site, only without the serendipity. On <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">BookMooch</span> you can actually search for a specific book, and if someone else has it available to you, they mail it wherever you ask them to, at the sender's expense.<br /><br />The catch is that you can only request a book if you have book points, and the only way to get book points is to first send off a book. It's a community of book-lovers supporting one <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">another's</span> specific literature needs, all the while adhering to that old adage: <span style="font-style: italic;">In the end, the books you take are equal to the books you make</span>. Or something.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Etsy</span>.com</span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Etsy</span> is a marketplace for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">crafters</span>/artists and the folks who love handmade goods. On <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Etsy</span> anyone can sell his or her handmade goods, on the condition that the product is completely handmade <span style="font-style: italic;">or</span> vintage. All <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Etsy</span> asks in return is $0.20 for every item a seller posts and .35% of every sale. Not bad, huh? <br /><br />There' s also a bidding option . . . if you want to give Great Aunt Nona a set of homemade napkin rings for her 80<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">th</span> birthday, you can log onto <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Etsy</span>, put a request out for the item, and sellers will bid for the opportunity to make you some good old-fashioned napkin rings using nothing but their bare hands and a big bucket of love.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Authonomy</span>.com</span><br />This is a site run by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">HarperCollins</span> in an effort to find a few diamonds in the rough. Budding authors can upload the first chapter or so of their latest novel and open it up for comments and critique from fellow writers and readers. All the while, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">HarperCollins</span> keeps an eye on the action, and periodically they select the pieces with the highest reader approval for review for possible publication. Nothing is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">guaranteed</span>, of course, but the writer has nothing to lose, and a lot to gain from peer review. Even for the non-writer it's a treat . . . how often do readers get a say in what books deserve publication?<br /><br /><br />That's my list. Get online and get happy.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-48353235348212205382009-05-04T23:12:00.000-07:002009-05-04T23:57:58.222-07:00Victory!"Okay, we're going to the park!" my boss Nicole announced in her sing-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">songy</span> way, ushering her two-year-old son Elie out of the bedroom.<br /><br />"First attempt!" she called as she slipped out of my view, a reference to her habit of returning five or six times after she leaves to get yet another forgotten necessity for the day's outing.<br /><br />I wished her luck and spread her big white bath towel out wide, folding it in two halves, then into thirds, just as she requires.<br /><br />Working for Nicole is simple and warming most of the time, the work she gives me often enables my mind to wander, composing stories in my mind to be written down when I arrive home at the end of the day. And even when the work involves some mental energy . . . even when I'm arguing with tech support over a faulty computer or trying to explain to her son why you can't kick sand on little girls at the park, it's still work that's good for my mind. Working inside <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">someone's</span> personal life is in many ways an honor, and working within a family provides constant reminders of the tiny moments that define relationships and personal growth.<br /><br />Only seconds after Nicole announced their departure, I heard Elie's rapid stomping footsteps returning to the bedroom. Naturally I assumed that Nicole had indeed forgotten something she needed and Elie came back to play, having grown bored with the extra two seconds it took his mother stop by another room of the house to retrieve a forgotten object.<br /><br />He approached me and with a smile I greeted him as I often do,<br /><br />"Well, Hello, Friend!"<br /><br />He looked up at me, his tiny mouth set in a focused frown.<br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Abi</span>," he said. He waited for a response, which took me off guard. Usually he plunged into whatever he needed to say, letting his words run together to keep up with the speed of his shifting wants. "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Abicomeplay</span>." "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Abihelpplease</span>." "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Abicomeeat</span>." But this time, there was a pause. There was a need to know I heard him, a need to know he had my full attention.<br /><br />"Yes, Elie?"<br /><br />He took a deep breath, then spoke.<br /><br />"Can you give me grape checker?"<br /><br />I was baffled. <br /><br />"I'm sorry, Elie, can you say that again?"<br /><br />He took another deep breath.<br /><br />"I need grape checkout, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">pweez</span>."<br /><br />I turned and gestured toward the toys nearby, assuming he was looking for something on a shelf out of his reach.<br /><br />"Can you point?" I asked. "Can you show me?"<br /><br />His eyes panned the shelves, his brow furrowing. He was reaching a level of serious I had never before encountered on him. <br /><br />He tried again.<br /><br />"Grape <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">jacker</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Abi</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Abi</span> I need grape <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">jacker</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">pweez</span>." This time his words were accompanied by his usual gesture of explanation, a quick twisting of the wrists which is really only effective if he's asking me to turn the dial on the radio or shake a bottle of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Pepto</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Bismol</span>.