T.J. BROWN BLOG
Born to Create, Conditioned to Consume
We were created to create.
In my insomnia addled brain, this concept makes total sense to me. I see little ones creating the moment they can hold a crayon in their chubby, toddler hands. Children tell stories as soon as they can string words together, their pretend worlds as real as reality, their sentences punctuated with wide-eyed sincerity. Whatever part of our brain is responsible for imaginative musings is fully alive in children, electric with vitality and stretchy possibilities.
At some point many of us lose that connection, drilled out of us by multiplication facts, the laws of grammar and the needs of a capitalistic society—we all want to eat and put a roof over our heads, after all.
Historically, communities have nurtured and nourished the artist in their midst—one wonders if cave painters were given their due. In many indigenous cultures, the word art does not exist, as beautiful things were integrated into everyday life through the exquisite craft of practical items. During 14th century Europe, artists were seen more as craftsmen and wandering musicians were given food and exposure on feudal estates. During the Renaissance, where the rich and titled fought for the privilege of having an artist in residence. Then of course, the printing press changed everything and the rise of media created celebrity artists. Campbells soup cans, anyone?
The above is a fast and incomplete take on the history of how creators were treated throughout history and I am totally cognizant of the fact that the stereotype of the starving artist was grounded in reality. But my point remains, we were born to create.
Unfortunately, we are also now conditioned to consume. That should actually be a T-shirt. Born to create, conditioned to consume. If we are all busy scrolling, distracted by adverts, funny videos and the hustle needed to buy all the things we need, as well as the stuff we are told we need, then we have little time to create. Soon, with the rise of Artificial Intelligence, we won’t need to create—it’ll be done for us. What happens to a culture where creativity has gone to die? Ironic that writers, (creators) have already told us what happens. Spoiler alert: It ain’t pretty.
So how can we, as a global collective, fight against the slow painful death of creativity by hustle culture and AI? We double down. We create more art. We share messy human art. We kick perfectionism to the curb. We celebrate artistic attempts, even if they don’t make money. Especially if they don’t make money.
I wrote a poem the other day for poetry class. Honestly, I hated it. I am not a fan of poetic structure, though I’m hoping that as I learn more, I will begin to appreciate it. Specifically, my poem was a sonnet. A very bad sonnet. A very, very bad sonnet. I’m not even joking here. As an aside, have you ever tried to read a sonnet out loud? Am I the only one who feels the clunkiness of it in my mouth? Even Shakespeare’s sonnets with their exquisite imagery, make me feel like I am chewing rocks when I try to speak them, which is odd because his plays are better understood when read out loud.
Anyway, I am sharing my really bad sonnet here as encouragement. If I can share this, maybe you will feel better about sharing your scribbles, words, imperfect crafts and de-glossied (or would it be anti-glossy?) content. Let’s create a world where both good art and bad art are celebrated. It’s all subjective anyway, isn’t it? I know that some people will cry about standards and participation trophies. I am not saying that there aren’t many people who can write a much better sonnet than I can. I am just saying that if we are born to create, even need to create, that effort should be celebrated. After all, AI may be able to write a better sonnet than I can, but it’s not real, it’s not human. And by celebrating bad art, as well as good art, isn’t it our humanity that we are celebrating?
Really Bad, First, (And Last) Sonnet By Teri Brown
Love me true across the decades of time
Our wrinkles meld together like playdough
In sickness and health and post-nasal grime
Our touch still inflames in gray-haired afterglow.
Finish my sentence and I’ll finish yours
The heartbeat of irritation so true
White teeth bitten lips and hard slamming doors
Still here, still loving like cracked yellowed glue.
Ancient and grizzled, completely in sync
Years worth of grievance plowed deep underneath
Your heart and my heart are the same, I think.
When I die, my love my heart I bequeath.
A well-oiled machine, parts grow loose with time,
I am yours, you are mine, regardless of rhyme.
Ahem. Carry on and create.
Building a Writer’s Community
One of the things I was looking for when I moved to my small Eastern Oregon town was community. I have really good childhood memories of grange events—dime a dip dinners, Christmas parties, Halloween haunted houses and dances. Like many granges, the old Alfalfa Grange witnessed a lot of changes. I wonder if it is still active or if it, like many other granges across America, fell victim to the lower rural population and the changing needs of the populace?
