Dani California's New Home

To my faithful readers, dear friends and loyal fan base (thanks, mom and dad,) -

After attempting to fulfill the creative need and justify my journalism degree by participating in the blogosphere for almost four years, I've decided to really get serious about this. Well, sort of. But I did buy a domain, and I am going to see where this little blogging adventure takes me. So, please come see me at:

WranglerDani.com

...where I will continue to beguile you with tales of my life and bulleted lists of my favorite things.

Thank you for your faithful readership, your friendship, and for continuing to like me even when I lose the filter and just keep writing past my better judgment.

Therapy

One of my friends has recently started reading my blog - or at least has just let me know that he is...

At any rate, he made the comment to me that he liked reading it to "get inside your head... I can tell it's really good/therapeutic for you to write that stuff." Now, this made me a little squeamish, as I've written about what makes me sneeze or cry, compulsively buying home supplies, blueberry muffin weather, and most recently, making out with an apartment complex, none of which cater to the higher kinds of tastes that I should be aiming to satisfy.

I imagine Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Victor Hugo, C.S. Lewis, George MacDonald and countless other of my personal influencers and heroes sitting down at the old-fashioned blog of their day and spewing out wise sayings, witty, hilarious thoughts and jaw-dropping insights with a flick of their fountain pen. Was writing therapeutic for them?

I hate to admit it, but these silly ramblings are good for me. Blogging or writing something, no matter how dumb, is often the highlight of my day, and I wonder where this compulsion comes from.

I remember writing a "book" as a child about a cat. I think her name was Spotty, after the very creatively-titled white-and-orange-spotted feline who wandered into our lives just long enough to have kittens and wander out again. I don't remember anything about it, other than I was very proud of my illustration abilities and my title, which was... ...wait for it: "Cat Tails". I know. I kill me.

Anyway, my first attempt never got picked up by a publisher, Oprah never needed this child prodigy on her show, and I've sunk into a blissful oblivion, writing away whenever I feel the need and enjoying the relatively calm buzz of seeing your work online.

As much as I dream of being the next Bronte or Austen, these ramblings are OK with me for now. I hope that my heroes forgive me a little public therapy... ...and that you will too. Thanks again for listening.

I've been temporarily distracted by... anything.

I can be a rather staid person, sometimes to the point of being so responsible that I forget to have fun. (You're thinking: we know you're no fun, and now you're Captain Obvious. Wow, Dani, this is really boring. If I wasn't stuck at work, I'd leave this awful blog and never come back... Well, fine then. Nobody is making you stay. Shoo. You and your mean thoughts. Anyways.)

Lately, though, I am completely distracted at the slightest provocation. Actually, the above paragraph is a perfect example. I started out telling you that I'm very grown-up and responsible, and ended with a snarky conversation between myself and my reader's imaginary thoughts. This imagination thing takes distraction to a whole new level.

Because of my complete inability to hold one thought for longer then a minute at a time, (My hands smell funny. Is that the keyboard smell? Wait, blog? Ummm, yes.) Anyway, because of the short-attention-span that is plaguing my life lately, today's post is in bulleted points of whatever random thoughts fly into my head. Enter at your own risk. (Mmmm. Blueberry muffin. This is definitely blueberry muffin weather. I wonder if Starbucks still has those lowfat-but-not-really ones? That sounds so good right now.)

Oh yeah. Blogging. First Bullet. GO.

• It's blueberry muffin weather.
• "Blueberry muffin weather" is when it's the perfect blend of stormy and fall-ish and we all (my family) hung out cooking (and eating) eggs and muffins until late morning, at which point we all just wanted to go back to bed thanks to our distended tummies, but instead would foolishly go chop firewood or something.
• Christmastime is here! Well, not really. But the mall and Starbucks are sellin' the Corporate Christmas Scene and I'm buyin'. I can't help myself. Something about the red ribbons, twinkle lights and eggnog just makes me happy...
• Naps are amazing. I've taken to getting home around 4:30 and crashing for at least an hour before my nightly activities begin. It's one of the best things about my entire day. Which is actually a little sad when you think about it...
• I need to work out more. Lately naps have had priority over sweat, so my fat has had priority over my muscles. Yuck.
  
• Speaking of working out, I work on the 6th floor of my office building, and can often be found running up and down the stairs following particularly aggravating projects - it doesn't work so well in heels, though. Frustration management and traditional business wear don't mix. I almost tumbled to my death last week.
• Hence, today I am taking advantage of the fact that it's Friday, and am in baggy pants and sneaks. I've already run the stairs twice and it's only 10 a.m.
• Friday. Just the name brings a smile to my face and a sparkle to my eye.
• I have to work this weekend though. Boo that.
• Diet Coke doesn't have the polar bears on their Christmas cans anymore, and this is very sad. They've replaced caffeine-addicted fuzzy characters with generic holiday-ish patterns and I am not a fan. Way to lose your edge, Diet Coke. At least Original Coca-Cola stayed true to Saint Nick.
• I got involved in an interesting discussion of facial hair last night. OK, so I wasn't really involved per se - I didn't have a whole lot to add as far as my facial hair growth patterns - but I was fascinated. How do bristles just sprout out of the side of your face? All six or so guys standing around had funny stories about shaving too often or with a wild boar tusk or something. That would actually make a great book. "Not by the Hair of My Chinny-Chin-Chin - Manhood, boyhood, the first shave and the quest for beardedness" Nobody steal this - I'm sensing a Bestseller here.
• One of my good friends is having a black and white birthday party tonight. I realized I don't have anything black and white. Nothing. So I bought a white shirt and will get away with pin-striped pants, I hope. If I still lived with Val some serious closet-raiding would be happening tonight.
• I cut my hair. Just cut it all off. Kirsten and I went to dinner the other night and were both complaining about our hair, so we decided to fix it then and there. We went to SuperCuts 'cause we're classy like that, and paid $18 for incredibly smokin' new wigs. Anyway, I cut about 5 inches off all the way around. Shorter in the front, longer in the back - but not a mullet. Just so we're clear.
• White-Out is so fun. I've pretty much mastered the White-Out on Post-It Note art form. Wait, what? I don't know who that girl is. I'm working.
• I bought a table at a garage sale for a buck and then spent $30 on paint and stuff to re-finish it, because that math makes perfect sense. Actually, though, "working in the shop" has been super fun, and I'm really looking forward to getting grubby again this weekend.
• Speaking of the shop, we've transformed Adam's fun garage into a SUPER fun garage, with two kayaks, a mountain bike, fishing gear, body boards and now, woodworking projects. His neighbors love us.
  
