“The book is set up somewhat like a devotional,” Hanisch explained.  ”Only it draws from famous quotations, making it accessible to anyone who simply wants to end their day with a little bit of wisdom.”  The books in this series provide a short reading for each day of the year.  Each entry includes a thought-provoking quote, some musings from the author about the quote, and then a positive affirmation.  

“They’re short snippets that help you disengage from the stress of the day,” Hanisch said.  ”It’s a nice ritual to quiet the mind before falling asleep.”

Shh… all’s well

                                  bastions sprout from 
                                  crooked ground

Here’s a clown fish in anemone arms 

                                  every step a stumbling one
                                  there is no compensation
                                  the whole, the hole

It is trompe l’oeil

They’re not cold
      only sleeping

                                 talk to me some other decade
                                 about victory
                                 dance you with me some other lifetime

For now
                                 it’s good enough to survive 

Based on a piece begun February 23 2010

Simka doing what she does best

Simka is a mix of Husky and who-knows-what-else.  Her spotted ears seem to suggest she’s got some cattle dog in her bloodline.  Looking at her frame and face, I notice a hint of greyhound somewhere in there too.  In the end, she looks a little bit like a coyote as she sniffs her way through the sage brush along the plateau trail we’re walking.  Well, I’m walking.  Simka is jogging, speeding, pivoting, galloping over to me, turning on a dime behind me and racing on ahead again.  Occasionally she slows down to sniff a bush or greet another dog.

My friends’ dog, Simka is hanging out with me for a couple days while her owners are out of town.  I’m getting to play dog-mom for the weekend.  Today we hike along a trail on the east side of town that is known as a dog-trail.  At any given moment, there are likely more dogs than people up here.

Only a quarter mile into our hike, a large collie-husky-beardog-behemoth slurry barrels up to Simka and checks her right shoulder, making her stumble.  Simka does not fight back.  She never does when bigger dogs pick on her, which happens with some frequency.  I feel protective.  All that excess maternal energy stands at the ready.  I watch closely as the dogs sniff each other.  Hard to say if the beastdog is truly wanting to play or just being a pushy bitch.

Simka assumes the best, says hi, and then carries along at a trot.  Beastdog paces her for a while, pauses for a few moments, then builds up speed and slams into Simka again.  This time it’s overtly aggressive.  Simka once again, does nothing to fight back.  In fact, she does nothing to acknowledge the other dog’s presence.  Not a sniff, not a glance.

“Where is that dog’s owner?” I mutter to myself.  I look around.  There is a couple about 20 yards behind me.  I glare. 

Simka just fixes her gaze forward and jogs along.  The bully keeps after her for most of our walk despite my attempts to take a different trail, hang back, and return to my car by another route.  The owners of Beastdog wind up walking the same way.  On a grand whole, Simka doesn’t seem bothered by the bigger dog.  She hasn’t yelped, and in between attacks, she’s enjoying herself, romping in the snow and reading the local news at fence posts.  But, I’m bothered. 

Mind you, I’m not real keen on the idea of grappling with Beastdog myself.  So I’m getting ready to address the owners, prepping my little speech in my mind, “Look, most people let their dogs run off-leash up here.  But that only works if the dogs are well-behaved.  Yours is not.  Please leash her.”

We have only a half-mile to go when I’ve gathered my courage to initiate my little chat.  But, I stop.  Simka suddenly responds to Beastdog.  The meanie has taken to trotting ahead and lying in wait crouching lion style.  She jumps Simka from behind some bushes.  My petite dog-buddy finally has it.  She doesn’t bite, pounce, or wrestle.  She just lights her afterburners and runs.  But, she doesn’t run away.  No, she runs circles around the lumbering bully.  Beastdog attempts several times to leap at her and fails.  Simka continues her circles, tightening them, coming quite close to Beast and then jettisoning herself away.  She is taunting her!  And she has timed this beautifully.  The bigger dog is already exhausted, and we are almost back to the parking lot anyway.

Beastdog sits down in the middle of the trail.  She watches Simka.  She stands.  She sits back down.  Then, as if completely overwhelmed, she gets up and runs as fast as she can (a lazy pace compared to Simka) back to her owners, now a good 50 yards away. 

I call Simka in and praise her for being very smart and very, very fast.  She jumps once, gives me a big toothy grin, then hurries off down the trail to the car.  The other dog gives her a wide berth. 

While I grumbled and worried about Simka’s ability to defend herself, Simka simply knew what she was capable of.  She didn’t worry or react.  She just waited for the right moment.

Register for the conference or simply learn more about Girls for a Change.

“Everybody face Ms. Hanisch!”

In Korean, he called them to attention and commanded them to bow.  I bowed as well, and then we all shouted the initials of our particular Taekwondo association.  