I get a lot of joy community building here in North Powder as a member of the library board, the Firewise Coordinator and, wait for it, a member of Wolf Greek Grange. Here are some pictures of the Grange’s chili feed from last weekend.
Our grange is small but mighty, held together by members who want to build and grow and make the grange a place of community care. Because I believe so strongly that strong, resilient communities are the only way forward, I am working hard to make the grange a place where old and young alike can thrive.
I think in many ways, my entire adult life has been in search of that long ago community. For a while, I found it in church, and I married into a strong family that celebrated everything. One of my favorite communities, though was in the writer’s group I found myself a part of in the mid 2000’s. Core members included authors Miriam Forester, Cat Winters, Kelly Garret, Jen Reese. Others came and went and added much to our small collective. Our group was also featured in the Oregon Art Beat segment on Cat Winters. You can access the video here:Cat Winters Oregon Art Beat
Community Building Tips for Writers
- Decide what you need in a writing community. I was excited when a writer’s group formed here in North Powder, but no matter how hard I tried, it just didn’t meet my needs. There were too many people and too many opposing ideas of what it should be. I left on good terms and wished them all well, but it was a lesson to me to be clear going in on what my needs were. I realized that I could never replicate the writer’s group that I had lost and my current writer’s community includes occasional virtual meetups with friends, plus editorial, mentoring and marketing help that I pay for. It’s what I need in my life.
- Understand that people are imperfect and community building can get mired in human messiness if you aren’t careful. Avoid gossip, judgements and be mindful that people are triggered by a variety of things. I once didn’t talk to an author friend for several years because of an unfavorable critique. My feelings were hurt, I lashed out and that was that. Thankfully, I am far more thick-skinned, emotionally resilient and have a better understanding of my triggers. And that friend is now one of my dearest friends.
- Seasons change. Needs change. People change. I lost that original writer’s group when I got a full-time job and returned to school to get my English Lit and Creative Writing degree. Time was at a premium and I just couldn’t swing it. One of the members had a baby. Another’s husband got very ill and she had to drop out. The group remains a shining memory of friendship and an exciting part my writing career.
Community building is a passion of mine, whether it’s in my writing life or my outside life. My day job is, ironically, all about building communities here in Eastern Oregon. It’s something I gravitate to naturally, probably stemming from those long ago parties at the Alfalfa Grange Hall. I believe that novels are also about building community building, albeit a fictional one… but that is for another blog!
Capacity Two or Perfectly Imperfect
When I first blogged about capacity, I thought I had my shiz together. Mostly. The universe had other plans and I let something I care about slip through my fingers. Boy, does that send this recovering perfectionist into a spiral. Fortunately, I’ve learned a lot about how to be both accountable to others and have compassion for myself. So, I apologized for letting people down and did my best to move on, trying not to attach stories to the mistake about how other people were judging me because here’s the thing, one, people aren’t thinking that much about me and, two, if they are judging me, that’s on them, not on me.
But the incident got me thinking about how I approach capacity, boundaries and how I manage my energy. I came across a quote from a book I just finished that really resonated for me.
“Balance your body, mind, and soul. Without a balance, you may become unhappy. Spend time doing things related to all these three aspects of you. For your body, take care of it, have fun with it, enjoy it, use it, exercise it, feed it well, rest it. For your mind, continuously feed it with new knowledge, exercise it, think properly and deliberately, rest it. For your spirit, learn about it, exercise it, meditate and get in contact with it. And for all three, listen to them and honor what they tell you, and love them.” David Cameron Gikandi, Happy Pocket Full of Money
This hit hard because being balanced, centered, and rooted is how I manage my energy and how I navigated the incident I mentioned above. Journaling, meditating, movement, nourishment and creativity are some of my favorite energy management tools. My intention is to always plan meals, move, incorporate good, solid habits into my life and use the present moment to make choices that will set me up for success in the future. That’s how I exercise my ability to hold things, to grow my capacity without shortchanging my soul and my relationships. Sometimes everything goes according to plan and works out perfectly.
