The song, “On the Sunny Side of the Street,” was originally performed in 1930 for the musical Lew Leslie’s International Review. The Manhattan Transfer does a great job of bringing a refreshing, upbeat sound to this age-old classic.

It’s stuck in my head now, as this storm passes over our house; while our back yard’s rain-brushed lilac bushes are drenched in sunlight, the front of the house still remains dark and ominous.

I shift my chair to look out the back windows and keep to the sun.

My sister, my hero, has mastered this. In her two-decade battle with cancer, she shuns the evening news and gets her top stories from happynews.com (“Real News, Compelling Stories, Always Positive”).  She surrounds herself with positive people, positive messages, positive everything.

I have to admit, I’ve sought out comic relief lately to balance out some of the deeper subjects I’ve been writing about. Amy and I cycle through the various seasons of 30 Rock, Arrested Development, SNL, and even Weeds after the kids go to bed. There’s something about laughing out loud right before going to sleep that makes me wake up a little happier. A few weeks ago, we watched Seven Pounds with Will Smith, and–to quote Harry Potter in Prisoner of Azkhaban (the book–Ron said it in the movie), I awoke feeling “like I’d never be cheerful again.”

Who needs that?

I hope you find your way to the sunny side of the street today, despite whatever storms may be passing overhead. . . .

I have been working these past five days or so on some articles for a new website my writing partner and I are launching. It’s a place to help individuals find that flame that’s burning inside of them that, somehow along the way, was nearly extinguished. Life gets in the way, and if we’re not careful, our lefts and rights lead us far from who we once were.

Writing these pieces is a challenge–at least in this initial step of getting started. We’re writing for a particular audience, and we need to be consistent in our message; we need to be calculated in how we roll out our message to help others use writing, the fine arts, and meditation to rekindle that flame.

This is not one of those things you just throw together. We can’t just write on a few topics, get into a groove with the formula, and let the words flow endlessly from the tips of our chiseled fountain pens. It goes deeper than that for our readers simply because it goes deeper for us as writers, as individuals. We’re practicing what we’re preaching, and it’s not easy to peel back a few of the layers to get to that glowing ember within you. Not when those layers remain open hours on end, sometimes carefully put back in place while you carry on with this and that, but open they remain–tender, vulnerable.

It’s the love/hate relationship I have with writing. I’ve had my share of memories this week–mostly good. Reminders here and there of days long, long past. At one point, they seemed to parade by me one by one, a never-ending stream of don’t-you-forgets.  When this happens, the connections between past and present are a writer’s threads to weave meaningful pieces for his readers. This wondrous torture needs more time, though, more hours, more moments strung together to reach a place that is both satisfying for the reader and barely acceptable to the writer.

As I said, this is not easy.

I have read hundreds if not thousands of quotes on writing, have been given direct advice from best-selling authors to lucky hacks. Their message is same: Just write the damned thing, place butt-in-chair, open a vein, etc. But what they don’t tell you is the inner struggle to create, shape, sculpt, refine, polish amidst a constantly changing backdrop of demands and temptations. No matter how you get it done, opening a vein is a painful procedure, and closing the wound afterward almost always leaves some kind of scar. But through the stitches, through the mending layers of flesh, the flame pulses a little more brightly, thanks to the courage it took to finish what you started.

I read an article earlier today in The Atlantic (“Is Google Making us Stupid?”) that does a great job of explaining how we are beginning to think differently because of the amount of time we spend online and the frequency with which we communicate in short quips of information. I am deeply terrified by this, and yet, I see that I am just as susceptible as anybody else to having my mind map rewired to avoid longer sessions of reading, thinking, savoring. I used to rant about the fact that everybody was providing services in or under an hour (food, photo, drycleaning, etc.), and when somebody took longer, they lost our business. Now, though, it’s become exponentially worse, where we are craving immediate responses to texts, personal instant messages, and witty status updates on a variety of social networks.

This is what I fear. Writing will take too long. Opening a vein will be reserved for the artistic extremists, and our means of communication will run no deeper than the jet ski that skims the water’s surface–barely–as it cruises at speeds never intended for our reflective, contemplative minds.

