Freedom of Voice

Recently, my friend Helen shared an article from the  New York Times with  13-word love stories  it solicited from its readers. Always up for a challenge, I responded to her thread on Facebook: A blind date arranged by my airheaded sister became love at first sight.  Of course, there's a lot more to the story, but it was fun condensing it into one line. So, I decided to use 13 words to describe other life events. It's especially fitting because in my house, 13 is a favorite number, a lucky number. For those of you who like a challenge, this is a fun one. I'd love to see your 13-word stories or descriptions in the comments section! Parenthood Wiping butts, noses, spills, and tears until there's nothing left to wipe up.  A bundle of emotions--the good, bad and ugly--wrapped in a blanket.  The hungry love that chews its way into every cell, swallows you whole.    Career When you receive a paycheck for pursuing your passion...

It's not a coincidence that more than one very important person in my life has recently exclaimed, "You need to get back to work!" I believe that messages are all around us. Some are subtle; this one was not. I don't disagree. In fact, I am one of those important people. Flashback to that 80's PSA showing an uncracked egg, the narrator announcing, "This is your brain." OK. Then, in dramatic fashion, the egg is cracked wide open and dropped it in a hot cast iron pan. As it sizzles, he proclaims, "This is your brain on drugs! Any questions?" Yeah, I have one: Who wants a fried brain? Not me. I can assure you my brain isn't the fried variety--more like soft boiled, maybe even scrambled. Don't get me wrong, my 6-month sabbatical has not been spent lounging on the couch eating bonbons and watching soap operas all day. I started writing a book. I completed the Artist's Way, a 12-week creative recovery program. Took an online grat...

What happens when you commit to posting a weekly blog piece--one that will show the world your heart--and all the thoughts and ideas swirling in your head prevent you from honing in on a publish-worthy piece? You admit it. My problem isn't a lack of ideas, it's too many ideas. After a four-day inspiring writing conference in Sanibel, I left pumped about micro memoirs and other tiny texts and new forms of poetry to try. The following evening, I saw a fantastic stage version of The Giver that left me contemplating the human condition. Four days after that, we went to the Imagine Dragons concert. The energy from that is still coursing through my veins. I am buzzing--like someone hopped on too much caffeine. "Let it percolate!" my friend Laurie would say. I'm percolating all right. I just wish I had some fresh brew to serve my friends.

For the past few weeks, I've unwittingly abandoned my normal "when life gives you lemons, make lemonade" attitude and have adopted a "when life gives you lemons, find the sourest one there is and suck on it until you pucker so hard your face collapses into itself" philosophy. It's not a good look. Not only does it not look good, it doesn't feel good. Anyone who knows me knows I much prefer bitter, intense flavors--think dry red wine, sharp cheese, straight up espresso, hot sauce--to mellow or sugary bites. But my taste in food and drink doesn't necessarily match my personality. Not that I'm always Sally Sunshine, but for the most part, I do lean toward the optimistic side of the feelings meter. It all finally came to a head early last week. It will hereafter be known as Meltdown Monday. John came home for lunch, a real treat at the moment because I'm not back to work yet, and it's kind of nice to see him in the middle of the day.  W...