tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18092925817379625982024-03-13T15:13:45.495-05:00the write motivationinhale the atmosphere.
breathe oxygen. be inspired. be moved. to write.
the write environment.
Disappear. be there.
Minneapolis. Write here.
write now.Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-19576139285682399452020-06-19T07:19:00.006-05:002020-06-22T09:29:17.688-05:00I'm uncomfortable that I've been comfortable for so long<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Upon hearing of George
Floyd's murder, I was enraged, devastated, and awakened. Systemic racism became
evident. It was no longer the isolated events I stupidly believed it to be.
Before Floyd, I knew something was wrong. I listened to 74 Seconds and Into the
Dark's investigation into the Curtis Flowers case. It was upsetting. Ahmaud
Arbery. Breonna Taylor. So. Many. More. But the glass shattered for me with
Floyd. <a>Finally,
I could see the real world we live in.</a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This falsified, celebrated country with a history
carefully curated to continue to elevate the achievements of old, white men. To
gloss over the messy parts and to only show us on the right side of history.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I loved history in school. Loved learning
about the past and imagined myself living in a time like when there were
slaves, I would go from the North to help people escape from slavery. Or Hitler
held his reign. How if I were alive during that time I would help hide people
and stand up for those Nazis sought to kill. Our when segregation existed... I
would be there to tell people how ridiculous they are behaving because we're
all human beings and we are equal.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And now. Here I am. In 2020. We are actually
in all three of those historical situations in one, single country. We are
living in history right now. We are reliving it. This time and the change that
will come, will be the most important moment in our country's story,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">It's true and crushing to me that as I near
40, I had not heard of Juneteenth until a couple weeks ago. The president
claims he made Juneteenth famous. But it's not because of the president.
It's because of George Floyd. It's because of his murder I started questioning
all that I know. I started following people on social media, following
hashtags, and unlearning the narrative I grew up believing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'm sorry that it took this long. I'm sorry it
hasn't been enough. I'm sorry I've been complacent and complicit. I'm sorry
that I honestly believed everything was fine and dandy all thanks to MLK. This
historical moment will rewrite our history books and tear down the systemic
racism and reboot our country and our people to be the good country we always
believed we were.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
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Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-52314954467560401202017-04-07T12:14:00.000-05:002017-04-07T12:17:03.002-05:00The Proposal<div class="MsoNormal">
Will you marry... My brother? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I politely smiled and gracefully declined. I really liked David, a lot. We'd been having so much fun the last few weeks, but I wasn't
ready to take that next step.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Fred, that's so sweet. But I think we should wait till
we are older." I sat on the grass tugging on my cream knee socks that were
constantly pooling down around my ankles. "Fred" hopped up and ran
around to the telephone pole. Out came David. I sat smiling. Thinking our
relationship wouldn't change. I clicked my saddle shoes together while plucking
dandelions from the dirt exposed through the balding grass. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David sadly glanced at me, shoved his hands in his pockets,
and went off to join a group of friends for the rest of recess. He never spoke
to me again. And his "twin brother" Fred, never made an appearance
again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched him walk off into the mid-day sun feeling confused
and disappointed that I ruined a friendship by being a sensible first grader.<o:p></o:p></div>
Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-46821352175343712232016-03-19T14:27:00.000-05:002016-03-19T14:27:13.870-05:00PSA: Safety First<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Everyone’s
doing it. You feel the pressure. You want to too. Just to be like the cool
kids. Only the majority of people don’t do it wisely. Even the adults who do
it. They take great risks exposing themselves without thinking about safety
precautions. Adults should know better. But they might be some of the worst
culprits. They should be the role models for the tweens, teens, and young
adults who experiment with this latest trend. Everyone should be practicing
safe methods of this seemingly more common past time. I do! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">In fact, I
ONLY do it with my husband. Very rarely do I venture outside of safe and secure
confines of my marriage. Usually, it’s from the office, because when I am
actually WITH him, there is no need to text him. In 2015, more people died from
this unsafe ritual than shark attacks. It’s embarrassing that people would
rather risk their lives for a moment of glory. Sure, it will be memorialized
forever, if it turned out, but is it worth losing your life? I encourage
everyone to start practicing #safeselfies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Are you on a
road or sidewalk or skyway where there is continuous traffic? Then it’s
probably not a good idea to stop, oblivious to the world around you, to grab a
shot of your mug with whatever background you desire. Even if the most damage
you get is a shoulder check from an angry downtown worker who knows the skyway
is as treacherous as a freeway and there is no stopping in the middle of the
road, what it worth the bruise?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Are you
attempting a yoga pose on the edge of a cliff? Sure, you are a yogi-head, you
go to yoga three to four times a week and have an awesome balance. Just step
four giant scissor steps closer to inland. It may not look as cool, but you
will probably still get a great shot of the skyline behind you and maybe even
the deep drop down the ravine, plus your face is taking up most of the shot
anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Yeah, the
work day selfies I send to my husband aren’t glitter and glamour. The half
moons under my eyes aren’t alluring like the black liner and duck lips of some
selfies. The piles of folders and notepads towering toward the ceiling aren’t
as cool as a back drop of mountains or a sea sharing the sleepy sun with the
sky for a few more moments before it slips away and spills darkness, but at
least I know that death will not be a side effect of my #safeselfie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-31014494326236764302015-10-08T08:16:00.002-05:002015-10-08T08:16:12.226-05:00That time my puppy had mange<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Whoa,
whoa is the Mange<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">That
lives on top of his brain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">It
makes him so bald and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Look
quite deranged<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">And
his eyes are never the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Whoa,
whoa is the Mange<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">My
puppy’s become mite terrain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">His
face is so sad, I think they itch him<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Quite
bad and his eyes drip with water and goo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Whoa,
whoa is the Mange<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Cooper
looks just naked and afraid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Though
not on TV, he give me the heebeegeebeess<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">When
he crawls on the couch next to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-10330862792510477162015-07-04T10:14:00.001-05:002015-07-04T10:14:41.412-05:00What do you get when you cross an ostrich with an octopus?<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The first
time we experimented it was in a controlled environment. No one was there to
witness the monstrosity. It was simpler, shorter, and it seemed, safer. The
second time was very much in public. On Cedar Lake trail. On the third of July.
If my husband wasn’t sure before, he certainly must know now how much I love
him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I let him buy
me rollerblades. As an ex-ballerina and current yoga instructor you would think
that I would be the epitome of grace, but on wheels, blades, or skis, I am
nothing of the sort. Ten minutes into my public debut on wheels, I told Peter I
was sweating buckets. Out of fear? He asked. Why yes, I suppose so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Thirty
minutes in I told him I was sure there was at least one internet meme of me being
mercilessly mocked in the world wide web. I said if an octopus and an ostrich
mated and you put it on wheels, that is what I looked like. He didn’t disagree.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Decked out in
knee pads, elbow pads, and wrist guards tentatively trying to glide down the
path and not giving a fluff for all the people who had to witness my attempt at
rollerblading all added up to running into someone I know. Of course. Twice. Of
course.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The first one
approached from behind – a biker and yelled “Hi Coley!” This was fun until I
realized he recognized me from behind; despite my flailing arms and Bambi on
ice rollerblading style he could tell it was me. The next one was full frontal.
I was on the walking path which seemed much safer than putting me on the bike
path even though I was on wheels. I apologized to people as I approached making
them move out of the way because I didn’t know how to maneuver around them
without ending up in the trees. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Yes, it was
all fun and games. Laughing at myself. Trying to embrace this new adventure.
Until I fell. Almost an hour into our outing, I completely wiped out. I am not
sure what happened exactly, but I am pretty sure I looked like an unsuspecting
cartoon who stepped on a banana peel. My legs flew out from under me causing my
arms to windmill through space desperately hoping to grab something to keep me
from hitting the tar. To no avail. I smacked hard on to my wrists and my
tailbone. My wrists were protected, but I did not have a tailbone helmet. (I
now want one.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Tears from
the pain dripped down my face from behind my sunglasses. I hurt too bad to be humiliated.
