Author: bikinisoul7

It’s been hard keeping up with my writing lately. But today is International Women’s Day, and my head is bursting with emotion because of so much inspiration around me. I could fill this page with names of women who’ve changed the world. And I could do a quick Google search and fill hundreds more pages.

Even though things are terrifying in many ways right now, I believe we are in a very exciting time of transformation in history. I also believe that women have led SO Much of that change, and I’m so thankful to be alive in this moment. So I want to put something out into the world in recognition of all the women in my personal sphere of influence and support, all those pioneers who have brought us to where we’ve come so far, and all the women on the horizon who are actively working to make this a better place for all of us to live and thrive equally.

Along with Susan B. Anthony, Hedy Lamar, Harriet Tubman, and countless others, I think of my grandmothers, who although did not have much of a voice publicly, literally steered the ship of their families – across the Atlantic, the Rio Grande and through the Great Depression, while keeping everyone nurtured, loved, and hopeful. They used their power quietly, in whatever ways they could to secure what only a women’s intuition could know was best – and saw situations through with grit and dignity. I honor them.

Along with women like Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinham, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg, I also think of my mother, who only had a tenth grade education and was raised in a community shrouded with sexism and patriarchy. She dutifully kept a home and raised ten children, before finding the strength to leave an abusive marriage after twenty-four years. When divorce was still pretty frowned upon and nobody was talking about family dysfunction, recovery or codependency, she tried the best sh could, to figure out a way to take care of herself and her children more independently, under better circumstances.

Myself and my six sisters, who have each in our own way fought through some of the most challenging circumstances, showing the younger generation of girls that we are tough, resilient, survivors who can make our own way, own our power, and design our own happiness. And I’d like to think we’re in the company of sisterhood with Oprah Winfrey, Hillary Clinton, and Tarana Burke.

Probably the most inspiration comes from the younger women I see in my midst. From my own two daughters, who I am immensely proud of – living a life of intention, speaking their minds, healing their own souls, and leaving the apologies and limitations at the door! Additionally, I look around and see young women like Amanda Gordon preaching poetically to the entire world about light and hope, Meghan Markle speaking truth about abusive institutions and her fight for her own mental health, Greta Thunberg fighting relentlessly against climate change for the preservation of our earth and species, and Malala Yousafzai who was almost killed for the fight for girls to have access to an education. I even have a good friend, here in Seattle, who’s eighteen year old daughter just published the book, “Paving” after being inspired by the historical 2017 Women’s March! All of these heroes – known and unknown, have had to overcome obstacles, bullying, oppression and most of all their own fear and self-doubt about what’s possible and if it’s really worth it.

Today, with my deepest gratitude, believing we are all intimately connected, I say to the women who created me, the women I’ve stood beside, and the women I’ve helped raise: Thank You. Thank You. Thank You – for sharing your powerful light and strength, so that I could find my own. May our love, our compassion and our beautiful dissent, never stop being a beacon of equality. For all.

If you’re reading this post hoping for me to reveal a weird dream I had, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Like most people, I don’t usually recall my dreams.

What I find weirdly interesting in my case, which doesn’t quite seem to fit any particular REM profile, is that my dreams always -and I do mean every single night- have the same characteristics. The mini-movies which play out in my unconscious mind as I sleep, are all, extremely vivid, very intense – like the urgency of an action movie scene, have some of the strangest known characters of my life, they are so distressing that they leave me feeling like I’ve been in an actual physical struggle when I wake up – and they are completely bizarre, making absolutely no sense. I amazingly, can almost always, get back into the dream at the exact point I left it, if I wake and fall back to sleep – which I sometimes do deliberately if the dream hasn’t come to a satisfactory resolution. Not peaceful resolution – never peaceful. I just mean that the “scene” comes to an end. Usually terrifying or troubling in some way, but and end, no less. With all this, I can tell you I only remember my dreams about once a month, at best. And the reason I remember them, only long enough to tell my husband, is because they upset me so much that I wake up with my whole body clenched and even crying sometimes – and will often be in a dark mood for half the day, while I shake off the ickyness of how real the dream felt. But then, unless I tell the dream again, I will completely forget it within a day or two.