<br /><br />"I'm sorry, Elie." I really was. "I don't know what you mean."<br /><br />He sighed and looked at my feet. He looked defeated. I felt defeated. He was a man on a mission . . . a man governed by something greater than the impulse of the moment. A man asking for something he needed not only for the present, but for the future as well. Elie had a purpose. And I was entirely incapable of helping him fulfill it.<br /><br />I was just about to suggest he ask his mommy for whatever he needed when he raised his round eyes back up to me, and said, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Abi</span>, I would please like a gray jacket or a red jacket, if you would be so kind."<br /><br />Okay, this may not have been his exact wording, but this was how it sounded to me when my brain finally wrapped itself around the sounds emerging from his mouth, and I know this was how it sounded to him when he realized I understood what he needed. <br /><br />I hurried over to the bed, where a pile of his freshly-laundered <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">hoodies</span> lay and picked up a gray jacket and handed it to him. <br /><br />"On, or just to carry?" I asked him, one adult to another.<br /><br />"Carry," he told me with great confidence, tucking the prize under his arm. "And a red one."<br /><br />"Oh, I see," I said, digging through the pile for a red jacket. "You want options."<br /><br />He nodded and I fulfilled his request. He thanked me, smiling widely and rushed back to the entryway. I heard his tiny voice as he approached Nicole, calling out, "Mommy I got it! A grey one <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> a red one!"<br /><br />It was wonderful how such a small victory seemed so big . . . to both of us. Elie was sent on an assignment, given a responsibility, and succeeded. And somehow I thought I was a super genius for helping him succeed. It was even a victory for Nicole who responded to Elie's cries of success with a message to me.<br /><br />"See, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Abi</span>!" her voice rang out from the entry way. "I didn't come back!" <br /><br />Then the front door closed and Nicole and Elie left . . . on the first attempt.<br /><br /><br />Bravo. Bravo for us all.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-28948956174007082842009-04-06T21:34:00.001-07:002009-04-06T21:37:17.581-07:00Also . . .. . . Still in love with Justin Townes Earle. If he asked for me to marry him right this minute and run away to Dixieland, I'm not entirely certain I'd say "no."Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-78644539109331955992009-04-06T21:20:00.000-07:002009-04-06T21:34:23.799-07:00The Coffee Stained Writer is Neat and Here's Why:I just got high off of writing a message to friend and freelance writer, Nicole.<br /><br />Why did I get high, you ask?<br /><br />Because as I was writing to her, I realized how tremendously reassuring it is to have a friend in the same business, and especially to have one with more experience and wisdom to pass along. And even more importantly, one who checks in on me about my progress and keeps me updated on events and resources I might not know about.<br /><br />Yay. Yay for Nicole. And yay for Nicole's blog: http://coffee-stainedwriter.blogspot.com/<br /><br />In recognition of National Poetry Month, she's been posting a lot of poetry and poet information that has reignited my respect for an art form I've got no business trying to do myself. : )Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-80273889967837478352009-04-05T21:51:00.000-07:002009-04-05T23:48:53.380-07:00Clear It Out!Today was a day of uncertain mood. There was something I did not particularly like about the world when I woke this morning, though I couldn't put my finger on what that was. This feeling of distaste for an unnamed force persisted throughout the day, redeemed on occasion by some good old fashion Spring cleaning.<br /><br />My brother popped in with his almost-step-son to reinvent our garage as a rehearsal space for my almost-nephew's band. Oh yes. There is to be a garage band at my house. I am that hip.<br /><br />Mostly, I let the strong menfolk do the work, standing by only to make sure that precious items like sewing patterns and boxes of unused fabric don't end up in the trash pile via the male mind. Before I ran off to the Apple store (bad battery on my PowerBook), Phil and Drew had created two equally enormous piles: keep and throw out. I was impressed. And refreshed. All the garbage that I used to trip over in the garage was about to be gone. All the stuff Phil and I still needed to live our lives would be carefully packed away, but at last accessible. And the space once occupied by broken CD cases and painty t-shirts would now house the instruments and ambitions of my step-nephew and his friends.<br /><br />Next thing I knew I was clearing out the fridge, reorganizing my "office" area, responding to neglected emails, returning neglected calls, punching out work I'd been avoiding.<br /><br />None of these things completely melted the sinking in my gut. But even so, I was moving forward, wasn't I?Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-28929600094385724512009-04-04T17:39:00.000-07:002009-04-04T18:37:18.546-07:00Justin Townes EarleI haven't fallen hard for a new musician since my Fine Frenzy discovery a year ago.<br /><br />I found Justin Townes Earle this past Tuesday when he opened for Jason Isbell at Spaceland. It was so unexpected . . . I was expecting decent background music at best, but this fellow is not a background performer. He draws in focus using nothing more aggressive than a warm introduction, his easy Tennessee accent bubbling like a creek bed.<br /><br />It's impossible to not watch him: his impossibly long and lanky body, his floppy Colonel Sanders bow tie, his greased hair. He hunches over his guitar and tilts his head into the microphone. His voice, his lyrics, his eyes all communicate sincerity. I think that's what gets me: the sincerity. I love the music, but I'm a lyrics person, first and foremost, and the words of his songs are so beautiful and simple and <span style="font-style: italic;">honest</span>. So genuinely <span style="font-style: italic;">honest</span>.<br /><br />Justin Townes Earle rocks my world.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-57771740430483669102009-03-31T23:53:00.000-07:002009-03-31T23:59:33.899-07:00The orange tree in my backyard is blossoming. It smells like peace.