There were witnesses, but I didn’t care. All my emotions of skating rushed back
to me. I never cared for not being on my own feet. I thought about skating
lessons in kindergarten at the Bloomington Ice Gardens. How I was tearful even
on the last day of class. And the two boys I had alternating crushes on coaxed
me onto the ice away from the sideboards and told me it would be ok. Looking
back on it they were really sweet for kindergarten boys. They didn’t even take
part in the paste eating that the other boys did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I had to get
up. We were miles away from our car. I didn’t have shoes. There was only one
way back. With tears I skated on. Even though I knew where our car was, I kept
hoping it would be just around the next corner. Three falls later, though none
as bad as the first, we made it back to safety. After prying the rollerblades off,
my legs felt like absolute Jello. I was starving and sore. I think my husband
was proud. He should be. I was brave. I stepped outside my comfort zone and was
on wheels. In public. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I didn’t ever hate skating on purpose. I wanted to like
it. My dad had been a hockey player and skating with ease. This wasn’t my first
time trying it, but it was my first time in this decade. I had failed attempts
before. Although none of the tries was ever an hour and a half like this day.
And so many falls! But you know what, I am proud! Even if I looked like an
OSTRIPUS on wheels. I did it. And I will do it again. Peter will make sure of
that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-15192424891697832282014-10-08T12:26:00.001-05:002014-10-08T12:26:55.940-05:00If you can't say something nice<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;">“You
are drawing quite a lot of attention to yourself.” A voice hissed from the side
of the skyway. I glanced in the direction of the words and saw an older man in
his seventies or so with a creepy glint in his eye. I picked up my pace and continued
walking toward my credit union. My mind reeled. Before the rude and unwanted interruption, I was serenely enjoying an escape from work without the lunch
crowd. It was only 10:30 in the morning and the skyway was nearly vacant. The
man, up until the moment he spoke, had been completely unassuming. I perhaps
would have even thought to myself, if I noticed him, a gentleman. Or no label
at all. Because, what is a gentleman, after all? But instead of just being two
humans passing in the skyway, he now became a creep in my mind. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;">Unfortunately,
only after several years of his voice haunting me was I able to admit I was
disgusted and disappointed. My initial feeling was creeped out, followed by
panic. But not because I thought this guy would “get” me. Instead I thought, “Oh
god, why I am drawing attention to myself?” and the only conclusion I could
come to was because of what I was wearing. How else does one draw attention to
oneself while walking through the skyway unless you are say… playing a guitar,
or have incredible B.O., or are running like Phoebe through the hallways of the
business folks? I was just walking to the bank. Minding my own business. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;">Upon
my return to the office, I told my friend about it. We laugh about it. And use
it as a line every now and then. Because we are goofballs. But the truth is, it
is scary. I still think about it when I wear the skirt I was wearing. Or the
boots I was wearing. Or the combination of them together again. His voice, his
words, crawl over my skin and slither along the back of my neck. And that is
the unfortunate thing.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;">I
didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I just was wearing what I thought was
a nice outfit, appropriate for a fall day in the office. I did not think, “Well,
let’s put on this skirt and see what kind of attention I get.” I don’t want
that kind of attention. If my girl friends tell me they like my outfit, that is
ok. Even my guy friends can say, in a normal tone, “Hey Coley, cool dress!” And
I will tell my guy friends, I love that tie! Or that color shirt looks really
awesome on you. But not “Nice pants.” While leering at his backside and
projecting a tone that indicates I love the way the pants hug his curves. Ew. Right?
Women get that a lot. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;">Comments
from strangers? They don’t feel good. No, that’s not true. I love when a female
admires my dress. Because it is not sexual. It is an acknowledgment of style
and class. And I reciprocate when I appreciate an outfit or dress, because it
is like receiving a warm fuzzy. But a male stranger commenting on my
appearance? No, thank you. It makes me uncomfortable.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;">Sure,
it could be an innocent remark, but it is all in the delivery and when paired
with a sinister oogle it strips any innocence and leaves a person feeling
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;">Next
time you choose to comment on someone’s appearance think of how it sounds. Is
it a warm-fuzzy, friendly “cool kicks!” or is it an objectifying, sexualized
remark? Who does this benefit?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;">Bottom line is: If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. ~Thumper</span></div>
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Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-74343346675926605842014-07-11T19:13:00.000-05:002014-07-11T19:13:28.653-05:00Cyrano De’Bergerac
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Once upon a
time, I played Cyrano De’Bergerac, kind of. I was 9 going on 10. At Vacation
Bible School. I had a crush on a boy. We’ll call him Brian. Brian had a crush
on Liz. Brian and I became pals in our four days together and I learned about
his crush. I was saddened, but did not give up our friendship. Ever the
wordsmith, I offered to write her a love note for him to send to her. In
exchange, he would do my weaving project. And I secretly hoped my letters
would help him realize that he had a crush on me and not Liz. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">It is funny to think as a 9 year old I had such a romantic notions and that I was brave enough to hide behind the curtain of friendship pining away while pouring my heart on paper. For someone else. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">It also makes me wonder why, when it was just four days together, did this moment become so engrained in my memory that I am able to recall the weather, the dress, and my shoes from a summer 24 years ago. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Brian certainly wasn't my first crush, which surprises me a little... why did I want to be in love so much? Was I so swayed by Disney princess? Probably. And the few "adult" movies I was allowed to watch - <em>Splash, Roxanne, </em>and <em>Princess Bride (</em>Cary Elwes & Fred Savage!!).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I am quite sure Brian was the last boy I "actively" (technically passively) pursued. Insert mom's voice here "Nice girls don't call boys." Until I was in college. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Who was your first crush? Do boys have crushes that young or is it just girls?</span></div>
Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-29708165679007990392014-04-04T08:41:00.001-05:002014-04-04T08:41:55.384-05:00Winning pieces read at the Winter Words Festival 2014<div class="_mrk" style="border-bottom-left-radius: 2px; border-bottom-right-radius: 2px; border-top-left-radius: 2px; border-top-right-radius: 2px; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); box-shadow: rgb(255, 255, 255) 0px 1px 0px, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 3px inset; box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 6px; min-height: 36px; padding: 8px; width: 250px;">
<a class="_mbp" href="http://youtu.be/UMiDUpWI6x8" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;">http://youtu.be/UMiDUpWI6x8</span></a></div>
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Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-10023118738530277922014-03-07T12:33:00.002-06:002014-03-07T12:40:15.948-06:00Optimism Always<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Some days or weeks after her funeral, I don’t remember which, we went to her apartment to help clear out her items. Her mother insisted we must take her clothes. Her things. They couldn’t go to waste at Good Will. We took heaps of clothing and tossed them in boxes and bags. Whether we wanted them or not, we were removing them from her condo and we would determine, without her mother’s teary eyes watching our 20 year old opinions judging the clothing of a 50 year old woman, what we would want. Extremely petite woman, I might add.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">When we were younger, we loved her hand-me-downs. My first pair of jeans at age 12 were from her. (Petite. Right?) But fashions changed and tastes vary and while we understood her need for us to carry on her memory, it wouldn’t be through her clothes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">How bizarre it was to be in her condo. We knew she lived in Eagan though we’d never been there. How do you fit 10 other adults in a two bedroom condo and entertain them. There really wasn’t a need when we could rotate through our regular triangle of meeting places. Bloomington, Richfield, and Lakeville. Then Bloomington, Richfield, and Ramsey. And later, Richfield and Ramsey. Of course, as the kids turned into adults we could add our homes into the rotation, but now we were at the Bloomington, Richfield and Ramsey phase.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Her modest life. All that was left. In an echoing condo in Eagan. Her furniture. Beautiful. But less lived in than most. She walked to Japan for work. Traveled lots. Didn’t have pets. Didn’t marry. Didn’t have kids.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She was vibrant, kind, and sweet. She was more like a big sister than a mother, though she was our mothers age. It was funny, to flip through her CDs. I didn’t even know the music she liked was the same as what I liked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In a box, where I tossed an coat, (which was quite huge and I don’t know how this petite lady even wore it) I found a tightly folded note. I opened it. I was sure it was a sign. Something for me to find.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It was dated a year after she found out she had cancer – five years before she passed away. It was like a cheerleader on paper. Her hopes and dreams for the life she wanted to live. Parts of it, I would say, she was successful in achieving and other dreams had escaped her grasp as she got sicker. And weaker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Nine years ago I read this note. It was written on Radisson paper. From a notepad in Japan. I still have it. Physically and in my heart. A phrase she wrote, that jumped off the page and invited tears from my eyes when I read it (and every time I think about it) was: Optimism Always.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She was in her 50s, with cancer eating away at her body, so much life and love left to give, and so many dreams unfinished -unrealized, but she kept her head up and lived her last breaths with optimism. Always.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-50320795065894628232014-01-19T20:37:00.000-06:002014-01-19T20:37:14.242-06:00Reflections on a quarter life crisis