Hence why I have no dreams to write on this post.

They say if you want to remember your dreams and perhaps what they might mean or reveal about your innermost desires or fears, you should have a notepad on your nightstand and write them down immediately after waking. I think I’ve done that a couple of times only to read back my summary of details and think, “OMG, What the hell?? I must be completely mad!” I’m glad to have misplaced those written records.

I think it’s safe to say, as I continue peeling back the layers in my recovery journey, it’s clear I lived for a very long time with unaddressed stored anger, fear and trauma. Maybe my mind is acting out some of that shit – in a very disorganized and peculiar way in my dreams. And I hope the momentary distress and discomfort is simply my mind showing me an alternate way of working through it to get to the other side.

Or… my mind is telling me to take a shot at experimenting with the thriller or sci-fi genre. Maybe I should put a notepad on my nightstand again?

G’nite.

I am not a doctor, nor a research scientist. But I’m going to go out on a limb, and claim that the self-improvement, recovery and healing work I began in my late thirties, and continue to actively pursue today – is on par with most of the population. Maybe even ahead of the curve. I make this claim based solely on what I’ve observed and my own anecdotal evidence gathered in my friend and family circles (it even seems like Oprah really found her spiritual stride around age fifty). And, though I’ve often wondered if I am more or less evolved than my peers of the same age, I now think I’m right on track.

This whole line of thinking occurred to me this morning after my therapy appointment. I got back into private counseling a couple of months ago, when I felt some of the trauma work I was addressing in groups landed me feeling stuck, or in a dissociative floating state – a clear indication I wasn’t able to access my true feelings.

We were talking about some of the old painful situations I used to tolerate. And she asked if I was comfortable with the behaviors, because I didn’t realize they were wrong. To which I said ,

“No. I knew they were wrong, I was just comfortable with being in pain. I was learning codependency, and to ignore and numb my feelings since probably before I was born. I only began to actively search for a way out of the pain and insanity, maybe around age forty. I’m fifty-three now – so I’ve accepted that these things will show themselves occasionally. They’re kind of hard wired.”

When my appointment was over, I thought about the people I know who I would say are on similar paths as me, and I realized they are most around my age; many a bit older. As far as doing my personal work goes, I seem to be arriving right on time. This comes as a relief, and also a bit of a sad revelation.

There’s an old saying, which I think was a line in It’s A Wonderful Life, that goes something like “Youth is wasted on the young.” I don’t know if I agree with this sentiment entirely, but it does make me ask why it takes so many years of growing pains to get to our best selves. It’s just the emotional cycle of life, I guess.

Here’s the way I see it:

In childhood we are being inundated with our parent’s ways-good and bad. And whether from generational dysfunction or unpreventable trauma – there is always some bad. Throughout our twenties we act just the way we were taught, whether we admit it or not – and even in the midst of thinking we are nothing like them. Usually in our thirties, we’re deep in our own adult relationships and doing adult things (like parenting, career politics and mortgages). Those icky behaviors and feelings start to get more difficult to ignore. This is the point where people might enter therapy or read some self-help books – but the “baked in” rules of our family-of-origin make us resistant to uncovering uncomfortable truths. Entering the forties brings with it a type of freedom of finally wanting to not give a damn, and doing everything we can to figure out what makes us happy – without other people’s voices in our heads. If you get to this point of doing whatever it takes, no matter how uncomfortable at times – to live a life of honesty, self-love, forgiveness, and continued growth, I guess you could say you’ve entered the realm of your true self, and the rest is just working through the occasional slips, kinks, and updates.

I’m so grateful to have arrived at this space.

This is what recovery fellowships around the world refer to as “Step Ten: Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it” after fear, anger and shame dissipate, and we intuitively make healthier choices.

And just like George Bailey, though we may be past our physical prime – the discover of what truly matters, and the realization of how wonderful the gift of life really is – can make us feel brand new!