And sometimes I fall on my face.
That’s when healthy compassion comes in because failure is a part of growing, learning and living and the only way to avoid it is to avoid life.
As my school career comes to a close and an exciting new chapter unfolds, I am going to have to exercise those self-compassion muscles because I KNOW I am going to make mistakes and fall on my face. I KNOW people will make snap judgements about what I write, how I disseminate that writing, where my career is at and the choices I make. Their judgement is not my concern. Mistakes and failures are not my concern. My only concern is living my own life according to my values of creativity, community and connection and that is where my energy and my capacity live.
Forthcoming!
As some of you may have noticed, I have been doing a little work here on the website in preparation of all the good things to come. I added a page called Forthcoming which is where I’ll put upcoming releases. While the covers are not completed yet, I am putting the rough back cover copy here so y’all can get excited. (So be excited!) So without further ado, I am giving you FORTHCOMING!
Fall River
Brown’s deliciously eerie page-turner is as shocking and haunting as the murders upon which it’s based. A daring, enthralling journey into the darkest depths of the human mind. Fall River held me in its chilling grip from start to finish.
—Cat Winters, Bram Stoker Award nominee for In the Shadow of Blackbirds
What if the best Lizzie Borden story isn’t about Lizzie at all?
In the summer of1878, Clara Lodge, a15-year-old orphan, is sent to live with her cousin, Lizzie Borden in Fall River, Massachusetts. What begins as an uneasy stay inside the oppressive Borden household soon spirals into a season of dread that leaves Clara marked with secrets and scars that she will carry for the rest of her life.
Now married and far from Fall River, Clara has achieved a fragile peace of mind, but when Lizzie is accused of murdering her parents, Clara is drawn back to the city she fled. To heal, she must confront the cousin she fears, the memories she buried, and the truth she tried so hard to forget.
Told across three timelines in one woman’s life, Fall River is a chilling blend of history, psychological suspense, and gothic horror—a reimagining of the Borden legend that asks: how long can the past stay buried before it comes for you?
Perfect for fans of Simone St. James, Kate Morton, and Jennifer McMahon, Fall River is a frightening and unforgettable reimagining of the Borden story.
Puppet (May, 2026)
When Azzura (Az) Collodi, an aspiring puppeteer, is asked to perform for a mysterious puppet master at the Palazzo Grimani, she’s torn. On one hand, it’s a dream come true, on the other, her grandfather, one of the most famous marionette makers in Europe, would strongly disapprove. Rudolpho Collodi might have been a brilliant toymaker, but he was also a notorious occultist and ruled the family—Az’s twin brother and their silent, beautiful mother with an iron fist, rarely letting anyone out of his sight. If caught, her punishment would be banishment from everything she’s ever known and yet the lure of proving herself on stage is undeniable and she agrees on the condition of anonymity.
Az is soon drawn into the cutthroat, competitive world of Venetian puppetry, where nothing is as it seems, including the puppet master who knows more about her than he should, and the secretive actor who plays opposite her in the play—as Pinocchio. As her 21st birthday approaches—the day a witch’s power fully manifests— she discovers that she is animator and her talent as a puppeteer is due to her ability to bring marionettes to life. When she learns that a curse has been placed on her family, she must find out who did it and why before her family is destroyed.
Filled with witchcraft, romance and betrayal, Puppet is set against the colorful backdrop of the 1895 Venetian Carnival and retells the story of Pinocchio—through the eyes of the Blue Fairy.
Covers coming soon!
Looking for Laguna (aka doing the scary thing)
I believe a couple of things that make this post possible.
1. Doing the aligned action even if it’s the scary thing. This is that scary thing.
2. Sharing your art even if it’s messy. This is that messy thing.
It’s been years since I’ve shared my art publically outside the virtual classroom. My agent and a few of my beta readers and friends have seen my writing, but I have published nothing but the occasional random bog since 2020. I wrote this piece for my publishing and new media class. The assignment was symbolism and this is what I came up with. A short story about running away and then running home.
Enjoy.
Looking for Laguna
By Teri Brown
Your phone beeps, signaling a message. Your gut clenches. Just what you need—a message from Digger.