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">When I was
25, I experienced a quarter life crisis. That’s right. Laugh. Many of my
co-workers at the time did. I bought a couple books on the topic. Yes. Books
exist. But then I didn’t read them; mostly because I was relentlessly teased by
people who were probably experiencing their mid-life crisis. The books have since
been given away – unread. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">But it doesn’t
make the experience any less real. And people still experience it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See YouTube clip below:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FoGa9JXfA7I"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FoGa9JXfA7I</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The quarter
life crisis is a result of truly feeling adult and then realizing it’s not all
you thought it would be. In my family, 25 was a magical number. All the women
in my family turned 25. Over and over again. So I idolized 25. I imagined
having a walk-in closet with clothes and never having the feeling of nothing to
wear. I would get married at 25. I would have a successful career at 25. Money
wouldn’t be an issue. Maybe I would even get pregnant at 25. I would certainly
have a dog at 25. One vivid memory of 25 was when I was in my Scottish Terrier
stage. (Now I am in a Kromfohrlander phase. I am pretty sure this one will
stick.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">It took me a
few years to fully shed my quarter-life crisis skin. During that time I was
able to release that constant nagging jealously that came about when something
significant happened to my friends or siblings i.e. engagement, house purchase,
marriage, pregnancy, etc. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">And also that
feeling that life hadn’t started yet. That one was a harder one to shake. I
think it might be more challenging for people who don’t go to school for a
specific career. Wandering from job to job until you find a career can be
somewhat deflating. How do you find meaning in life when your job is not
satisfying your desire and ambitions? So I took control of it. I made sure I felt
content outside of work by studying and then teaching yoga. I started my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">As I enter my
7<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> year of teaching yoga and near the end of my trainings to earn
my 200-RYT certificate, I feel amazed that my journey will have been 8 years in
the making. I signed up for three trainings this year and then I will have
three trainings to complete next year. It has been a long and winding path, but
I am so thankful that I have been able to teach at the YMCA throughout my
education and evolution as a leader in yoga. Yoga helped me find peace of mind
and probably helped me leave the quarter-life crisis in the dust. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">To be
continued…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-59361582406823514012013-08-14T13:33:00.001-05:002013-08-14T13:33:33.675-05:00Impressions<br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Pretty much my whole life I wanted to be a writer. And a teacher. My Great Uncle Ralph McInerny was my idol. He was a writer and a professor at the University of Notre Dame. So clearly, that was to be my path.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Ballet was my pastime and my passion. I had a love hate relationship with ballet, but that is a different story. In school, I struggled with math and science. The numbers and concepts overwhelmed my brain. Even now, it can send me into a mini-panic attack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My English teacher knew I wanted to be a teacher. She overheard the wrong part of a conversation and was offended by what she thought she heard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My dean, Mr. F., was always encouraging me to go to community college or not go to college at all. Which I took offense to. He knew I took time off from school to travel and perform with a ballet company so one day he took me into his office and suggested I skip college all together and open a dance studio instead. WTF? I had absolutely no interest in opening a dance studio. I had never expressed even an inkling of an interest in doing so. Even if I continued to be involved in dance, I would likely be an instructor, but owning a studio was not at all what I wanted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As I was explaining my dean’s advice to my friend, my teacher overheard me say:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“I would rather just be a teacher. That would be way easier!” And then she shot me some dirty looks and told me that teaching was not easy. I tried to explain to her that I was saying I didn’t want to own a dance studio; I would rather just teach at a studio. I am not sure if she believed me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It is funny how vivid this memory is to me. Even fifteen years later. It really stuck with me. My parents hadn’t gone to college and they instilled in me a desire, a need, to go to college. And I am so happy that I did. I am glad I ignored the advice of Mr. F. who saw my grades in math and science and decided that I should give up before I even start.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The meek and shy little girl I was, I said nothing. Or maybe I mumbled, “But I want to be an English teacher.” And exited Mr. F.’s office with my head hanging and the Charlie Brown sad music playing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I avoided taking math until my junior year of college. It sounded stupid at the time, to put it off, but I think it helped. It made me more determined and eager to seek out the extra help I needed to pass. And I did. With a B.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I did not become a teacher. I work in an office. I write when I can. I have taught dance in a studio. I teach yoga. I follow my dreams. Take that Mr.F!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-36334186745266042922013-06-02T09:53:00.001-05:002013-06-02T09:53:13.387-05:00VSPF 2013 - Life Online
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<a href="http://youtu.be/wJCwlIlqk_s"><span style="color: blue;">http://youtu.be/wJCwlIlqk_s</span></a></div>
Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-23532590258740371212013-06-02T09:51:00.000-05:002013-06-02T09:51:07.592-05:00VSPF 2011 - Date Anxiety
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCixPg80ZoQ"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCixPg80ZoQ</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-62964720994118442752013-01-27T18:13:00.002-06:002013-01-27T18:13:21.393-06:00The mask of make up
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt;">There
was a time in my life when I wanted nothing more than to wear make up. It would
make me beautiful. I was 13, 14, and 15, even a little of my 16<sup>th</sup>
year I spent desiring the ability to carry the round compact that would fit
comfortably in my palm. I thought it would be thrilling to pop open the little
mirror, touching up my face with smears of creamy, skin toned powder. I’d dream
that I would have already masked my face with the liquid gold foundation and
the powder would just be smoothing over any mishaps in the base. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt;">Then
one day, in science class, a girl who always wore make up showed up with none.
Her skin was whiter than usual. Her eyes looked tiny without the thick black
eyeliner she used to highlight the entire almond shape of each eye. No eye
shadow on her lid, nor reaching towards her eyebrows; and her lashes, not a drop
of mascara on them. She looked naked. She looked not herself. She looked dead.
Like the little old ladies who die their poodle like hair a brown or jet black
color to hide the reality of their scalp which honestly sprouts white and grey
tendrils, a sign of vacated youth. It takes many days to adjust to their new
look. Or maybe you can’t get used to it. They look as though the energy was
drained out of them. Sucked through their strands and now colorless, listless,
and lifeless. But back to girl in science class au-natural. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt;">It
was then and there that I decided make up was no big deal. Why would I want to
cover my face and hide who I really am? Did I want to make the pretend face me?
Did I want to go in public without it and then subsequently be unrecognizable?
Not that I didn’t wear make up, but once I did I limited it to blush, mascara,
and eye shadow. All of which could be worn at once, or all on their own, or
none at all. I didn’t want a certain look, especially one that was not real, to
become what was expected of me. I also didn't want to feel the need to have to wear something (other than clothing) to go out in public. Why should I wear a foundation, cream or powder
to hide flaws and imperfections? My imperfections make me who I am. They make
me unique. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-35437607763502709572012-10-10T18:56:00.001-05:002012-10-10T19:00:08.421-05:00My goals this weekgoals this week. 1) do not brew coffee on my desk, because that defeats the purpose of mugs and also ruins important work papers; 2) make sure any skirts or pants with elastic waist bands are secured around my waist and not hanging halfway down my... Boompa. Especially when leaving the confines of my cube to attend meetings.<br />
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*** This post was a draft from a year ago. I never published it. Maybe I was planning to add to it. Who knows. Brewing coffee on my desk - not funny, but the skirt falling off kind of is. Now, at least. Probably not at the time.Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-62952727242582182992012-10-10T18:56:00.000-05:002012-10-10T18:56:26.218-05:00without connection<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I resisted
cell phones for a long time. I did not see them as a necessity and I thought
they were silly. When I was 16 my parents got one. It was black. Flipped open
and you had to pull the antenna out. My dad placed it under the seat of his red
Mitsubishi and told me it was for emergency use only. It wasn't even turned on.