Today I was going to write a post about all of the terrible ways I was bullied for my weight as a young woman. And it was going to point to the fact that the worst of it was from my own father, and how I finally forgave him and learned to see myself as beautiful.

But last night I was visiting with my grand kids around the dinner table, and we were talking about the marinated artichoke hearts in the chicken recipe I had made. My six-year-old grandson said,

“Hey Grama’Chelle! You know what? Whenever I eat artichokes, they make me choke… get it? Arti- Choke?” He cackled loudly at his genius humor.

I laughed along with him and said,

“You, know, my dad- your great grandpa Walt, used to tell the same silly joke about artichokes. Do you want to hear it?”

Of course they all said yes.

I proceeded to tell the story of how my father, every time we would drive through the farm fields of Watsonville or Half Moon Bay, would make up a breaking news tale about a serial killer on the loose named “Artie”, how it was posted all over the place, until he had us good and hooked. The older ones who had heard it before, had to be silent and pretend to be riveted. Then he would point to a sign in front of a produce stand which read,

“Artichokes – 3 for $1” and say

“See! I told you! This guy’s crazy… killing people for only a dollar!”

We’d all shake are heads, roll our eyes, laugh, and usually say “Dad, you’re so weird.”

Then, while they were still laughing, I told them another joke he used to play with us when we were young. I shared that when we were very little – maybe between three and eight years old, my dad would have us come lay down in the crook of his arm on the couch or in bed while he watched TV. He would wrap his arm around us so that his hand had access to reach our side and armpit. Then he would proceed to tell the the saddest, yet silliest tale he could think of – usually involving an old woman he saw that day, who was crying because she had no shoes, no food, and no husband. Then he’s tickle us, and we’d start to squirm and keep from laughing. He’d scold us for laughing at such a sad story, and when we protested and accused him of tickling us, he’d deny it, and ask if we wanted to hear the rest of the story. By the time this went on for two or three rounds, the “old lady” had twelve ugly children, was blind, fell into the road because someone stole her cane,had terrible flatulence – her dog had died, she was stung by a bee, a bird pooped on her head and her ice cream had fallen into the gutter. Each time he’d tickle us until the final scene, when he’d tickle us all over as we begged him to stop between screams of laughter.

As I drifted to the memory, and laughed at the silly and sometimes strange sense of humor that was one of my Dad’s trademarks, I was interrupted by my ten year old granddaughter,

“Wow, Grandpa Walt sounds like he was a lot of fun, and a really great dad.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Honey… He was a lot of fun.” I had to concede.

In that moment, for a fraction of a second, I thought to correct the false statement that my father was a “great Dad.” But, for the first time ever – I didn’t. For some reason, I didn’t feel the need to qualify my agreement with a “But” or an explanation of “Yes, but only when we were little.” I just let it be there, acknowledging that he did, in fact give me and my siblings what he could in the way that he could, and was providing me with a wonderful experience to share with my own kids and grand kids.

As I reflect on this today, I’m noticing that years ago, when I thought I had forgiven my father, I had only mostly forgiven him. Only this pure unplanned moment of playfulness, could speak to the full forgiveness that has taken place, mostly without my knowing or deliberate intention over the past few years.

I’m so grateful for continued growth, for the power of forgiveness and for my Dad’s silly sense of humor that still lives on in my memory.

Thanks, Dad.   

Today is just an anxious rant, to help me have some self-awareness and look at the advice I might give someone else if they were in my position.

We’re in escrow right now on a farm property which needs lots of work to bring it to its original splendor. The process of buying a house is hard. The process of selling a house is hard. Doing both at the same time is grueling and crazy making! And trying to keep up with your normal commitments feels almost impossible sometimes.