You dial to retrieve it, tapping in your password with one hand while steering the car with the other. His voice hits your chest like a well-aimed horse’s hoof. You remember the year it changed, cracking into squeaky high notes before settling into the deep, sexy tone that still makes you weak in the knees.
“Hey Jace. I just thought we should talk. I know you said you wanted to end things, but I just can’t believe that’s what you really want.” There’s a pause, and you almost end the call, but then his voice continues. “I’m thinking that I should come out to the ranch today. I got my packet from the University for the married couples housing in Eugene. We got in.” Another pause. “Anyway, let me know what you think. I love you, you know?”
You do know. And love isn’t just blind—it’s deaf and dumb, too, because you don’t know how much clearer you could have been. Pissed off and heartsick, you text NO, hit send, and slip the phone into the side pocket of your 1970 VW Bug. It’s just as well you’ve left. Clearly, he doesn’t listen.
The message leaves you uneasy, though. How much longer can you fool your ex-fiancé into thinking you’re somewhere you’re not? Or your parents, for that matter?
You press your foot down on the accelerator, driven by a sudden need to put as many miles between you and Digger as possible. California, here you come. That’s the dream. Once you get there, you can be someone else. Someone glamorous and free.
Falling in love with Digger just confused you for a bit, that’s all.
You ignore the doubt that settled in the pit of your stomach sometime yesterday between Miles City and Billings and concentrate on the road. Wiggling in your seat, you try to stretch out your spine. Turns out VW bugs may look cool, but vintage seats were not made for comfort.
“I can drive for a bit if you want me to,” Ryan surprises you. You thought he was asleep.
“Nope. No offense, but I hardly know you. For all I know you drive like a maniac. Besides, no one drives my car except for me.”
And Digger, a little voice inside your head reminds you.
Oh, shut up.
“You’re the one who ran me off the road and killed my car,” Ryan points out.
You shrug. “Your car looked like it was already on its death bed.”
He laughs. “Truth.”
Turns out Ryan was going to California, too. You can’t imagine what Digger or your parents would say about picking up a stranger, but you felt responsible for his predicament. Plus, he’s paying for gas and the company keeps you from thinking about Digger too much.
You and Digger were supposed to get married in August and then head to the University of Oregon, where Digger had gotten a scholarship. You were going to work and go to a community college while he played football for the Ducks.
Who gets married at eighteen in this day and age?
You saw what happened to your own parents after marrying young. Hell, everyone in Resolute, North Dakota was a spectator of that particular war. You ignored it by watching old shows like Laguna Beach and The Hills and dreaming of escape. Your fairy tale is about endless beaches, blue skies, and designer clothes. Not football and rain, no matter how much you love watching Digger play.
Next to you, Ryan points to a sign. “There’s a campground up ahead. Why don’t we stop there?”
You turn and you’re instantly swallowed up in trees and brush, and you can barely see ahead or behind you. You slow even more and concentrate on missing the rocks while your ancient car lurches and sways down the road. You wish you had a clear path. You wish you could see ahead of you. You wish you had Digger’s old four-wheel drive. Then you push the truck out of your mind because so much of what was important in your life happened in the cab of that truck. You learned to drive in that truck. You learned to kiss in that truck. You watched Hell Boy at the Resolute Drive In in that truck, not caring that you guys had already been there four time or that metal speaker hanging limply in the window barely worked because the thigh pressing warmly against yours belonged to Digger.
You’re going to miss that truck.
“Watch out!” Ryan yells.
You spot a streak of gray and swerve, seconds before hearing a sickening thud against the front of your car.
“What was that?” You slam on the brakes and leap out of the car.
About three feet off the road lies a huge raccoon. He’s on his back with stiff legs pointing to the sky.
Tears sting your eyes, and you squeeze them shut. You killed an animal. You don’t kill animals. You don’t even eat animals. You’re probably the only rancher’s daughter in North Dakota to ever become a vegetarian.
Now you’ve gone and killed a raccoon.
“Jaci?” Ryan puts his arm around you. You hadn’t even heard him get out of the car. “Are you okay?”