Those were the days when you had all your friends’ phone numbers memorized. If
someone handed me an empty cell phone and told me to call as many people as I
could, it would probably be my parents’ house. And maybe my boyfriend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">In 2004 I was
commuting to my job in Sauk Rapids, from Ramsey. My sister switched cell phone
plans and asked me to take her old one for the next two months until the plan
expired. I had no problem with that. The long drive was very remote; I planned
to get a job in the metro area, but during my commute to East Jesus Nowhere and
then some, it seemed like a handy safety precaution. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">By the time
the plan expired, I had secured a job in Maple Grove. I didn't feel compelled
to commit to a provider and be accessible to anyone at all hours. But my
boyfriend at the time did. And while, it wasn't the fact that he wanted
me to have one that caused me to succumb to the cell phone trend, (My 14 and 16
year old brothers had already consumed the once untouchable-emergency-phone-only,
by that time my parents both had cell phones and my brothers promptly absorbed
them.)it was for the reason that I was living with my parents and siblings and
the privacy of a cell phone was preferred to the old fashioned land-line method,
in which any of the household members or guests could pick up a line and
listen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">This was
inspired by the fact that I forgot my phone today. I found myself wondering if
I left it on my bed, if the cats would discover it and eat it, or if I dropped
it somewhere else, would I be able to find it when I got home, etc. And then I
thought remember that time when cell phones were something I never really
wanted? Now, here I sit iPhone on my mind, and feeling as though I went to work
without any pants on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-86219209412140280742012-05-17T11:59:00.001-05:002012-05-17T11:59:31.778-05:00My dad is 60!<span lang="EN"></span><br />
<span lang="EN"><div align="CENTER" dir="LTR">
TOP 60 Reasons why I am glad to be Bob Spooner’s Daughter</div>
</span><br />
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<li>He built his own slip and slide (and let us use it).</li>
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<li>He organized neighborhood flashlight tag games.</li>
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<li>He built a swing set with a swing for each kid.</li>
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<li>He does triathlons and we cheer him on, sometimes even do races with him. </li>
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<li>He took us on random Sunday drives with picnics.</li>
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<li>He likes the pop ‘n’ fresh.</li>
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<li>He paid a guy at Perkins in Grand Forks, ND to deliver a cheesecake to my dorm for my 19<sup>th</sup> birthday.</li>
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<li>He puts his wife and kids first.</li>
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<li>He delivered a #2 extra value meal for to my high school for my birthday.</li>
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<li>I thought he was so cool, and that if he chaperoned my 7<sup>th</sup> grade dance I’d be cool because we’re related.</li>
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<li> For my 20<sup>th</sup> birthday he and my mom drove 5 hours to Grand Forks, ND with NO HEAT in the car (my birthday is in December!!) to spend a few hours with me.</li>
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<li> He always does romantic things for my mom. </li>
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<li> In 2007 he called me at work because he heard a sad story on the radio, about a girl who my age, just to tell me what a good daughter I am. </li>
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<li>He encouraged me to run. And ran my first 5k with me. </li>
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<li>He is proud of me. </li>
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<li>He encouraged me to do triathlons.</li>
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<li>During my first triathlon, after he finished (long before me) he ran back to find me and finished my run with me. </li>
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<li> He convinced me to run a half-marathon.</li>
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<li>And then ran the half-marathon nice and slow with me. </li>
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<li> He always volunteers to help my mom out with the ballet company.</li>
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<li>He taught me how to tease. </li>
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<li>The time he gave us a puppy was an amazing memory. We were cleaning the house all day; because we were told he was bringing us presents. When he got home from work they sat us at the kitchen table and passed out gifts to each of us. They were each wrapped in dog wrapping paper. We ripped open the presents and found a leash, collar, bone, dishes, and a toy. "We are getting a dog!" We screamed. "No." He replied and paused a few minutes. "You’ve got a dog!" And then went out to his car and brought in a tiny, sleepy, buff cocker spaniel puppy.</li>
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<li>He went to all of Dustin’s football games. </li>
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<li>He followed Mikey across the country during his last year of drum corps.</li>
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<li> When we were young, he and my mom would make wonderful vacations out of watching him do triathlons. </li>
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<li>When we would drive thru McDonald’s and discover when we got home that they did not pack sweet and sour sauce, he would drive back and get us some. </li>
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<li>He brought us to Deadwood, SD in 1994. Actually, all over South Dakota. But Deadwood was most memorable. </li>
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<li> And then horrified us by telling us he wants to be buried in a pine box like Wild Bill.</li>
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<li>He shovels snow in his shorts.</li>
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<li> One year on Valentine’s Day, when we were all working in the Anoka area, he drove around to our work and dropped off Valentine treats!</li>
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<li>He and my mom loved us enough to send us to Catholic elementary school. </li>
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<li>He makes delicious SPOONER BURGERS (even though as a vegetarian, I can no longer eat them.)</li>
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<li>He catches shoplifters; even when on vacation.</li>
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<li>He is kind. </li>
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<li>He has a strong faith. </li>
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<li>He is so helpful! He has helped me move a billion times.</li>
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<li>And he has painted the house a million times. And the living rooms of each of his daughters. </li>
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<li> In 1999 when we went to a soccer tournament in Iowa we ate a lot of McDonald’s. It was a time when they were playing Monopoly. Dustin became convinced that we had a winning piece after lunch and we tried to find the piece from the day before. It turned out it had gotten tossed. We all became wrapped up in the idea that we had the Boardwalk or Park Place matching pieces, so he jumped in the hotel dumpster to find it. So sweet! He didn’t find it.</li>
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<li>He is patient.</li>
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<li>He is definitely the BEST DAD EVER!</li>
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<li>He built us a really cool toy box when we were kids.</li>
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<li>He is adventurous.</li>
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<li> My siblings had a first grade teacher named Mrs. Round. Mrs. Round would send home a bear with each of the kids and they would write a story about what the bear did for the weekend. Dad made it extra special because the bear always came back different than it left. One year he shrunk, one year he grew huge, the next year he got married, and the last year they had babies! He is so creative and fun.</li>
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<li>He is wonderful.</li>
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<li>He is generous.</li>
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<li>He is an awesome pop-up.</li>
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<li>He placed a bet with my third grade class about how much my baby brother would weigh when he was born. </li>
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<li> In college he sent me a care package and wrote a note "Dear Coley" from then on all my college friends, roommates and professors called me Coley.</li>
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<li>Our third grade teacher was a huge fan of the Cubs and when they were playing the Twins (or going the playoffs??) He snuck into her classroom after hours and hung every teddy bear he could find in our house upside from the ceiling.</li>
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<li> When he got transferred for work in 1999 and had to uproot our family from Lakeville, he made sure that every kid had their own room and that there was a bathroom in the basement.</li>
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<li>He is thoughtful.</li>
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<li>He likes hanging out with my grandpa and watching games. </li>
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<li> He makes the best pancakes.</li>
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<li>On his days off he would ride bikes with us to school and pick us up afterwards.</li>
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<li> He let us "camp" in the backyard when we were little and sleep in the tower. </li>
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<li>He is funny. </li>
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<li> When I was in elementary school he was riding his bike by school while we were outdoors for gym class. We were playing baseball, I was hiding behind a telephone pole and my teacher waved down my dad and was like "Mr. Spooner. Do you know what your daughter was doing?!?" I am pretty sure he just laughed.</li>
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<li> He is always happy. </li>
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<li>After Dustin was born, he picked up my mom and Dustin from the hospital in a limo and let us ride along.</li>
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<li>He beat cancer. </li>
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<span style="font-family: Papyrus,Courier New; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Papyrus,Courier New; font-size: small;">
</span></span><b><span style="font-family: Papyrus,Courier New;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Papyrus,Courier New;"></span></b><br />
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I love you dad! Happy 60<sup>th</sup> Birthday!!!! Love, Coley</div>
</span></b><span style="font-family: Papyrus,Courier New;"></span>Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-35187567808072444372012-04-28T11:12:00.000-05:002012-04-28T11:12:49.779-05:00Ballet, the bus and a grandma<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Sometimes
living downtown and working downtown is like being in high school. Or maybe on
a college campus. You walk through the halls (or skyways) and down the streets,
seeing different faces and sometimes the same. Most of the time, with the advent
of technology, people have become detached, in sorts, from humanity. So focused
on their iPhones or plugged into their iPods that they don’t truly see what is
around them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The other day
on the bus, I ran into a grandmother and her granddaughter. Over the course of
two years I have occasionally run into them on the bus. Mostly as an observer
of their interactions, but one day it was more than that and this particular
day I couldn’t recall why. I knew I had spoken to them about ballet before and I
was compelled to get up and move to sit near them and chat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It had maybe
been 6 months or so since the last time I saw them, so I assumed they would not
remember me. In seconds I thought of what the people would think of me as I moved
to the back to speak with them and show the little girl ballet pictures on my
phone. But frankly, as the thought crossed my mind, I realized I didn’t really
care. We had a short chat and ride before they made it to their stop for a
transfer. The conversation was circling ballet, and I said I thought it was
wonderful that this little girl liked ballet in a world where most kids are
drawn to hip hop, jazz and competition. At that point the grandmother mentioned
that the girl’s mother didn’t care for it, but the little girl loved it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">They smiled
and said bye as they walked the aisle to the front of the bus to exit. The
little girl, maybe 7 or 8, was dressed in her school uniform with her thick
white tights. A pink backpack hugged her shoulders and matched her jacket. As
they left I remembered why I needed to speak with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">For a year
and half I said nothing to them. I watched and listened. But one day I couldn’t
stand it anymore. The grandmother had given me an in while talking about
ballet. It was there that I intercepted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The little
girl’s mother was not her primary caregiver. The grandmother was. She always
made sure that the little girl knew how her mother was a bad person. Loudly.