Makes me want to end my stint on Facebook. Drop the data plan on my phone. Go into seclusion with my words and release them as often as possible. Definitely makes me want to cut the already-wireless cable entirely and rediscover what I sense is slipping away a little more with each new log-on. I wonder if it’s too late already. I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s too late to heed to the oft-cliche “Use it or lose it.”

I don’t know. I will finish these articles and get this site up and running with my partner, but I do not do it lightly. The finished pieces will resemble little the drafts that looked more like open heart surgery than cookie-cutter cheer-ups to help you find your way. They may seem clean and sterile in the end, but they got that way because we believed in their importance, their necessity, to help each and every one of us hold on to that flame flickering dimly within.

I still believe it’s there. I really do.

The question is: Do you?

I’m definitely in the mood to uncut for just a bit.

I miss my ’10 grads. I saw a picture today of one of them, with her UMass friends, looking so forward to classes beginning in the fall. She, like all the others, looks so different already. To think they were in high school just two months ago is ridiculous. They have moved on and are excited about what lies ahead. As I said, though, I miss them.

My own kids can’t seem to find their summer groove. Their expectations are through the roof, they are extremely emotional, and not much is making them happy these days. It breaks my heart. I don’t know what else to do for them, but to offer them routine, stability, love, and patience.

I’m not writing enough. I can’t find my own groove as well, and it’s getting to me. I just can’t piece this revision together an hour here, an hour there. I get in the core, and then it’s time to switch gears for the rest of the day–no, not gears. It’s more like changing stations from the Discovery Channel to Nick Jr. No sims there. Totally derailed. I spend half of my next writing hour trying to regroup and remember what I did last session.

I’m battling the negatives with my guitar lessons. Shouts of You Suck and You’ll Never Be Good Enough resonate every time I pick up the guitar. It’s horrible. Kills my confidence.

I miss my nature photo shoots. I’m going to take Bellatrix out this weekend for a shoot somewhere. Problem is, I trip with her, and then my writing time suffers.

Maybe I just need to write and get through that. Not miss my grads, show my kids my own summer groove, and realize I can’t do it all this summer. There’s a time for everything.

Maybe I just need to hate this and just get some rest and just start over tomorrow and just be okay with that and just write.

Maybe.

I watched (most of) A Beautiful Mind last night. Disturbed me for some reason. Tried to figure it out, but it’s not coming to me. Really weighed heavily on my mind as I tried to fall asleep afterward. Hmm.

I wish I didn’t like to do so many things. I wish, sometimes, that I was just a writer, or just a musician, or just a teacher, or just a photographer.

Maybe I just wish that writing this would have made everything better, but it has not.

Hmm.

I wish that I could write the words, Maybe That’s Okay.

But I know it is not.

Maybe.

I usually experience them in the strangest of places–red lights, waiting in a grocery checkout lane. No surprise, really. These are times and places where stillness exists. Our brains are so overworked with hectic schedules, multi-tasking, and worries over the economy and other such troubles, we rarely have time (or find the energy to make it) to still the waters and give the mind a rest.

Funny how we need to find time or energy to slow down or stop the very things that deprive us of these two precious commodities.

Anyway, I had this epiphany about not staying in one genre of writing. Money, for the last 50 years, has driven this demand–if not outright requirement–that writers stick to one genre, one field. It just takes too much energy (there’s that word again) and money to market a writer to multiple audiences.

In one sense, I’m happy to see so many artists marketing their name first and their product second. Christine Kane is a great example of a musician who is now reaching many thousands of individuals in several innovative and inspiring ways.

Bill Shakespeare did this too, didn’t he? A writer of tragedies and comedies and histories and poems. . . .

Not that I’m saying any of us is like Bill. But if he could do it then, and if folks like Christine Kane are finding ways to do it now, we all need to have faith in ourselves that we can do it, too.

Don’t let Marketing tactics restrict you from living your life fully. Nobody or no thing should dictate how we direct and share our creative energies to improve our community and make our mark.

Just do it….like Shakespeare!

Um…what?

I have a dirty little secret that I’m sharing with all of you. Please don’t tell everyone. It’s that important.