You shake your head, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes. You bury your face in his shoulder, glad you’re not alone. “I didn’t mean to hit it.”
“I know.”
Suddenly, more than anything, you want Ryan to be Digger. The chest you’re crying against is the wrong chest, the arms holding you are the wrong arms—even the t-shirt smells wrong. You gasp with the wrongness. How did you get on this timeline? Why did you think running away was the answer? Why did you, an eighteen-year-old country girl from Resolute, North Dakota, think that you were going to find fame and fortune in California? As if your fake highlights and designer knockoffs would suddenly change and your skin would glow, your body would morph from strong rancher girl to California beach sleek and you would be, what? Happier? Happier than in Digger’s arms? Grief guts you, as much for what you have done to you and Digger as for the prostrate raccoon.
“Jaci?”
You pull back and notice that you’re getting snot on the front of his shirt. “What?”
“I think it’s alive.”
“What?”
You turn away from him in time to see the animal shiver. You wipe your nose on your sleeve. Just then, the raccoon sits up and huffs, indignation written all over his drunken sailor face. He chatters and makes his way into the waiting arms of a skinny brown-haired girl who looks no more than ten.
“Are you okay, Hell Boy?” she asks, cuddling her pet. “Did those mean people hurt you?” She glares at you before ambling off towards the campground just beyond the tree line.
“Hell Boy”? Ryan laughs, but it barely registers.
If Digger were here, he’d toss out a quote right now. “I wish I could do something about this, but I can’t. But I can promise you two things—one, I’ll always look this good and two, I’ll never give up on you… ever.”
You laugh, even as tears run down your face. You know. You know what you’re supposed to do. Could California offer love? Laughter? The knowingness of someone always having your back? You don’t need a California fairytale. You can write your own story. “Everything’s all wrong,” you tell Ryan, hiccoughing gently.
“I’m going home.”
Thoughts on Capacity Part One
What is Capacity?
According to a quick Google search, capacity is the maximum amount that something can contain.
The problem with this definition is that I am not a thing and I only have two arms, so my capacity to hold is limited. Yet, people say my capacity is huge. What they mean is that I do a lot. I admit, I’m kind of driven. For those of you who don’t know me, I am a planner, a doer, a goal setter, a list maker. I have a tendency to juggle, drop balls and then juggle some more.
Cap sun/Virgo rising, thank you very much.
For instance, right now, I work full time, finishing up a degree in English Lit and Creative Writing, on the Library Board for my little town, a Firewise USA Coordinator, (also for my little town), and active in the grange. In addition, I am rebranding and reigniting my writing career. I also garden, can, bake sourdough and soup for neighbors and am helping my husband remodel our 1910 bungalow. I don’t say this to brag about myself, but to talk about capacity and how and why mine has grown over the years—without the chronic anxiety that I used to get. Oh, sure, I still get overwhelmed, but I am so much more centered and relaxed. Busyness is not the answer.
Alignment is.
So that’s the first secret of growing your capacity. Knowing who you are and what activities align with your core belief system. I recently did an activity with my writing coach that asked a simple question:
What do you do and why do you do it?
1. I build community because I believe that is the only way to create a better world for my grandchildren and ALL the grandchildren of the world. That’s why I am on the library board, am active in the grange, and started Firewise.
2. I move, track my food and cook mostly from scratch because I believe that health fundamental. This is also why I garden, preserve food and share good food with my neighbors and community.
3. Continuing education is important to me because it is a way to keep my brain active, go deeper into my craft (writing) and positively impact the world. This is why I returned to school, am working with a writing mentor and take workshops on everything from money management to publishing to community building.
Aligning my beliefs with my behavior is one way that I stretch my capacity. It doesn’t feel like work, it feels like my life. Sure, I get stressed… Last week, I almost missed a deadline for an important grant. It took a lot of phone calls to gather the materials that I needed. I needed some serious down time after that!
So the first thing is to figure out what you value and then let your activities arise out of those values. After that, I honestly believe the sky is the limit… with the right tools and I will write about those in the next post!
Two Years AF AF
I have been alcohol free for two years today.