The whole bus could hear their conversations. At least the grandmother’s side.
I would cringe. Listening to her yell at the girl for not wearing her mittens,
or for dirtying her clothes at recess, or for being hopeful about her mother. It
drove me bananas and I always wanted to stay “Stop yelling at her! She is just
a little girl!”<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Instead I kept
to myself, pretending to focus on my email messages or a game on my phone.
Heart breaking inside for the little girl. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t need to
speak to her like that. And when I got her to stop, it was as swift as a grand
jete across the stage, so she didn’t notice the redirection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">That particular
day the argument was about whether or not the girl’s mother had seen her dance
recital the previous year. The girl insisted she had. She and her grandmother
went back and forth and back and forth. I understood that the grandmother
wanted to protect her from her mother; she didn’t want to lead her to believe
her mother could be a better mother only to have the little girl be hurt. But I
don’t feel that fighting is the way to do it. And who am I to judge? A
childless stranger on a bus. But I did. The girl continued to argue that she
had seen a picture on her mom’s phone. The grandma insisted the mom was late
and only saw her bow, using the picture as false evidence for having witnessed
the recital. The little girl was hurt, but you could tell in her heart she did
not believe her grandmother. She wanted
to believe mother had seen her dance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I stepped in.
I couldn’t stand the fighting anymore. The poor sweet little girl clearly
already had enough issues to deal with and the grandmother constantly yelling at
her could not help. I asked about ballet. I brought the focus back to the
little girl and her love of ballet. For the next three stops I was able to
bring a smile to her face and to help the proud grandma brag about the little
girl’s talent. Relief crossed my tense shoulders and slipped down my back. With
one attempt of stepping out of my comfort zone and intervening, I was able to
have a peaceful ride. We all were. I did it for me, the bus driver, the
passengers, and most importantly, the little girl. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-3581798591513441432012-04-07T09:37:00.000-05:002012-04-07T09:37:42.045-05:00the clock with the knot<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Industrial Arts Class. 7<sup>th</sup> grade. I vividly remember the room although I can’t recall the teacher’s name. I can picture a couple boys in the class too. Our final project was to make a clock. I don’t really remember many details of the class, but this project I remember. We were allowed to select our wood from some pieces. We had to buy the wood. The wood I wanted to used was the more expensive kind; I didn’t care. I knew I wanted that wood. It was dark, like chocolate, and beautiful. It also had a knot in it. My instructor insisted that I sand out the knot. But I liked the knot. It was what made the wood perfect and unique. The knot was what drew me to select that particular piece of wood. I liked what the knot would do for my clock. It was like an eye into the tree. One remembrance that the clock was once a living thing and that it was art, created by my own hands and not mass manufactured in a production line of unhappiness. I don’t remember what I told the teacher. As a 12 year old, I was incredibly timid. If it were my sister in the same situation she probably would have argued the beneficial aspect of the knot until the teacher agreed with her and required all her classmates to have knots in their wood. I probably just nodded and walked away. Eventually he told me that if I didn’t sand down my knot I would get a lower grade for the project. I wasn’t going to sell out. Give up what I wanted for a grade. So again with the nod and likely a shrug, at least when I turned it in there was definitely a shrug, to let his disappointed tone roll off my shoulders and puddle at my feet. I was a proud owner of the perfect clock! The clock of my dreams. </span></div>Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-80684006496621417742011-07-12T20:18:00.000-05:002011-07-12T20:18:09.069-05:00The day I met Joyce Carol Oates<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">March 30, 2011</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">It was a cool day. Minnesotans were rooting for spring, while winter refused to concede. The snow that remained looked more like the ashes from the cigarettes of the smokers that lined Hennepin Avenue rather than the fresh white fluff that beautified the deadness of the season. As I entered the library, I saw the line of people at the top of the escalator. I thought it was short, but it was a line nonetheless, so I called my friend and told her I would get in line and save her and her friend a spot instead of meeting outside the library as we had planned. When I got to the top of the elevator I saw the line snaked across the hallway and was deep; I was thankful I decided to hold the spots. It was 6:00 pm and the reading didn’t start till 7:00. I was amazed at the variety of people in the line. Mostly they were older than me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">The emperor of the line sat in a chair outside of the auditorium in a silver suit topped with a red bowtie. He was short and rotund, seemed to perspire from the roots of his thinning hair. A white beard cupped his cherry cheeks and his arms hugged a tattered copy of an obviously loved book. In front of me, two women decided who should leave their spot to retrieve cookies from the table outside the auditorium. I dared not leave the line, but I was not tempted by cookies. I had stayed downtown after work, ate leftover Chipotle from my lunch, and then attempted to work out. Running after eating half of a football sized burrito is not a pleasant experience. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Finally the doors opened and the line crept like an inch worm across a sidewalk on a sunny afternoon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friends were still not here, I hoped they would arrive soon. As I slid along the wall I wall flowing with the people eager to see the famed author, I toted my heavy bag full of notebooks, books, and the sweatless gym clothes. I topped off the bag with my winter coat and scarf as it was too warm in the line. Ten people before I was about to enter into the auditorium my friends floated off the elevator and I waved them over. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">The next hour rolled by as the staff packed people into sits and extinguished any seats that were saved for a friend. The excess audience members (those who, unfortunately, were too late) were redirected to other rooms where they could watch the reading being broadcast on televisions for their viewing pleasure. At that moment, I felt even luckier to have been there early enough to get us all a spot in line. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">When Joyce Carol Oates walked across the stage, I discovered it hard to breathe. I was in the presence of an amazing writer. I have not read much of her work, but the handful of books I have read have moved her up to my favorite author shelf. There aren’t many.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">After her reading was the question and answer portion of the presentation. It drug on and on. Everyone said the same thing, over and over again. “You are my favorite author.” “Let me start out by saying you are my favorite author.” “You are amazing.” It did not seem that anyone had anything to say other than asinine remarks which ruined the magic of it all. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">As I got in line to await her signature, I clutched the new purchase in my hands. Seeing her at the table, over the crowd of bobbing heads was exciting. Closer and closer we crept. Luckily, we weren’t at the back of the line. We were maybe 30 people deep. When it came time to have her autograph the two friends I was with introduced themselves as recent MFA graduates. Maybe they said something profound or mentioned a favorite book of hers. I don’t remember. (I started to write this blog the day after I met her, but as you will see by the posting, it has been continued so my memories are not the freshest). What I said, to Joyce Carol Oates, was in reference to remark she made during her speech. It was actually more of a request than a statement. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">In her discussion she mentioned her cats a few times. She jokingly said, if you want to see a picture of her, I have them on my iPhone. I am pretty sure when I cracked open the book for the first time and slid it across the desk to her I had one of those stupid looks on my face. Much the same, I am guessing, as the people who proclaimed their love for her earlier at the Q & A. So what did I say to Joyce Carol Oates? The Joyce Carol Oates? Not the normal syrupy, sweet sucking ups of admiring readers or soon authors to be, I said to Joyce Carol Oates. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">“Can I see a picture of your cat?”