You see, I’ve decided to come clean on a few things about being a writer. And, for those of you who seek the deeper sides of such things, let me spare you the drama. It’s about being me, too.

In earlier entries, I’ve alluded to the whole roller coaster analogy of my life. Good days, bad days. Creative bursts, vacant thoughts. Happy, sad. Social, recluse. Well, the ride is just as wild for the writer within. I can focus intensely on a spiritual piece about rebirth in the morning, and then go to work on some edits needed for the gruesome murder scene for a novel.

In the writer’s world, we’re not supposed to do that.

For hundreds of years, the literary societies have boxed authors into one style of writing, for one specific audience. Anything that strays from the norm will be damned, left on the editor’s floor not worthy of a recycling bin. We become slaves to our readers, critics of our abilities to put one through the hoops — all net, no less — every single time. Touch the rim or, God forbid, use the backboard, and you’re out. I see it all the time.

So here we go, folks. Welcome to everything that goes against what those literary societies have been dictating all these years. It’s time to leave them scattered about on my editor’s floor (but my conscience is eating at me about the whole recycling thing…Let me introduce you to Mr. Shredder…).

Welcome to A Tale of Two Writers.

What follows is a Casting of My Fate to the Wind, a sharing of my journey to publish all of it–the spiritual, the psychological thriller, the philosophic, the rhetoric, the memoir, the fairy tale.

Hugh Prather, author of the historic Notes To Myself (published first in 1970), somehow reached thirty years into the future to capture my sentiment, right now, right here. Thanks, Hugh. You make this journey so much easier, giving me the strength and courage to believe in myself for who I am, and not for who others want me to become.

As I look back on my life, one of the most constant and powerful things I have experienced within myself is the desire to be more than I am at the moment — An unwillingness to let myself remain where I am — A desire to increase the boundaries of myself — A desire to do more, learn more, express more — A desire to grow, improve, accomplish, expand. I used to interpret this inner push as meaning that there was some one thing out there I wanted to do or be or have. And I have spent too much of my life trying to find it. But now I know this energy within me is seeking more than THE mate or THE profession or THE religion, more even than pleasure or power or meaning. It is seeking out more of me; or better, it is, thank God, flushing out more of me.

Join me. Let’s have some fun.

as always…………….rvw

I guess at this age–middle 40′s–there’s a groove that’s difficult to break.

For some of us, we’re pretty happy in what we’re doing. I’ve been blessed that my zig-zag energies in teaching and writing have carried me to a pretty good place. I’m writing and publishing on a fairly frequent basis (certainly more of the writing than the publishing), and I’ve established my own press (Ravenwater) to offer more publishing opportunities to writers who want to make a difference with their words.

So I guess this is it, then. Life. As it was prescribed for me, and what I’ve managed to make of that prescription. The aglet’s already been wrapped around the end of this story, for the most part, keeping my life on track (or the possibility of such a thing) until the very end. It’s up to me how tightly I pull it all together, lace up this shoe, and keep walking.

I’ve got some other friends around my age who are in a different kind of groove. I don’t know whether it’s been more bad choices or more bad breaks, but they hate their groove. Can’t find a way to break loose and make some pretty big changes, no matter how many figurative tools–hammers, screwdrivers, saws–I and others might give them to break free.

This is it for them as well. Sometimes, the journey’s no more comfortable than a ride on a dromedary that’s got a little too much on his mind this morning. Slow, bumpy, and downright stinky at times.

We have to embrace who we are, where we are, and where we tend to go. For me, the zig-zag is all about putting my energies into THIS for a few weeks, then THAT for another few, all the while being a Dad to my kids. It’s a tough juggle, and sometimes I drop a few of the balls. But this IS it, and I know that. I have to keep these boots moving as if I had diamonds in their soles.

I know that the photosynthesis of my soul will not shift in its arrangement suddenly and without warning, any more than our planets might re-align with Jupiter and Saturn deciding to switch it up a bit on nothing more than an astral whim…

I wish it weren’t “It” sometimes. You know, that this were a dress rehearsal for the real thing. I’ve done a good job with the blocking, my lines are fairly memorized, and I’m gearing up for a tech rehearsal. But I’ll take a few more dress-rehearsal run-thrus, thank you very much, so I can get it just exactly perfect.