One of the best things about journaling on a regular basis is that I can look back and see the woman that I was. How did I come to that decision? It’s all there. I hadn’t hit rock bottom. There wasn’t a big drunken argument with my husband. I just decided after a weekend of too much alcohol while moving into my little home in the high desert, that enough was enough.
I had been sober curious for a couple of years before that. There was this nagging feeling that in order for me to continue growing, I had to treat myself and my body better. Alcohol is without a doubt a toxin and I was willingly disrespecting myself for short term fun. Plus, belonging to five wine clubs was a tad excessive, not to mention expensive.
So I asked myself, “How good can it get if I just… stopped.
It wasn’t easy. Alcohol is pervasive and a major part of our culture. Every get together included alcohol. Entire experiences were couched in “Where should we go for pre-event cocktails?” “What wine would go with that particular meal?” Even the healthy outdoor activities I loved so much began or ended with a drink. After all, what better way to end a ten-mile hike than with burgers and beer?
But I did it. I had no idea that I was operating most of the time with a very low level hangover from that glass of wine the night before until it was no longer part of my routine. That beer was interfering with my sleep. That my mornings were better without drinking the night before. Now, two years later, I can say without a doubt that it was one of the best things I have ever done for myself.
How much better could it get? So. Much. Better. Exponentially better. To be fair, I moved, changed careers and returned to school during that time, but I have no doubt that leaving alcohol behind accelerated my personal and spiritual growth, as well as my physical health. Even though I’ve had some health setbacks in the past few months, I am stronger and more resilient than I have ever been. Quite simply, everything is better without alcohol.
So I raise glass of sparkling water to my younger self, thanking her for her foresight and sticktoitiveness. You go girl!
Hello Again
It’s been a minute. Or perhaps several years. Longer you say? Welp.
In case you don’t know me, my name is Teri Brown. In addition to being a wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend, I am an author, community builder and public servant. I am a seeker, a former runner (stupid knee), small business supporter, meditation practitioner and avid reader. I believe in the importance of communication, gardens, strength training and the healing power of puppies.
The world is on fire right now, so I decided to do what I do best and reach out with my words when my anxiety is high. Anxiety sucks out energy that could be better used to make the world a better place. It’s a joy thief in a world where joy is an act of rebellion.
So what am I going to do today to build my own capacity for joy?
*Try to forget the fact that I woke up at 1:00AM
*Drink lots of coffee
*Strength train
*Meditate
*Journal
*Make someone smile
If you have found me here, welcome. I will blog primarily on the minutia that creates a life. I wish you joy today.
On Running, Writing and Recipes
It was a good week in spite of the fact that my love was doing his due diligence at the Powder House. Oh, who am I kidding, dude went to ski at Anthony Lakes with one of our best friends! And ski, he did. Looks absolutely incredible. If I liked skiing. Actually, it just looks cold. But hey, if that what makes him happy.
Even if he’s not painting like I would like him to, he is ridding the house of the mice who’ve decided to move in. With the house empty so much of the time, the rodents thought it was a good place to winter. They thought wrong. He should be home tomorrow for a week or so before heading back to supervise the installation of the new sink and counter tops. I miss it over there, but I’m not much for driving in the snow even if someone else is driving, so I’m fine waiting for a long April weekend.
Back to it being a good week, though. Writing is going so well and I am so grateful. It took six months for me to figure out how to carve time in my day to write regularly, but I have finally found my rhythm. My YA proposal is still making the rounds, my contemporary is on a temporary pause and I am working on a quick turnaround historical. Like I’ve mentioned before, it’s a time period I am not that familiar with so the research is intensive, but I am just loving it. I’ll be diving in this weekend.
I also just finished up week two of the Couch to 5k program. C2K is my go to running restart program. It gets me to where I want to be gradually without injury. I’m a slow runner and I will always be a slow runner. I occasionally do intervals or Tabata training to get my heart rate up for conditioning, but I prefer the meditative rhythm of keeping on keeping on. My favorite distance is four to six miles and I am SUPER excited to get there again. I’ve been trying to do at home workouts to increase my strength and stamina, but you know, puppy… I managed a yoga session last week and a cardio session this week. With Wyatt’s help, both were painful and hysterical.