The ritual is a funky blend of traditional Asian and outright commercial American.  There have been times in the past when I have tried to sneak in during a busy transition moment in order to avoid it.  Though, I know other students who are offended if folks forget to do it.  Last night, for me it was a plain gesture seamless with my opening the door to the school.  I felt neither uncomfortably conspicious nor wildly powerful.  I showed up, greeted the class in session, made sure the door closed well behind me.  Then off to the back to change.

No epiphanies as I put on the uniform and tied my belt.  No great revelation as I bowed to the flags and entered the practice area.

One class was ending, and it would be a few minutes before mine began.  Students milled about, instructors chatted with parents.  I walked over to the three punching bags in the corner and pulled one out away from the walls.  With the target to my right and the crowd off in my left periphery, I settled into a middle stance and began pounding out right back-fist strikes.

mmm… My favorite.

I measured my breath and closed my eyes, listening to the crowd, to my strikes, to the location of the target.  The session would be a full one; I’d struggle through warm-up, adapting exercises for my still recovering spine, and I’d notice it’s still hard for me to jump as I reviewed Shim Jun, the form for my belt level.  But for now, it was just me and the punching bag.  I settled into the rhythmic thwomp, thwomp, thwomp.  

Oh, I remember this, I thought.  It’s good to be home.

“I’ve researched and written about hundreds of natural products, but this is one that I’ve actually started taking myself,” said Hanisch.  ”It’s amazing how effective it is at simply keeping you healthy during cold and flu season.”* 

Beta glucan is a substance found in grains, fungi, and yeast.  A form derived from the cell walls of baker’s yeast is particularly helpful for supporting immune system response.*  But few people know about it.  Hanisch is glad to see the clinical data and research finally getting out to the general public.

*These statements are for educational purposes only.  This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.  Always speak with your primary healthcare provider before trying this or any other natural product.

   atop a hutch
   approximately five strides from bed,
   to guarantee my awakening

Bastard, I mutter.  Leave me be.

I beat the electronic nuisance into submission
   and return to bed longing for a shirt
   not soaked from hot flashes
I lay in stasis
   cozy and resentful in a ratio of two to one
   until I notice the room is full of light 

What, I think.  What?

The sun will not blush the sky for another hour
   and my sole window is west facing
A great cornice stretches from the eaves
   threatening to drop onto dormant lilacs below
The drift birthed icicles this past week;
   my window is a cave entrance now 

No, it is not dawn yet
No, this light is cool and blue and silver

 A full moon is setting
   her lesser rays passing through four-foot icicles
   filtering through crystalline wands before resting
   on my face and hair
   providing a coverlet
For my blanketed body

A better clock, a sweeter greeting
I slip from bed and stride to the window
   and finally am aware

I am, of course, a little nervous as I walk into Lauren Coleman’s dance studio.  Tonight is worse than last week.  

Last week I knew absolutely nothing about the tango apart from snippets I’d seen in movies.  It looked tricky, elegant, and a whole lot of fun.  Of course it looked fun, I’d never tried it.  After my first lesson, I knew enough about the Argentine Tango to be humbly terrified.

I am actually a martial artist.  Recovering from a car accident that occurred last August, I was finally approved by my physician to begin “low impact activities” in late October.  Taekwondo is not such an activity.  Ballroom dance, on the other hand, certainly qualifies.  And dance was on my list of ‘Things I’d Love to Try Someday’.  Back when I was teaching or training in Taekwondo 3-4 nights a week and cross-training in Aikido, there was NEVER time for something so frivolous as dance.  Ha.  

Suddenly, with my martial arts life at a standstill, I  had plenty of time.

So, I signed up for Lauren’s Basic Ballroom class and began 6 weeks of the Foxtrot and Swing.  Several years ago, a guy friend tried to teach me to swing, and I remembered his exasperated comment, “Quit trying to lead!  God, you’ll never learn to dance.”  Um.. I’m not very good friends with him anymore.  But, the comment was somewhat warranted.  It’s had its variants in my martial arts career too.  I am, occasionally, formidable in the sparring ring.  But my wins are erratic.  Sometimes I’m in touch with my opponent, and sometimes it seems I completely lose my ability to perceive the Other.  I am, in short, a very poor listener.  I signed up for dance classes, with an oblique hope that it would help with my sparring once I got back to my real freetime activity of choice.

By the third Foxtrot lesson, I remember saying to one of my dance partners, “Wow, we’re dancing!  We’ve really got it!”  Slow, slow, quick-quick, slow, slow… Far from the physically static posture of the writing life, I spent two evenings a week letting Steven or Matt or Cody or Doug lead me around the dance floor.  I found myself intoxicated by the big band music and the steady click of our shoes on the wood floor.  I discovered I really liked dancing… perhaps as much as martial arts.  No longer going to the lessons as a “substitute activity” on my road to recovery, I was looking forward to dancing in and of itself.

After the Basic Ballroom course finished, after the holiday parties where I tried out my new steps and even learned a little bit of the waltz, I found myself looking at the dance class brochure for the winter session.  The Argentine Tango stood out.  ”Now that would be something completely different,” I thought.  ”Why not?”