My husband and I were at a hotel last week while our current house was opened for showings. Our agent told us that houses in our area were selling on average, in six days. He told us our house was a gem. He told us inventory was low, so we should have tons of offers. So we happily worked our tails off to move a ton of stuff (which he affectionately called “clutter”) into the garage, staged the furniture and pictures, made the kitchen and bathrooms look like nobody lived in the home, had the carpets shampooed and even boarded our cat.  We went away filled with nervous anticipation, and expected to come home to multiple bids at, or above the asking price.

Over the course of the week our house was shown fourteen times in five days. We thought we had three offers on Sunday.

They all fell through.

We are now trying to keep ourselves from going into panic mode, second guessing everything, and wondering if we made the right decision to move forward with the purchase of our new home – even though we were counting on this home sale to pay for the new purchase.

Here’s the part where I advise myself.

First, redefine and access if what we’re aiming for is truly what we want, and look for signs to affirm that. Secondly, identify what we cannot control and let go of it. And, finally – have a backup plan, and a backup plan to our backup plan, if things don’t unfold the way we’re hoping.

The one thing my husband and I keep being reminded of is that we Love our new farm, and even in the midst of uncertainty, it still feels one hundred percent right. On a few occasions this week, when we were questioning our choice, something came into our path and very serendipitously shouted “YES! You’re meant to do this.” So, we’re going forward, even in the face of fear. Our faith and belief in this thing is unwavering. That feels good. Anxiety is de-escalated. Inhale.

So what are the biggest things we can and can’t control in this situation? Um… we have no control over pretty much everything having to do with speculation of the real estate market. And we can control our response to all of the bits and pieces of news and updates during this process. Simple, but not easy. However, knowing gives some relief. Breathing easier now.

Lastly, we’ve made very responsible financial decisions up to this point and we have no intention of stopping that practice now. Even though it’s not what we planned, we firmly believe that we can move a few things around if we have to and still balance the escrow closings. We’ll continue to make hard decisions with the help of our financial advisors, and those who want to see our vision come to life while protecting our investment. With eyes wide open, and the right support, we will see this thing through to the end. Exhale.

And as I breath and allow, I can’t help but be reminded that I have lived through situations that were much more stressful than this, and now have the luxury of looking back and wondering how I did it. I am grateful for those struggles, as they led me to the wonderful life I have today.

Self-Reminder: Stay focused, stay in gratitude, and keep breathing… Everything is going to be okay.

Before coming up with the Bikini Soul name, I played around with a few other blog ideas. “Be, Live, Give” was one that I really loved, but still decided not to use, mostly because it sounded too cliche’ and too similar to many other site names and blogs of people who came off as self-proclaimed gurus, and who I felt were putting on an air of superiority and authority. I knew that was never the tone or message I wanted to convey, but the words still stick with me as sort of personal instructions about the path I want to be on when the inevitable sidetracking occurs.

So, because I have no intention of abandoning Bikini Soul, while still developing its elevator pitch, (LOL) – maybe it will help to reiterate the “Be, Live, Give” thoughts again to remember how these two ideas, (along with many others) can converge to get me closer to my vision.

Be.

The only way to be me is to know who I am. Like, who I really am. Beyond mother, sister, wife. Beyond the DNA or personality tests. The best way I’ve found to do this is to ask myself over and over again, if how I’m showing up in the world feels honest. Do I stay silent or constantly police my words to sound more agreeable or acceptable? Or do I add unnecessary aggression to make sure I’m heard (read:validated)? This isn’t the real me. Do I still sometimes think about molding my physical appearance to fit in, even when it’s uncomfortable and when deep down I know it’s total bullshit; that I’m pretty fucking okay just the way I am, without conforming to social constructs. That isn’t the real me. Do I go along with ideas – political, religious, social or otherwise, for fear of rejection? That’s not the real me either. I know this because this is what I did for a very, very long time. The only way I was ever able to pull these masks off was too listen to the little voice inside that was telling me to STOP. The process of reclaiming myself-piece by piece bit-has been years long, and I’m prepared to accept it may be a lifelong journey. And totally worth it.

Live.