</span></div>Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-54812283178264646462010-12-08T19:03:00.000-06:002010-12-08T19:03:34.283-06:0030 years of snow<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">It is funny how everything is quieter when snow falls. It is so peaceful. Realistically though, I suppose that it is only quiet when you are inside. In your office. The buzz of business buried under the silence. In your home: no music signing, no television set speaking, the ticking clock and the hum of appliances drowned out by the silent snow. The drivers in their cars glide easily and noiselessly through the mountains and valleys of roads yet to be plowed. Their shoulders hunched and knuckles gripping their steering wheels as if in some sort of prayer that the car will go where they want it to. Radios off and listening only for the screeching tires of a car behind them, or to the side, slipping through intersections with the same clutch on the wheel and a foot pressing pointlessly onto the brake pad.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Snow makes everything brighter. Everything clearer. The night becomes lighter. There is a magic that falls with snow only in December. When the snow is at its whitest, its freshest and its softest. It is said that no two snowflakes are every the same. No two snow falls are every the same either. It is like an art.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Walking past the Walker Art Center, the sidewalks sprinkled with bright spotlights from the ground up. It appears as though the lights are actually shooting snow up into the sky. Maybe it is an offering to share the snow’s beauty - returning to its origin.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ten years ago, for my birthday, my parents drove five hours to Grand Forks, North Dakota. To spend a snippet of time with me. Not only did they drive five hours, but they drove with no heat in their car. Five hours through Minnesota to North Dakota in December with no heat. Only now do I realize how crazy that is. And appreciate how much they love me. I was a horrible, horrible daughter too. I still am haunted by my behavior to this day. I think they night they got in we had dinner and then they went to the hotel and I went to a Christmas concert with my boyfriend at the time. He insisted I had to be there to see his brother sing. Why didn’t I invite my parents? Why didn’t I stay with them instead of go with him? I am so ashamed of myself. What an idiot I was. I am pretty sure the next week him and I broke up. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For that birthday they gave me my birthstone jewelry - blue zircon or blue topaz earrings and a necklace. My ears that I had pierced when I went away to college at age 18 on rare trip to the Columbia Mall had since closed up. I had friends, Katie and Ghost, re-pierce my ears in my dorm room later that day. I imagine the scenario was not unlike my mom’s ear piercing experience when at age 15 or 16 she let her friends pierce her ears in the warm detached garage of her parents’ home on a summer day. One held a potato behind her ear and punctured her ear with the needle while the other stood close by with the ice. I think her experience was more successful - eventually my ear swelled up and looked like a deflated balloon – just a little red bubble waited to expound. I don’t often attempt to wear earrings and when I do I am usually sorry. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Eleven years ago my birthday was my first year away from home. My first year at UND. That year my dad called the manager at the Grand Forks Perkins and pleaded with him to deliver a cheesecake to my dorm room. Typically they don’t do that, but somehow my dad managed to soften the man’s heart and a cheesecake was delivered to Selke hall. I don’t care for real cake. I can’t stand frosting. I always had a unique birthday cake and my family is not always a fan. Once a stack of Mickey’s chocolate donuts. Once a pile of strawberry newtons. Another couple birthdays were cherry pies. And many, many cheesecakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My 19<sup>th</sup> year, my friends and I feasted on the delicious cheesecake. You don’t realize how delicious outside food is until you are deprived from it for months, forced to eat dining center meals day after day after day. Of course, being college students, we didn’t have much in the way of flatware and ate it straight out of the box with plastic forks. What a fun birthday. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My freshman year is when my nickname “Coley” caught on mainstream. Prior to that, it was just my family, my dad mainly who would call me Coley. I had a lot of nicknames. Coley, Cole, nickelodeon, coca-cola, Nicki (I only let one person call me that. My great uncle Billo.) My friends were witnessing me open a care package from my family. My dad slipped a note in there and also enclosed a dog treat (from my dog, Oscar) and addressed me as Coley. When my friends saw that they thought it was so cool and from then on called me Coley. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This year my birthday dessert is actually going to be a cake. It will be what is known as a “Better than Sex Cake” which I have only consumed at bachelorette parties or bridal showers. But why waste the delectable combination of chocolate and caramel for only those once in a lifetime occasions? I will call my cake, my “better than my twenties cake”. As I embark upon my thirties I want to start it out with bang. Ok, not a bang, but I at least want to be proud and be happy to be thirty. (I think I got a little woozy there.)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Growing up, the women in my family were always 25. It was the idolized age. The perfect age. Age was such a secret and 25 was where the women stalled. My mom? 25. My grandma? Miraculously 25. My mom’s cousin, Jeannie – 25. And Pasty, Jeannie’s mom (also Billo’s wife). There was one little glitch though. I was present at my mom’s 30<sup>th</sup> birthday party. But then she reverted to 25. But now, having actually been there, there is no way would I want to go back to 25. 28 was ok, 29 was good, but 25? No, it’s not for me.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dear god I was at my mom’s 30<sup>th</sup> birthday party! How insane is that? My sister was there too. I have vague memories here and there, but I know I was at the party. There are pictures to prove it. And I was four. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Recently I read somewhere, “love exactly where you are”. I am working on loving exactly where I am. Too many years I have spent looking forward to the future. For a future I had preplanned. For the future I had expected would be mine. What a silly thing to think you can control life when all you can control is how you react to it. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Love exactly where you are. Standing on the edge of turning thirty, toes inching over the line and I am going to love it. Whether I like it or not. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
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</div>Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-11098909037937478782010-10-24T09:42:00.000-05:002010-10-24T09:42:27.770-05:00Writing about the weddings<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">2010 was the year of weddings. In 2004 I was in my best friend from St. Cloud State’s wedding, in 2006 I was in my sister’s wedding, and in 2008 I was in my best friend from the University of North Dakota’s wedding. In 2010 I was in three weddings. Three weddings in two months. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">August 27, October 2 and October 9 (actually I had two friends getting married on 10/9, but I was only in one of them so that made it easier to figure out which one to go to.) Bam. Bam. Boom. This weekend was the first weekend since June or July that I didn’t have to do something wedding related. Or think about a wedding. Initially I was looking forward to this weekend, but when it came around it was quite strange. My life as a bridesmaid had come to a sudden halt. Ironically enough Monday starts off with a funeral of a very close relative. Three weddings and funeral. Wasn’t that a movie?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">My friend Jessica’s wedding was October 2. I met Jessica when I lived in St. Cloud (round two). I worked at a law firm there from July 2007 to July 2008. I met Jessica in my yoga class around November 2007. She was in the back row. Very good at yoga, but I could also tell she had been trained in classical ballet from the way she carried herself. I chatted with her after class and discovered that she was fairly new in St. Cloud, like me, was there for her job but didn’t really know anyone. So she asked me to hang out some time. And we did. And it was fun. Thank goodness for yoga and ballet or I would never have the pleasure of knowing Jessica. I am so glad to have met her. We both got each other through some tough times. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Anyway. Jessica and Jon’s wedding was at Deep Portage Learning Center in Hackensack, MN. Not typically a wedding venue, there was no staff to clean up after the wedding. So the bride and groom informed everyone that they would be coming back to clean the morning after and invited anyone who could to stay and help out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">I had attended a wedding at Deep Portage in August 2009 (maybe they should consider being a wedding venue) and spent the morning cleaning with the bride and groom. It felt wrong to watch the newlyweds up bright and early, vacuuming, moving chairs, and tearing down decorations. Since I knew what it was like, I emailed all Jess and Jon’s friends and asked if we could clean up without their assistance. (I don’t think the morning after my wedding I will be saying to my husband – hey… let’s go clean up from that big bash we had last night.) They had done so much work and planning and suffered many stressful moments that I just wanted them to relax. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">So under the direction of Jon’s sister and her husband, who would know what to do with décor, flowers, etc. We decided to do the clean up. At the rehearsal dinner I was to present Jon and Jessica with that gift. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">After the father of the groom spoke, Jessica and Jon gave a speech and started handing out gifts. I approached Jessica and asked her if I could say something. She looked kind of confused… probably thinking, “Ok, bridesmaid #6, why in the world would you have something to say at our rehearsal dinner? It was not in the plan.” But she said sure anyway. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">I think I have a hard time giving a serious, sincere speech. Maybe not. I don’t know. I have never had to give one before. But suddenly during dinner, I decided that I should write my “speech” in the form of a poem. I tried to make it rhyme. Something I hadn’t done since I was 12.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">So I stood up. Held my deposit ticket in my hands. (The deposit ticket from my check book was where I wrote the poem. I had nowhere else to write it.)</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Dear Jessica & Jon</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">We love you a ton.</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Tomorrow we will have</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">So much fun.</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">The day after that</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">When up comes the sun –</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Please stay in bed, pull the</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Sheets over your head.</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">We’ll clean up DP</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Cuz you’ll be so sleepy.</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Don’t lift a finger</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Just let yourself linger</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">In the morning after bliss,</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Just enjoy your sweet’s kiss.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">The end. You don’t really want to read about the cleaning process. Nor do I want to write about it, but it was actually quite fun and we got most of it done before morning.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLmjTiSJ8a0LkQVjgErORTR9388dzLrBxQjfXJM6ENVsDj3BDFHXh26vgBZVNOOmWUbvN3-A6hqgzX43sL-NaBz_Jz1MKFymBYhWx9Eu0JFHlveXoaFNi4ZEhVOC3MwvCcpgysd0jv84V0/s1600/Honza+wedding+(210).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLmjTiSJ8a0LkQVjgErORTR9388dzLrBxQjfXJM6ENVsDj3BDFHXh26vgBZVNOOmWUbvN3-A6hqgzX43sL-NaBz_Jz1MKFymBYhWx9Eu0JFHlveXoaFNi4ZEhVOC3MwvCcpgysd0jv84V0/s320/Honza+wedding+(210).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy__atL8G8meuHTfwNzHtRmXZ4flXb9yx1XbA1bLjo-cndkCa8TK6MBgH3ibBYHzj8qW39-hDPnVxf2d8IkzPdarN6UhyphenhyphenFIieYwPddlyHUIKz-9ZijjkXvGcsvLlsfD2COAJ1EV6q2ECTC/s1600/reflection+shadow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy__atL8G8meuHTfwNzHtRmXZ4flXb9yx1XbA1bLjo-cndkCa8TK6MBgH3ibBYHzj8qW39-hDPnVxf2d8IkzPdarN6UhyphenhyphenFIieYwPddlyHUIKz-9ZijjkXvGcsvLlsfD2COAJ1EV6q2ECTC/s320/reflection+shadow.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-57432502317759421882010-09-22T21:16:00.000-05:002010-09-22T21:16:51.281-05:00Not fictional like a unicorn<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> <span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">My hair stylist is in Andover. I have moved many, many times in the past 5 years. 6 official moves and 3 transient moves. Dear God. In 5 years. That is a lot. In all fairness, the moves were prompted by life quakes that were out of my control. One was initiated by a creepy neighbor in my complex; others by career moves. In or around the late winter or spring of 2006 I found my hair stylist. At Karrin's Salon. Now known as Kalla Lily, but my stylist has moved on. When I found her I must have lived in Mounds View, but worked in the Anoka area, where her salon was. Her father was a partner in the company I worked for; wanting to support a newer woman in the work force and a daughter of a partner in my company, I visited her. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Some people don't appreciate the perfect hair stylist for their hair. To some people hair is hair and a scissors can be maneuvered by anyone who can swivel a chair and frames a license from the department of commerce near the mirror and above the hot hair appliances (i.e., the curling iron, flat iron, and the smoking hair dryer...)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">But I have found The One. Not "The One" as in married, children, white picket fence, two cats in the yard, (which may just be about as fictional as a unicorn), but The One. The One who can manage my hair. It is an amazing feat. She can cut it and style it and make it look nice. The trick is that the cut has to stay nice. The cut has to work with my hair. Many stylists can't figure it out. I have thick, wavy, heavy hair that needs just the right touch to stay tolerable for me to carry it for the next 6 - 9 weeks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">I sit in the swivel chair, cloaked in the black cape, and she stands behind me, a comb in her left hand and the shears in her right. Kind of similar to a noon-time show down. The street clears. The double doors swing, one hinge creaking in the silence of the dust blown cowboy town. Spurs sparkling in the sunshine, armed with tools for shaping, thinning, straightening and shining in the loops of her apron. She always wins the draw. My hair becomes limp and lets her do her magic. (It is magic. No one else can do it.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">In high school, I remember a teacher being interrogated because she got her hair cut in Coon Rapids. Being a high school student in Lakeville, Coon Rapids sounded a billion miles away (it kind of is) and like a completely different world (it really is). The kids were baffled by her dedication to a stylist. She drove. All the way. To <em><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Coon Rapids</span></em>. She worked in Lakeville and lived in Woodbury. Coon Rapids did not seem convenient.</span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">When it comes to hair, it is simply not about convenience. You find The One and you don’t let her or him go. Change is scary. Especially when it means giving the power of controlling a definition of you (yes, let’s face it, people do judge you by your hair and therefore makes your hair cut defining.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I tried the convenience route. I did. With 6 moves in 5 years, you kind of start to think you should do things convenient as possible. I tried stylists in St. Cloud. Twice. And went back to The One. Tried two different stylists in the southern suburbs when I lived there and still, thinking I should be paying for convenience rather than perfection, tried two different stylists downtown. They each got three strikes and were out. I hung my head, tuck my hair under my hat, and returned to The One.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">And I am so much happier now. She understands my hair and she knows what I want. She gets it. She has since relocated from her Anoka salon to an Andover salon. My past two appointments have been at 8:00 PM after a yoga class. I drive heavy-lidded, but faithfully, 38 miles to see her. 8:30 – 9:00 is usually my bedtime, but needing to see her and avoiding traffic was necessary. So I got in when I could get in. Of course, convenience has tempted me now and then. I will admit, as I am driving up Highway 242 I think about how nice it would be to just walk to a salon in Uptown or skip through the skyway to a spa after work sometime…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">But. I will not waiver. The easy way out is not always the best way. I will not cheat. Not when I have found The One. My perfect hair stylist. (Let me know if you want her number. I am not greedy. I will share the hair happiness.) </span></div><br />
</span>Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809292581737962598.post-20932206224971906042010-09-06T12:22:00.000-05:002010-09-06T12:22:04.704-05:00a free writing exerciseWriters write. Unless, of course, you are me. I have known from day one that I wanted to be a writer. Ok, since I can’t positively identify the exact moment it was that I knew I wanted to write let’s put it around kindergarten. I have loved books since I was a baby. Ask my mom, she’ll vouch for me. Some children’s’ books, although I can’t recall the story, have etched their images in my mind. Pictures that helped develop my world and feed my imagination. One of my all time favourites - “The Little Engine That Could”. Who wouldn’t love a happy, blue, smiley train that wants to deliver toys to children? <br />
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I have a memory of my 8th birthday. We lived in Lakeville. Our house was beautiful. We had a blue two-story, with white trim. The porch was a haven; for watching the evening sky descend, families out for after-dinner walks or bike rides, and the best seat in the house for thunderstorms. (During thunderstorms we were promptly ushered to the basement and set up with a radio tuned in to WCCO and a red-orange flashlight with a cushy white button that you would press hard to summon the beam – the flashlight we would inevitably fight over, and our parents would go survey the house ensure all the windows had been closed and they would be gone for so long that we would sneak upstairs. Panicked that they had been swept up by a sudden tornado we would search for them until we found them sitting on the porch watching the rain and the lighting; the thunder sending vibrations through their white painted, metal chairs that accented the houses’ trim.) <br />