Hardly.

It’s tough, but we have to constantly remind ourselves of where we are right now–and be happy with that and have the courage to refine with each rising sun.

*This entry is dedicated to Courtney, Mark, Theresa, and Brad, all giving me some pretty interesting words on a recent Facebook challenge to sprinkle into tonight’s entry. Can you guess which words I was told to add?

I remember years ago–perhaps 15 or so–when the world wide web was on the brink of changing our lives. Never before (at least in my lifetime) had a promise of simplicity been ushered to us so strongly. With this new technology, we would be able to save hundreds of hours of researching and seeking out important facts simply with a few keystrokes. All we ever needed to know would be nanoseconds away, freeing us up to live our lives more fully, more simply, free of the anxiety and stress that had plagued us in our endless pursuit for simple things.

Here I am, 15 years later, voluntarily chained to more electronic devices and accounts than I could have ever imagined. The simplicity that was promised back in 1994 is The Last Great Lie of the 20th century, only now being fully realized.

I sometimes think that I just missed this generation rush by a few years, and I will be forever held back by my memories of the way life used to be, where simplicity was more than a concept; it was a way of life for most of us. Had I been born in the early 70s, I don’t think there would be this constant pull to return to something that, for the most part, no longer exists.

Don’t get me wrong. I love writing here in my blog, and I am beginning to pick up the pace at The Examiner. I do my best to manage the flow of email that comes in for the various projects I’ve taken on  (again–all by choice), and I genuinely love and appreciate all of the great connections I’ve made on Facebook.

It’s just that, when I need to take a little break from it all, the guilt is so strong when I return and I see all that I have neglected. I want technology to provide a life that was promised to me; I want my life to be simplified by my e-choices, not complicated.

I know it’s up to me and the choices I make, but even in the last two years or so, the choices have come at critical costs.

Writing and publishing is all about marketing and selling yourself. Having a Twitter account does wonders for my publicity, but if I pause even momentarily, I feel out of the loop and no longer in the running for serious consideration as a bona fide writer.

Same with Facebook. We are so close to so many, and I begin to feel guilty when I cannot muster a response to somebody who is having a bad day. Every pulse of who we are is available for comment, for concern, for celebration. I love it all, and yet I feel the pull to disconnect, unplug, get out of that pulse and return to the solitude in the woods, on the water, that know of no status updates or blog posts.

It’s that same feeling you get when you’ve been running a fever or fighting a stomach bug. You aren’t hungry at all for days, and it feels pretty good to have that empty stomach. But the lure is strong to eat, to return to your old ways. Within days, you’re back to the things that probably made you sick in the first place, and the cycle continues.

When I unplug for a few days and refresh, I look at Twitter, Facebook, and my blog with a renewed energy, and I come back with daily posts, witty tweets, and inspiring status updates. In a few short weeks, though, that fades once again, and I am left seeking out simplicity.

I want to live simply. I want to live without conflict.

I want to allow love to guide my every breath, my every thought, my every action.

I want to embrace technology and have the ability to do my job and power down when the time is right.

I want to please, to share, to enjoy, to cherish.

I want to be the heron in the reeds: still, patient, focused.

*sigh*

I want to not want. I just want to be.

Bellatrix is stuck in Oakland, CA. :( I did a Google image search for what life looks like in Oakland, as I have never been there, and here’s what I came up with:

Now, I’ve never been to Oakland, so I did a quick fact/stat search of the area…Is it really as bad as I’ve been reading? 14.70% unemployment rate? Cost of living is 43% higher than the national average? Schools are some of the worst in the nation?

The photos look beautiful (but who would use bad photos of their city to entice non-west-coastians like me?)…

Late last week, I was part of a conversation (I was really just an observer, to be honest) between two people who have been to Oregon, Washington, and California and who, in all probability, will someday move there for at least a few years. They spoke of its draw, its lure, that calls them back. This piques my curiosity about what it’s like out there, and I feel that I’ve got to realize someday the dream I had when I was in college: to drive across country and spend some time along the west coast.