A friend shared with me a couple of days ago something her boss told her: “Stop apologizing for who you are.” The thing is, if you’ve been pretending in any area of your life, you’re going to feel like you owe people an explanation and they’re probably going to give you a bit of grief when the real you shows up. Show up anyway! I cannot count the number of times I’ve been asked “Since when do you…” or “That’s crazy, I could never...” or, my favorite, “You’ve changed.” They’re right, I have changed. Changed back to my true self. The great news is that once I began to live out loud and un-apologetically, people realized I could not be swayed by their judgements, and they eventually turned to either silence, or even sometimes encouragement. So, now I’m out there and doing things I’ve dreamed of which has led to opening my vision even more so. I’ve put out big intentions and worked to attract them, all while gently caring for myself and checking my rudder to make sure I’m always pointing toward my truth. And, It’s AMAZING!

Give.

I was born into a family of rampant co-dependency. So, it’s no surprise I grew up to be a people-pleaser. By the time I was in my thirties, I was exhausted from helping, fixing, sacrificing and taking care of, in a lot of unhealthy ways. I was also constantly drained – of time, money, and emotional energy. As part of my recovery journey, I’ve learned that you go from “hurting, to healing, to helping” – in that order. Today, I give thoughtfully to charities and people I meet who are in need, I volunteer at local organizations when I can, I help family and friends when it’s appropriate, and I actively help those who are struggling in their recovery just as I have been, and continue to be helped. Because I’ve done so much work to heal, I’m able to do this without needing or expecting validation or love in return. In all of the ways I am able, I genuinely try to make this world a better place, because I believe that is part of my duty as a human being. I believe two of my greatest contributions are: always being kind to strangers and forgiving those who have hurt me. And one of the most important forms of giving that I strive to practice every day is to give thanks and express gratitude. This step has been a huge and necessary part of transforming my life. To that end, I’m so incredibly grateful for being able to practice these things, and show up honestly as a Bikini Soul- not just in my life, but in my writing – and I’m grateful that you’re here to share it with.

I love travelators. And I miss them a lot.

For a long time, I never saw them named, and it was a rare occasion that I got to step onto one.  I referred to them as “moving sidewalks” or “people movers”. But, at the airport in Singapore, I finally noticed a sign that named this wonderful thing. And I immediately Loved the name too!! I not only rode the travelator every chance I got, but I also said it aloud as often as possible!

I know I had been on them a handful of times in my life; as far as I can recall they were most likely at Disneyland or some other place requiring just a bit of extra novelty. But I got to ride travelators very frequently at Changi Airport, and in most International airports all over Asia, where I had the privilege of living and traveling over the four years I lived there. My first specific memory of them, and actually loving how they felt under my feet, was at the International Terminal at SFO, at age forty-five, on my way back home from Stockholm, Sweden.  And the travelators at SFO are the Best!! They have soft squishy padding that literally feel like you’re walking on marshmallows, while strolling along. Yes. Strolling along. You see, I like to walk on travelators. And I know that doesn’t make me special, because lots of people walk while being moved along. Some people do just stand still, taking a break while the moving floor propels them effortlessly; while other use it as an opportunity to gain speed, and get to their gate or to the luggage carousels even more quickly.

But I got to thinking today about why it is that I love these automatic walkways, and it occurred that it is very much the same reason I like just a little bit of a push – some help, motivation and direction when it comes to most things in my life. The travelator represents for me – the manager, the teacher, the mentor or coach who gives me some instruction and maybe even starts me on my way, to the proverbial finish line. Silly, I know-but it’s true. I have absolutely no desire to stand on the travelator, and let it do all the “work”. Nor, do I aggressively use it as a means to move as fast as possible and to gain position ahead of the slower walkers. But, I do Love to step onto the conveyor belt and then once rolling along for even a second, begin a pace that is fully energized and enthusiastic – far more than it had been on the still ground. Once I step off of the travelator, I notice my step has more bounce, more focus, and more speed. My head is held higher-in fact my overall posture is improved, and my general attitude about walking is markedly improved. Why is this?