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-78766562536404761182009-03-31T00:10:00.000-07:002009-03-31T00:48:03.306-07:00O! Blessed Inspiration!Last Saturday was Earth Hour. I observed it alone.<br /><br />I did not know how this would go. The notion of an hour of darkness appealed to me as a notion. Such an hour would force creativity. Friends would connect over conversation instead of television. Lovers would have few options other than to get close. Clever games would be invented, secrets shared, candles lit. But all of these virtues required the presence of another person. And last Saturday, at 8:30 p.m., I was alone. What's more, it was my first evening alone since the break-up. I had not wanted to give myself too much solitude, out of fear that I would reflect too much and therefore analyze too much and therefore obsess too much. But now I had to be alone with myself in the dark for one full hour.<br /><br /> I lit the collection of candles gathered on my kitchen table, trying not to notice that the only matches I had were from the pub where I occasionally met the fellow (the one I just lost) for drinks. I stole my brother's yellow writing pad, found a pen with a nice glide, filled a wine glass with water, and--at exactly 8:30 p.m.--shut off the lights.<br /><br />I thought I was going to write a story about a young woman facing a dark room after heartbreak. But as I poised my pen over the paper, I realized I was burned out on writing stories about young women like me. So at the last moment, I took the dark room with the shuttering candlelight and put someone else in it. Someone completely different. Someone who had never made so direct an appearance in anything I'd written before.<br /><br />And in that hour of writing someone else's story, I managed to be honest with myself without obsessing. When my phone alarm went off at 9:30, I kept the lights off for another thirty minutes, not wanting to interrupt what had begun so unexpectedly. I had found something sacred and rare. It was one of those moments when the story rises up from some place within, some place I hadn't thought to look. The character spoke without my guidance, the action came and went without force. It was natural and it was <span style="font-style: italic;">necessary</span>. <br /><br />It was also poorly written. Which is why I am working on it still. Nevertheless, the story excites me. More importantly, the heart of the story excites me. Which brings me to my bit of gratitude for the day.<br /><br />All day today, I thought about my story. I work as a personal assistant, and I had one of those days--as I occasionally do--where 90% of the work I was asked to do is fairly mindless . . . folding laundry, stuffing envelopes, etc . . . Last week, days like today threatened to turn my mind into a churning stew of what-if's and if-only's. Not so today!<br /><br />Thank goodness gracious, not so today.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8325802874881866008.post-19745441746013671202009-03-29T16:00:00.000-07:002009-03-29T17:09:49.786-07:00Of Heartache And Pockets . . .My heart broke last Monday night.<br /><br />And that's all I'll say about it. I've outlined the breaking of my heart to too many people this week for it to be theraputic anymore, and anyway, the last thing I want is to create a blog that exists for the purpose of pressing my woes on to the world. This blog is not about heartbreak. This entry isn't even about heartbreak. It's about the healing of heartbreak. Or no, you know what? I'm going to go one step further and say that this entry is about the joy that results from heartbreak.<br /><br />When I lost this fellow, I called on very nearly every friend I have. And very nearly every friend I have responded with massive, wide-open hearts. <br /><br />My brother, with whom I have dissected and analyzed everything from the role of religion in politics to what it means when your ex changes his/her myspace profile song, sat with me to dissect and analyze the nature of heartache. <br /><br />My friend Ryan allowed me to pull him away from his writing to watch <span style="font-style: italic;">nine</span> episodes of <span style="font-style: italic;">Futurama</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Nine</span>.<br /><br />Alo, whose schedule does not mesh well with mine, checked on me regularly until we could find a time to talk, at which point he gave me some of the best relationship advice of my life. <br /><br />Angie talked to me on the phone for a good hour or so, promising prayers and support while I healed and then distracting me with conversation about how rare and remarkable our friendship is. <br /><br />Frazzini called me immediately and offered to meet me somewhere to sit and listen to my ranting and wailing (never mind the fact that she lives half a land mass away.)<br /><br />Bruce stayed up way past his bedtime to share what he's learned about love.<br /><br />Nora carved time out of her Friday night (an evening usually spent with her boyfriend) to drink tea and listen to my story, carefully offering some advice, but generally just validating my feelings and sharing the occasional insight.<br /><br />Drew didn't tell me much about any of it, only that he understood. Then he watched The Office with me.<br /><br />Jill distracted me with funny stories about her weekend.<br /><br />Jackie, who had not heard from me in a year or so, immediately called me back and listened to the whole story, responding--as she always has--with nothing but heart and understanding.<br /><br />By the time the week was up, I felt so <span style="font-style: italic;">blessed</span>. The hurt is still there, absolutely, but with each conversation, I feel a small bubble of peace, which gradually expands into a safe little pocket of joy. Now, all these little pockets of joy are crowding out the sacs of pity and regret. Heartache is confronted by Gratitude. I'm not expecting a pure victory for Gratitude and its Pockets, but I can't help but notice what a difference it makes.<br /><br />I've been wanting to start a themed blog for a while, but I haven't been able to commit to a theme . . . until now. I'd like to make a practice of Gratitude. And this will be my practice. This little bloggy thing here. This is where I will come to be grateful. <br /><br />Starting now.<br /><br />So to everyone who came running when I called this week, thank you. It meant so much.Abi Ruthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655240980167664078noreply@blogger.com0