Hmm.  Tonight, as class begins, I can think of several reasons.  I think of how at the first lesson, every fellow I danced with stepped on my feet and bumped into my knees.  It had been a far cry from the elegant mystique shimmering in my mind’s eye.  

Now, watching Lauren demonstrate our next drill, I see the reason for last week’s snafoos.  This is a very good dance for women who have long graceful legs and expressive hips.  Lauren insists anyone can do it though; there are ways to lengthen your stride so a tall man doesn’t bash into your knees when you’re dancing in that close tango embrace.

“Women, remember to point your toe as you step backward; that will lengthen your step. So will bending the front knee,”  Lauren shows us how to do this as she dances with one of the students.  ”You should lean forward, toward the man too.  Though, keep your back straight; don’t arch it.  That looks silly.”

She makes it look so easy.  There’s one more note for the women.

“As you step back with your right leg, it should brush against your left knee.  If you don’t naturally walk like this, find a way to do so.  Let your ankles kiss each other.”   The tango comes from your hips.

Shoot.  I don’t have any.  That’s why I’m the tough girl who got into breaking boards.  I never learned to walk in heels for the same reason.  But I do own a couple dresses now, and one of them would be perfect for this dance.  I so want to learn.

I jump in.  I dance with more than a dozen partners as Lauren calls us to rotate rather often.  ”It’s good for you; you’ll learn faster and you’ll know how to dance with a variety of people.  What if you go to a wedding?  There will be relatives and friends who want to dance with you.”

All of my partners step on my feet.  All but one.  It’s five minutes till the end of class when I begin to dance with a young man named John.  There is no notable chemistry between us.  (There hasn’t been, actually, with anyone I’ve danced with in these classes.  I’m not there looking for it for one thing, and I’m way too nervy the whole time to think of it!)  No sudden connection.  There is simply this:  from the first step we take, we are dancing the tango.  No over-thinking, no stepping on toes.  Any time he rock-steps or turns or initiates the cross, I have it.  I’m following his lead seamlessly.  

“Wow you’re smooth,” he says.  

“Me?  I–thanks,” I stammer.

“Send your partner!” Lauren calls.  Off John goes.

And my last three partners step on the toes of my too-long feet at the end of my too-short legs.  And “the cross”?  That snappy criss-cross move that the woman uses to respond when the man steps twice just to the right of her line of dance– 

“If he takes one step to your right and then steps back in, you don’t cross.  It’s like he’s saying ‘Well (beat 1) … No (beat 2).’  But if he steps twice to the right of your line.  He’s saying ‘Well (beat 1)… Yes (beat 2).’  You cross then in response.  It is an exchange, a little game,” Lauren explains.  ”This is the conversation of the Tango.”  

We do drills alone.  I get it in the drills.  But, ultimately, I do not complete this move with anyone other than John, not without tripping myself anyway.  

My friend Kelly and I sit next to each other changing into our street shoes after class.  We dally, hanging out in the glow of the stained-glass lights in the entry.  I tell her about John.  

“That happened to me a few years ago,” she says.  ”Wild Joe’s used to have dance nights.  I would go there, and there was this young man who must have been half my age; he and I were able to tango and make each other look good.  Both beginners, but we just had it.  Incredible.  That was the only connection I had with him too; didn’t know him from from anywhere else, and I’ve never seen him since.”

I sit at home now wondering about this very difficult dance.  I think about sparring.  I think about the paradox of how I listen so closely to the authors I ghostwrite for, but I listen so poorly to dance partners.  
I think about my writing voice, which I hope to rediscover.  

I realize that I am, even now, writing in “generic magazine voice” at the moment.  No astounding prose about the mountains where I live or stream of consciousness musings about spirituality.  This first blog entry, I over-write in a familiar ad-copy style.  

But, I’m showing up.  Listening the best I can.  And hoping for that one little success that woos me to show up tomorrow, and next week, and many days after that.

I have learned to construct descriptive sentences, clear instruction, and blatantly advertorial text– all perfect and beautiful… and never in my own voice.  As a child and teen, I remember writing as my personal escape.  It was the one place where I could speak well and be myself.  I wonder now what happened to that freedom and sincerity. I hope to find out in these posts.  In the categories you’ll find:

• Poetry – hopefully the antidote to commercialitus
• Far Away from My Desk – personal narrative drawing from away-from-the-office life
• News – occasional highlights from the day job 

This is a “voice-training” experiment.  My plan is to begin writing a little original prose every day; I’ll post 1-2 of these pieces per month here.  A few very gentle guidelines:

• 600-1200 words each for stories
• present tense subject – preferably an inspiration coming from the past 24 hours
• a varied mix each month including experiments with dialogue, setting, character, personal philosophy, outdoor narrative, fiction, non-fiction, and poetry

Well friends, here goes.  Wish me luck, and I hope to see your comments soon!  Meanwhile, feel free to peruse my writing portfolio and bio at Spiritus Creative, LLC.

Cheers,

Anika