I have always been someone who is a self described “perfect assistant manager”. I am not self-motivated, nor self-driven even when I do find some rare motivation. But all I need is the tiniest bit of direction, and BOOM! I become the “can-do” kid. Would I ever wake up early to do some emails or inventory? Hell, NO. But ask me to cover a 5am opening shift or stay late to help with reorganizing. Absolutely! Will I go walking for an hour a day for my own good? Maybe, with great difficulty. But if someone in a health crisis said they needed me to walk with them for support, I would gladly “sacrifice” my time. Even writing – which really isn’t much of a chore, feels like the most difficult task in the world, until…a professor gives me a writing assignment. The minute I hear the topic, and requirements, my head fills with dozens of creative ideas. I guess at my core, I am a people-pleaser…but I’d like to think it’s more layered than that – or at least sexier. Maybe not. And, I suppose I have to be okay with that. Life is about knowing yourself and working with what you have, finding ways to achieve what you want while staying true.  No matter how hard we try to be someone else,  the only way anything ever has worked is when we stop doing that. We’ll end up expending tons more energy to make very little progress, and as soon as we let up even for a moment, settling back into our real self – all of our effort is lost and we get carried backward. It’s like going against the grain. Swimming upstream. Or, walking in the opposite direction on a travelator. Don’t do it. Know your strengths and weaknesses. Know what gets you going, and what keeps you stuck. Where you thrive, and where you can never – and will never be yourself.

Not everyone uses the travelators. For some, they don’t need them. Others don’t like them. And maybe others still, are just trying to get extra steps in on their fitbits! But, I remember always seeing a few fast walkers, making a beeline for the immigration counter, check-in gates or whatever- and I watched them scoff at the people making a soft left or right to enter the moving sidewalk.  Often, they’d increase their speed to make a visible point of the fact that those of us on the travelator, did not, in fact – save any time, by taking the easier way.  These are the same people who take the stairs, while staring judgmentally, pridefully or even sometimes just impatiently (if it’s very crowded) at those folks on the escalator. I don’t pretend to know where they’re coming from, or what they’re thinking. It’s none of my business. And not my job to understand anyone but myself.

And for my part, I can’t wait to get back on a travelator. Besides being fun to ride and fun to say – in some small, silly and beautiful way, it reminds me of who I am.

So… my husband and I are buying a farm. And, yes, I do mean buying, like, we’re ten days into our sixty day Escrow. If, fingers crossed, everything goes as planned, we’ll relocate from a town-home in Redmond to an old farmhouse and barn on twenty-seven acres, in Tenino. We’re beyond excited, and scared to death. This specific dream wasn’t in our sights, even two years ago – but we’ve been talking a LOT lately about the next, and probably final chapter of our life together, and we’ve discovered that the makings of this dream has been brewing in big and small ways for a very, very long time.

How and why we decided to do this thing, and what we hope to build is a story for another time. Today I want to write about something which completely escaped my mind until yesterday. Relocating to a new community. And not just another suburban community – but a rural one. Now, I know the people in my soon-to-be new hometown are not aliens, but I also know that there are subtle nuanced ways in which every group has their own vibe, and to be honest I’m a little nervous about fitting in.

I remember the many times our family moved when I was growing up, and I also reflect on the several times I’ve relocated as an adult – and I can tell you it doesn’t get any easier. Between finding a new dentist, chiropractor and gym, to choosing the closest post office, grocery store, and a few decent restaurants – I’m already exhausted. But then there’s the really hard part – finding my people. As a mature woman, making friends is way more difficult, complex and time consuming than it has ever been. Hell, for me, making friends is way harder than dating ever was! As I get older my circle seems to get smaller, because I know myself so well and my time is very precious – so not everyone seems worth inviting into my life. I think about the easily shared common ground or interests in my twenties, thirties and forties – like the PTA, church, or Zumba class – and they are either no longer present, or no longer feel that relevant. Also, because I’m an empath, small talk only feels okay for about a minute, before I’m itching to be more real and vulnerable. And those amazing, deep conversations can be awkward or even off-putting when they’re shared with the wrong people.