Crazy? Why do we look at such adventures with I-Don’t-Knows and We-Can’ts? Just how hard would it be to plan such a trip? Even with a family of five?

It seems like the biggest scare is to break the routines, the conventions that have put us on this conveyor belt of life. Hey, I’m not knocking it. I love the things I do and the things my family experience on a daily basis, but why don’t we build in more adventure time to explore more of our country, our land around us, our world?

I remember those days in 1987 when Brad and I were planning our trip out west.

I remember those days in 1991 planning that six-week journey along the Appalachian Trail that turned into a little more than seven days.

I remember those days….

But I also remember all of the other road trips realized. Those trips to New England, Canada, and Florida. That drive out to Arizona was amazing as well. My life has not been short-changed in any way of adventure. I guess I just am missing that next big road trip, and I hope it comes soon.

We’ll be heading down to Georgia in December for my nephew’s wedding (just writing that makes me nostalgic), and that’ll be a blast.

Maybe the trip out west–the big one never realized like my yet-to-come thru hike of the Appalachian Trail–is just something that I’ve got to keep at the near-top of my list. . . .

In the meantime, I’ll wait a few more days for Bellatrix to head east.

Had a great day today. Started out on the NCR trail for a 14-mile bike ride. Always a wonderful and refreshing way to start the day. Once again, though, I neglected to get a picture. I don’t know why it is so hard for me to remember to snap these pictures!

I had about an hour to kill before I had to pick up Holland at the gym, so I drove out to Loch Raven and took a few pics of the Jeep:

As I was taking these pictures, a man in his early thirties (that’s my guess, at least) jogged by. He was looking at me and at the jeep. When I said Good Morning to him, he just laughed and shook his head.

Now, I get it about the whole Oceanic picture-taking thing and how I might (might!) get a look here and there of what-are-you-doing, but I don’t think I’m out of line here to question why jogger boy offered his little condescending snicker. Did he think I was pretentious in taking pictures of my Jeep at Loch Raven? I wanted to jog alongside of him (well, maybe walk really fast–I’m not into jogging just yet) and explain to him all about the my3*6*5 project. I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t obsessed with my Jeep (though I am) so much that I had to take it places, park it, and then take pictures of it and put it on my blog.

Ok, well, maybe I am. But why does that warrant a judgement?

How mature would it be for me to mock him, The Jogger, for doing what he loved to do?

Ugh. People.

I should have just given him a big hug and wished him much love in his life, but I don’t think that would have gone over too well either.

Rest of the day’s been good. Spent the afternoon at the pool, grilled dinner outside…All seems right with the world. How was your Saturday?

It finally happened. I have been waiting over three years for this day, and here we are. A M A Z I N G. . . . .

For those of you who don’t know, I am obsessed with LOST, the tv show on Wednesday nights (well, it used to be on Wednesdays….We’re now in an 8-month hiatus until the final season begins in February, 2010). Season 1 began with a plane crash, Oceanic flight 815, on a remote island. Throughout the series, much emphasis has been placed on that flight, on specific numbers, symbols, as well as allusions and archetypes.

So, to me it made perfect common sense to be a little more than obsessed with our local gas station, named Oceanic, and the unlikely chance that, one day, the numbers on the marquis would align just right so that the sign would read, “Oceanic 815.”

That day was today.

I first noticed it as I was driving Holland to the gym. I was a little late picking her up (traffic seems to be getting worse these days), and she was pretty upset about it. But when we drove by the gas station, I screamed in joy at noticing the numbers on the sign. Suddenly, the entire mood changed between us, and I was caught up in the possibilities of what this meant.

Sure, it was just a gas station, and few people (any? I was sure at least some people were as fascinated by this wondrous phenomenon) would notice. However, obsessions are not born overnight. They are cultivated, nurtured, so that when I drove by the sign, years and years of watching, waiting, and wondering had finally cashed in. I could snap my photo and share it with the world.

After I dropped off Holland, I parked in the lot across from the Oceanic (815) gas station and crossed the street. I snapped two pictures, one of each side (the lighting seemed a little better on the north side), and some guy yells out to me: “You know, it’s just going to go higher.”

I looked at him with incredulity. “What?”