It was a nice, easy food week as the hubby was gone. I made elk meatball stroganoff one evening and a big salad the next. Then leftovers and a trip to our local tamale place. Tonight, I’m going to make a sweet and sour sauce, add the meatballs not used in the stroganoff and serve over rice. Tomorrow, I’m making Birria tacos with chili broth and a banana cream pie for hubby’s return and later in the week, I’m making spicy glazed mustard wings and baked joe joes. There’s another recipe in the NYT food section on Korean soy-glazed pork belly that looks really good, but am going to go for Savory Thai noodles with seared brussels sprouts as I’m trying to make two or three vegetarian meals a week now. It’s good for us, the planet and all creatures great and small. And it’s delicious!
I could have added reading and resistance to the title, as I am reading Caste by Isabella Wilkerson and The Art of Possibilities by Rosamund Zander. Both are wonderful and Caste should be required reading. And I resumed my almost daily civic engagement. I can’t really call it resistance now because we’re working for something instead of just doing damage control. Equity across environments, climate change mitigation, the end human suffering, long term voting rights… so much work to do. The day job has been incredibly exciting as well… I have the best team and some of the projects I am working on are so awesome… but that’s for another blog.
So there, you have it in a nutshell… running, writing and recipes. Hope everyone has an amazing weekend!
A Total Weekend Reset
My plan for the weekend was set, but like all plans, it changed when Mother Nature intervened. I took today off in order to have a four-day weekend at the Powder House with my newly retired hubby. We had planned on doing a whole lot of nothing—there is still a pandemic raging after all—except some puttering, a little painting and Al may have hit the slopes. We changed our plans when we heard about the coming storm. Good thing too. Parts of interstate 84 are almost shut down because of crashes and there are white out conditions in some places.
I briefly considered just canceling my day off and working. After all, I am as stuck as I would be any other day and having no meetings scheduled would have been a good opportunity to catch up on some projects. However, in the end I decided not to. Now present Teri is thanking past Teri for her decision to just rest. Or rest the way I like to rest which means writing, cleaning and cooking. So in spite of the weather and having my plans canceled, I’m looking forward to the break.
It’s been a good week. I’m really loving my planner and its emphasis on how I want to feel. It’s forcing me to slow down and integrate in a way that I haven’t before. Like most people who live long term with someone who’s very emotional, I learned to regard feelings with a mistrustful eye… after all, if they’re going to change in five minutes, why bother? But in doing so, I missed out on integrating my own emotions/intuition/intellect and physical body, which I believe is necessary for personal growth and actualization. So the planner is helping me to do that. I was dead on when I decided to put my mental health and emotional well-being first this year. It’s like the rudder on which the direction of the vessel depends.
The past couple of weeks have been kind of a litmus test as I fumble about and discover what is truly necessary for my own wellness. Two things stood out in stark relief—my writing and exercise. I prioritized both, making adjustments to my schedule to make space for those two things and the results have been promising. I am both calmer and more energized, which on the surface doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I’m not questioning it. Devoting time to my craft and movement feels so very right. It’s been a long time, too long, since I have invested in either in any meaningful way.
I bought Scrivner and I am absolutely loving it so far. It’s very intuitive and it’s nice to have a place to keep all my scenes, chapters, character notes, and the oodles of research I’m doing. I’ve decided not to make word count or time goals and am instead making project goals. Start New Scene or Finish GMC’s for Primary Characters are goals that are specific enough to motivate without being stress inducing.
Last spring, I was running regularly after a long hiatus and got up to about two miles without stopping but then I started working on the Powder House, started a new job, etc., and things kind of fell apart. So I am back to C25k again and managed three runs before the snow came. I also did a nice yoga session which will have to do me for the weekend because it’s not going to warm up enough to hit the streets until Sunday afternoon. Yoga with a puppy has its own challenges, though, and it’s difficult to find the time when the puppy is asleep and the humans I live with aren’t in the living room. No ZEN there.
So I’m setting the intention that this weekend will be a nice long recoup… it may not be the weekend I originally envisioned, but it can still be a time for me to do the things I love to do, things that bring me peace and joy. I wish you the same on this cold, snowy Friday.
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