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My birthday is in December. It never bothered me to have a December birthday. I loved the holiday season, the Christmas music, the silent snowfalls, and the icy blizzards. We would go sledding at the creek by Lake Nokomis. Our plastic sleds shooting down the hill, sometimes coming to a stop right before the edge of the creek and other times, creeping over the edge and then plunging three feet to the frozen water below. <br />
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On this particular birthday we had our Christmas concert at school. I went to a Catholic Elementary school so we had the pleasures of celebrating Christmas – the true meaning of Christmas; manger scenes, the three kings, Saint Nicholas and all. It was a wonderful time. That birthday my grandparents came over to our house first, maybe for dinner and cake, and then we went to the concert. For my present they gave me a pencil lamp. On the tip of the lead is where the bulb sits. When I first received the lamp it was bright red. Since then it has been painted to match my room. For a while it was light pink, now it is burgundy, but I intend to paint it a Tiffany blue to match my studio apartment. My studio isn’t painted yet either though. <br />
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As we drove off in the snow I remember looking back to my bedroom and seeing a warm light glowing from my desk. I felt proud. I loved my lamp. Such a practical thing for such a little kid. But I took it as a representation of my future as a writer. The other windows were lit by little electric cream coloured plastic candles with bright, orange light bulbs, my window had one two, but my shining lamp was luminous. And mine.<br />
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Writers write. Starting in 5th grade I knew I did not care for my English class. I still remember a “poem” I doodled when we were in class. “English is so boring, I feel like I’m snoring and if I want a treat I will stare at Catherine’s feet.” Since I attended Catholic school we wore uniforms and the only outlet for fashion or proclamation of difference was our footwear. And feet rhymed with treat and at that point I still believed that poems had to be a few short words mushed together in a sing-songy, rhyming manner. When we began our poetry unit I became serious. From that day forward until I graduated high school, I wrote at least a poem a day. Some of the poetry is so stupid and embarrassing that I have conflicting feelings about it. I am thankful that it is buried deep behind boxes, cat fur, and whatever other items might get shoved under my bed away from public eyes, but I am also glad that it is only under my bed and not in the trash, lost forever. I meticulously dated every poem. For some reason I have always been obsessed with recording things. Knowing exactly when something in my life occurred. <br />
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Progressing through the years I have released some of that need for “recording”, but I for some things I do still hold on tight. Like working out. I need to write down when I worked out and how long, etc. etc. I think it is so I can look back and figure out how to stay in shape or get back in shape if I lose it. Which I have, several times. That is miserable and oh-so-depressing when you stop working out and gain weight, become soft, and lazy. It is so incredibly hard to get back into shape. Especially when the results don’t show immediately; it is my goal to never be out of shape again. Writing it on the calendar enables me to visualize my work out routine and the little empty calendar spaces instill immense guilt and motivate me to return to my early morning regime at the YMCA. The recoding is obsessive compulsive, I know. But at least outward, it doesn’t appear too strange. There are worse things to need to do on obsessive compulsive basis. <br />
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In junior high and through high school I became seriously dedicated to classical ballet. That consumed my time, even more so than homework (although I never let the reading or schoolwork slide) and my mantra became “After I am done dancing, I will focus on writing.” Don’t get me wrong, I tried to write. I would start “young adult” stories that I thought would turn into bestselling novels. But the time I did not have to devote to these writings left me scatterbrained and unable to finish one complete story. As I got older my stories and poems leaned toward the romantic side. Then I started to worry. How in the world was I supposed to write about a kiss when I had never experienced a kiss? Or write about characters with boyfriends when I had never had a boyfriend. And so came college. My desire to experience things so that I could write about them took a front seat to writing. I still took creative writing classes and did my assignments, but I took to heart the old adage “write what you know” and I spent more time living than writing.<br />
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Upon college graduation, I returned to ballet. It was a safety net. It was an escape from the “real world” and my problems. As a graduate, having studied creative writing and journalism, I wanted a career in writing. Due to unforeseen circumstances that shall go unmentioned, I was unable to partake in on-campus writing opportunities and internships. At the University of North Dakota I took the two creative writing courses I could. <br />
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I wrote for “The Dakota Student”. Missing performing I became involved in the theatre department and performed in a handful of plays. At the end of my sophomore year, I planned to transfer to St. Cloud State University. For a few reasons. One, a boy, though that is a long and complicated story and shall, again, go untold; two, to attend a school that would allow me to earn a bachelor of arts in Creative Writing; and three, to get back into ballet again, the only form of fitness I thought I could do. I was asked to apply for the Editor of Arts & Entertainment position for “The Dakota Student” but my transfer papers were in place and I had used up all the creative writing class at UND. I could not stay.<br />
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At SCSU I wrote an opinion piece for the “University Chronicle”. It got a couple emails of positive feedback. That felt nice, but it was all I ever did on campus, aside from my class work. <br />
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2005, two years after my return to ballet, I quit. I wanted to write. The ever-present reason for why I do the things I do and I also wanted to spend time with my current boyfriend. Ballet was time consuming and when paired with a full time job there was little time left for relaxing. That, and the full time dancers were in much better shape and it was hard to be satisfied with my ballet technique when everyone else was training on a daily basis. <br />
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All these years I have been writing. But I want to write more. I want to write more frequently. I take classes at The Loft, but I want to make writing a part of my daily routine, like it used to be. I found at The Loft, like in college, I was thriving amongst the other writers. The feeling of being around creative people and people who have a passion for writing is like a runner’s high. I feel so amazing; creativity is seeping out of me and imagery is spilling on to my pages, filling them quickly. I told a friend once that I liked being surrounded by creative minds and the enjoy sound of their brains pouring out through ink onto paper or playing their laptop keyboards like a sonata. I have never been musically talented, but when I am typing away on my keyboard imagine I know what a pianist feels like. It is like speaking tongues, a divine intervention; suddenly, what I can’t do in my studio apartment, is flowing from me and I can’t stop it. I am out of control and very much in control at the same time. And usually, I feel so happy. Content. A big sigh and I can’t wait to do it again.<br />
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Life gets in the way. Work, teaching yoga, working out, spending time with friends, family, and dating has all taken precedence. But now I am ready to focus and to fit writing into my schedule. With the right motivation and accountability, I will get it done. Just like working out. I have been going to the YMCA most every morning before work for the last year and a half. The “regulars” notice when I am missing, check on me the next day, and poke fun at me when I go through a sleeping in phase. Aside from being healthy and fitting into my clothes, I go to the gym because the ladies will expect me to be there and they will worry if I am not.<br />
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Fortunately I found out I am not the only writer with this problem. (You know? The one where the whole life thing gets in the way?) This fall, my writing friends and I are going to gather at a predetermined destination and write. Perhaps do some writing exercises. Maybe do a little work shopping. Thank you, in advance, to my fellow writing pals. Those who would like to enhance their writing practice and those that need the right motivation, the right environment, the right table, and the right cup of coffee to write.Coleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450171356082756179noreply@blogger.com0