• Since the woodworking craze began, I call Adam's garage "The Shop", FYI.
• And, he's building me a chest/home for a very small, very naughty person who needs to be locked up in a box. Actually, I jest. It's gonna be awesome and I can't wait to fill it with stuff and set my hot cocoa on it on a winter evening. We even found the perfect hardware for it.
• I need to go kayaking.
• I need to quit making a random list and get back to work.
  

Muddy Waters

I have fought with myself long and hard over this. I’ve never thought of myself as a work-a-holic, but the strange stagnation of unemployment has assured me that I am one.

When I look through my old journals and into my dreams, I see so many longings. Some that could have been allayed by simply doing something rather than staring misty-eyed into the dusk - some that are just vague longings that I still fear to capture - lest they poof away like a spritely fairy in my hand.

I am always thinking that something should change - that I would be better, more creative, that I would be more beautiful, if only - fill in the blank. As I look back at my life, these mere 23 years, I’m increasingly convinced that all of my blanks have much less to do with my success than I give them credit for.

I have also realized that I am far too focused on my success in the first place. Greatness is not to be grasped. While I suppose it’s accurate to refer to myself as a work in progress, am I relishing the work or just hanging on, hoping, straining and longing for progress - the end result?

I am always gazing around the bend, never content to drink in the joys of this moment, this sunlit stream, these pauses for laughter and reflection. Without even realizing it, I heartlessly rob myself of today because of my lust for tomorrow, and don’t grant myself the pride of a job well done because I always think I could have been better.

I have fought for inspiration for months now. What was once a clear-flowing stream has become a muddy trickle, so full of weeds and contradictions that I’ve grown tired of even looking for the source, the spring-water, but have simply turned my back, leaving my fields to parch and my soul to burn.

I feel so inadequate, even admitting to people out in the world that I aspire to write. “I think I’m kinda creative,” I say with a shrug, and think condescendingly of the many nights I have sat and stared at a blank sheet - or worse, given up completely and zoned out to the mindless blare of the TV.

Every night that I have failed to create I find it harder to go on. I recently read somewhere that men most of the time already know what they are thinking or feeling, and talk about it only to communicate if they feel it’s necessary, where as women often don’t know why they think or feel something and talk about it to figure it out. I suppose I do this from time to time, ( I was recently informed that I talk a lot - I suppose “a lot” being relative.) But I think the deepest part of my “self-discovery” to use a disgustingly narcissistic word, comes from a deeper place than my tongue. Writing and art - for all its challenges and the self-loathing that it inevitably produces - reach the deepest parts of me. I can find places there, with my journal or trusty laptop, that I couldn’t find without sitting down at the blank sheet and opening a vein.

Because of this infernal desire to be perfect, to succeed at the cost of contentment, the blank sheets have piled up and the simple joys of doing what I was meant for has dwindled down. The blank sheet pile has gotten more and more daunting, the water’s gotten muddier, the parched field is looking increasingly desert-like and I am blaming every circumstance and my own ineptitude for what really amounts to a lack of courage.

I don’t have the courage to sit down and write something less than amazing. I am afraid to dip my hand into today’s flowing stream and not compare it to yesterday’s or tomorrow’s, or to bask in the joy of “my best” - at this moment, anyway. No, I cruelly hold myself to the best ever - my best ever. I have to do more, be more, write more - and when my longings are more than my capabilities, or a little more mud gets into the stream than I was hoping for, I lack the strength and courage to dive in anyway. Why can’t I create something a little off-balance? Why can’t I spend an hour writing and let it amount to nothing more than this?

This is not the stuff of great novels. It is not even something that is particularly lucid or inspired or even well-written. But it is awakening.

Something within me has stirred in these last few months. I have realized my inability to live up to my own expectations, and after several wrestling matches with my personal angel, I have learned this:

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch of mine that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. Already you are clean because of the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in me he is thrown away like a branch and withers; and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.”
~John 15:1-6

Isn’t that beautiful and freeing? It’s not my responsibility to be great, I have no one to impress, no future or past to live up to. I am abiding. To abide is to reside in, to sojourn. These are words of rest and peace and contentment, not contention and perfection.

So today I make a promise. I am abiding. Today. This day’s sunlit stream, this day’s tasks, this day’s challenges, this day’s creativity. Knowing that as a lone branch, all of my striving is pointless, but as a branch connected to the Vine, I am of great value.

All of my blank pages, all of my hopes, fears, and longings are connected to that Vine. That is where I find my contentment and the courage to face the less-than-perfect - the muddy waters.