I learned to face the fact that I’m not going to connect with everyone, when I moved to Singapore. I was newly free of obligations and out to explore the world, so I thought I’d make friends left and right. The truth is, I met a few very special people – but the majority of paths I crossed while taking classes at the community center, volunteering, or visiting The American Club turned out to be only acquaintances and FaceBook friends. And though I was there for four years, I told myself it was okay because I was never going to stay anyway – and maybe, unconsciously, that had something to do with it.

But now, I’m moving to a community where I plan to live out the rest of my thirty or forty years. I want not just to fit in, but to belong. I know it’s going to take a lot of effort; putting myself out there and getting to know folks. I’m going to have that scary uncertain moment, just like my first day in a new school, every time I introduce myself into a new space, and there is just no way around that. Some will love me right away, others will take a while to warm up to me, and still others may never find me to be there cup of tea. But, they will know my name, where I live, what I do, and most importantly – who I am. My community will eventually have to accept that I’m no longer the “new kid in town” but simply “Michelle, who lives by Millersvania”. I won’t know the precise moment when that happens, but I know I’ll feel the shift in temperature. And, Oh, how I will love the beautiful ordinary-ness of being a fixture in a my town. And, maybe, just maybe this old gal will find a few great friends I can truly call my tribe.

If you don’t know by now, I am a fifty-three year old student – just about half way to an Associates Degree. It both excites me, and embarrasses me a little for having the excitement – when I learn something new, or a new way of looking at things. I’m not at all ashamed, and hope I can show others that it’s never too late. It’s just that I recognize I’m not the average student, and instead of having the experience as a woman cruising into adulthood, as is more common – I’m having it while plunging into menopause.

So, the new concept I learned this month, is a writing technique referred to as “Show, Don’t Tell.” And, if you’re one of the people, like me, who has never heard of this,(or perhaps forgot about it soon after learning it) I’ll try to break it down. Whether writing about a character or a scene, the idea is that you use vivid imagery to create a picture of the thing, without explaining about the thing. And, for me, while the challenge can be fun and exciting – especially after creating a really awesome sentence or paragraph -make no mistake, it can also be quite difficult.

I noticed straight away, that the instructional reading and videos ALWAYS used fiction pieces as examples. This was another clue to the fact that not only is creating ways to “show, don’t tell” really, hard – but it’s even more so when writing non-fiction. Because, for me, the core idea is trying to avoid giving information away, so the reader can be involved in creating a picture in their mind, and figure out what’s going on themself. As a good co-dependent, I have historically over-given information. LOL. Because of this, I resisted the idea at first, until I realized it totally has it’s place in non-fiction creative writing. After I got it, I started to notice it everywhere, and though I’ve never really loved Jimmy Buffet’s anthem pop song, after realizing what a great job he did with the “show, don’t tell” technique, I kinda do now. Actually I really do, now. And I don’t even like margaritas.

Probably my favorite is the second verse- where he shows us he’s having a pretty bad day, but at least he’ll have alcohol to cope, soon enough.

“I blew out my flip flop
Stepped on a pop top
Cut my heel, had to cruise on back home
But there’s booze in the blender
And soon it will render
That frozen concoction that helps me hang on“

When I first heard this song as a kid, I had no idea what he was referring to when he sang about “flip-flops” or “a pop top.” (in my family, we called them thongs and soda tabs) so I ignored it. When I was old enough to realize what he was singing about I thought, “Oh. That’s cute.” But, now, as a writer/student, I’m like “Wow. So clever… Amazing use of vivid imagery!” And, though I’ve always obsessed over the lyrics of sentimental favorites – from Jackson Browne to Kris Kristofferson to Carole King – I now find myself looking for the very writing techniques I’m trying to learn in all writing, and in all genres, and it’s a whole new experience.

If all goes well, someday I’ll write something that compels, not just anyone, but a fellow writer to say, “Wow!”

Let’s just hope it doesn’t take them forty years to reach that conclusion.