“The price,” he said. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“Don’t you get it?” I replied, now walking toward him. In retrospect, I can understand why he started to back away a little. I think I might have chuckled a little madly, eyes a bit wide, head tilted like that guy on Law and Order.

“Don’t you see what’s going on? I’ve waited 3 years for this!”

“Waited for what?” he replied. But I could already tell he was thinking twice about starting our little chat.

I looked down at the ground, a little disappointed, I guess.

“Lost, man. Lost. Do you watch it?”

He nodded, but there was definitely some hesitation. I don’t think he wanted to be in sync with anything I was talking about.

“The numbers! 815! Don’t you see it? Look at the sign! OCEANIC 815! Isn’t that amazing?”

I think I was smiling, my eyes still a bit wide, when he turned and looked up at the sign one more time. He looked back at me, took a step back, and said: “You’re crazy, man.”

And then he walked back to his car, or his truck, or whatever horse he rode in for this chance meeting.

Really, though. As I crossed the street and headed back to my Jeep, all I could think was this: How can anybody say they watch LOST and not be touched, at least with mild giddiness, at such a cool thing as a gas station called OCEANIC sporting an 815 on their marquis?

Some people. Ugh!

(oh, and if you notice, the other numbers prominent in the show–4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42–are all linked together on the sign. Of course, you need to add 8, 4, 2, and 2 to add up to 16…..)

Obsessed? You must have me confused with somebody else… :)

Ok. I have no pictures today, and I am really beating myself up over this one. So I’m going to have to be a little more descriptive in bringing this wonderful day to life on virtual paper. :)

The morning began with a wonderfully intense writing session on my novel, Cold Rock, and then heavy editing with a book cover design for a book I’m publishing for a fellow writer. It’s hard to have anything but a great day when my morning begins so wonderfully. :)

Then, after breakfast, we all headed to Central Presbyterian Church, located in south Towson. Two of my high school friends, Rob and Dave, attend, and Dave and his wife thought that it would be nice for our family to attend as well.

Central is just like the church (Chesapeake Presbyterian) I belonged to when I lived in Calvert County, nearly 20 years ago. There was live music, a stage, Sermon-in-the-Round…..All of the things that I loved so much about Chesapeake. I felt so….at home this morning, and I know that my younger daughter, Madelyn, felt the same way. Even Amy, born and raised a Catholic, thoroughly enjoyed the service and found the musicians to be nothing short of amazing (as we all did).

My picture today should have been of Rob, Dave, and me together at Central. I was taken aback by the great memories and wonderful experience  that I forgot to snap the picture. I’m sure we’ll return next Sunday, and I’m also sure that I’ll be a little less overwhelmed in the memories and have my head a little more focused on getting that picture. :)

Then it was off to the pool, where I got a touch of sun as I started reading Stephen King’s IT. Two hours passed by, and I headed out to the gym for what turned out to be the greatest workout I’ve had in about 10 years.

I have so much weight to lose, and although I’ve lost only 7 pounds so far, i feel like I’ve dropped 30. Working out on the Elliptical Trainer is such a challenge, and every day I can feel my body getting in a little better shape, allowing me to go farther and burn more calories. Love the elliptical!

After my cardio, I decided to check out the circuit weight room. When I was going to Padonia about 15 years ago, the machines were simpler, there were fewer of them, and I had little problem mastering most of them. Today, though, I found myself overwhelmed (once again!) by the amount of chrome and complex mechanisms that filled the room. I didn’t know where to start. Connor, the Brick associate who signed us up with our membership, was just finishing his workout, and he said that he’d help me work on my biceps/triceps.

He didn’t want to mess with the circuit machines, though. He took me down to the free weights room and proceeded to kick my butt. It was the most significant workout I have had in nearly a decade. Amazing! I know that I will be in intense pain this time tomorrow, but it was all worth it. I’m addicted now to exercising, and it’s cut my food intake down by at least 50% if not more.

Then home, and an incredible meal of marinated flank and veggies, all prepared on the grill. Just a great, great day.

Cookout tomorrow in PA with my niece and her family…..Will be beyond wonderful. We always talk about getting together, and now we really are. Cool Cool Cool….