PSA: Today’s blog is one of those completely “random thoughts” posts which I warned about, and which doesn’t really fit anywhere.

Okay, now that I have that out of the way, I want to share an experience I had this week. As happens sometimes in our relationship, I will point out something to my husband, and he looks at me and smiles politely to say “And…So?” Then I explain further, and he says, “Oh” with the same smile except now he nods sideways as his mouth turns slightly downward, but I know he has no idea what point I’m making or why it matters to me.

So, here’s the story. We went to Leavenworth for the first time this week to celebrate our seventh wedding anniversary. We decided to go out to dinner for the first time in a long time to celebrate not just Us, but also Washington State’s recent move into Phase 2, which would allow for 25% capacity for indoor dining at restaurants. Our B & B host recommended Mozart’s, which he described as “the nicest place to get a really great steak.” As we sat alone in a small section of the dining area, we were joined by another couple a few tables over.

We made small talk, which was amazing – after forgetting how much we’ve missed spontaneous conversations with strangers. The wife’s name was Marty (don’t know how I remember that) and they were in from Seattle to escape their two teens for a couple of days; staying at the super luxury Post Hotel nearby. They perused the menu for a time, until finally deciding they were only going to order drinks. They called the server over and asked if it was okay to order cocktails to go, because they’d like to take them back to their room. She said, she didn’t see why not, and asked what they would like to order.

I was a curious observer, and listened in on the following conversation:

Marty: Okay, we’d like one Manhattan and one Old Fashioned.

Server: Sure. Did you want a regular or a perfect Manhattan?

Marty: What’s the difference?

Server: Well, one has the dry vermouth.

Marty: Oh okay…Um… (thinks for a moment) I’ll take a perfect Manhattan.

Server: Great! I’ll have those up for you in just a minute.

I squinted quizzically and, yes – judgmentally, thinking to myself, Wait! She didn’t actually specify the difference between the regular and perfect Manhattan… only that one had dry vermouth-but not which one.

As I munched my bread and salad, I secretly waited to see if either the server or the couple would notice that they still had no idea if their drink would contain dry vermouth, but no one said a thing. She came back in a few minutes with two sealed mason jars, swirling with caramel colored liquid, and a bill. She placed the jars and the vinyl check cover on the table, and simply said, “That’ll be $28,” as she stood by, waiting for them to fill in the gratuity, and provide payment.

You may think I’m a little nutty, and lot nosy- but at this moment I whispered to Mitch “Honey, she just ordered a Perfect Manhattan, but she never asked which one had the dry vermouth,” as if I was observing something amazing. He looked at me as if questioning my lucidity, and said “What?”

Marty pulled out a credit card. The server swiped it on her mobile reader, and printed out their copies, before wishing her brief guests a great night and turning around to come to our table.

After we placed our order. I repeated what I had observed. He didn’t think it was remarkable. I pointed out ad nauseam, “Yes, but she asked specifically the difference between the two versions of the drink she was about to pay fourteen dollars for and never got the answer. What’s more, even though, she responded as though she had the information, she never noticed that she actually did not.” I was fascinated by this, and it led me to ask all kinds of follow up questions.

Did she really even care about the difference? Was it her first Manhattan, and maybe she just liked the name, “Perfect.” Did it ever occur to her or her husband? Like after the first sip, or later on while she was brushing her teeth before bed?

You may wonder why this whole scenario has even taken up one moment of my head space. I’m not exactly sure, except that it reminds me how much words matter. In big ways and small.

I asked myself how many times I personally, or people in general, have not communicated clearly, and what consequence it’s had.

Being in a writing class, has forced me to proofread, and review other people’s work, following a specific format – for the sole purpose of becoming a great editor of my own work. For me, this should carry over to oral conversations, as well. I feel even more determined to pay attention, to make sure my questions are answered, and make sure I provide the feedback I’m being asked for. And, importantly, not to ever be afraid to ask for clarification. Chances are, it will eventually affect something far more important than a cocktail. Cheers!