Following My Passion

Sitting in my office at home at 2AM on a work conference call, I did anything to stay awake. I ate Doritos, chomped on candy and surfed the net...it was either die from a junk food overdose or die of boredom. I read about Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution. "Ha!" I thought, "Jamie better not see me now, Doritos in hand at 2AM". I moved to juicy Hollywood gossip and then finally to check out one of my favorite writers - Liz Gilbert.






The author of the NY Times Best Selling "Eat, Pray, Love" her site was uncomplicated and very yellow. I clicked through the page highlighting her books, then onto her bio, how to book her for speaking engagements and then to a section called "Thoughts on Writing". As I read her comments on how she became a writer, her advice to others wanting to write and the "art" of writing, I couldn't help but think about myself and my own dreams of becoming a "real" writer someday. She wrote, "I became a writer the way other people become monks or nuns. I made a vow to writing very young. I became a Bride-of-Writing"

A "bride of writing" wow - I had never looked at writing this way. I knew a strong commitment was necessary, and of course talent, but being a "bride" really spoke of the commitment she has. I read on, becoming a more starry eyed with her thoughts, "You must find another reason to work, other than the desire for success or recognition. It must come from another place". Goofy as it sounds now - her words resounded with me - reminding me to think about my own devotion and motives for writing.

I admit I've had the occasional daydream of the moment when one of my first best-seller books will be put on show (singular soft, white spotlight beaming down on the books while angels gently sing in the background, "ahhhhhhh") Of course, it would be at the front of a very large book store, my face on the back looking like the distinguished writer I am. People would be lining up to meet me and tell me how ingeniously written the book was.

Ha! Back to reality. All joking aside, I do feel "called" to write and know that if I don't write at least one book before my life is through, I will not have carried out one of my life's purposes. As far as motives go - they are to write about what touches me in hopes that it touches others. I'm a "thinker" and want to write about life's teachable moments and the good that has come out of the hard times in my life. In short, I want to encourage others. A noble sounding cause I know, but Winston Churchill once said, "What is the use of living, if not to strive for noble causes and to make this muddled world a better place for those who will live in it after we are gone"

For now, I'm continuing to have my occasional "dates" with my writing while I carry on my life married to a wonderful man and raising my four children with him. For years, I've struggled with pursuing my dream and fulfilling my duty as a mom and wife but what mom doesn't?? I've come to accept that my career as a writer won't happen over night but have also come to realize that with my heart constantly nudging and tugging me towards writing - it won't be a passion that will die easy.

I'll get there. I need to learn how to just put my writing "out there" and be less of a perfectionist about it. I'll continue to fight to carve out time for it so that me and writing can get more acquainted and comfortable with each other and perhaps eventually move on to "marriage". Like Liz Gilbert, I'll need equal parts passion, devotion and dreaming sprinkled with hard work and determination. She wrote that her goal at the age of 19 was to get something (anything) published before she died. I think that seems like a realistic goal for me too. People do it every day.

Fashionista Black Belt Kicks Butt On the Greenbelt

Studying myself in the mirror I turned side to side. “Stacy and Clinton would definitely disapprove of this look” I thought. (Stacy and Clinton are they are the hosts of one of my favorite shows “What Not to Wear”) Nothing felt right, but then again, I wasn’t headed to Fashion Week, I was going mountain biking on the greenbelt. I stood staring from bottom to top. I was well equipped for the quest, clunky but sturdy black hiking shoes, padded spandex biking shorts underneath my camouflage pants and a breathable hot pink polyester shirt to top it off. Eeek! I felt like a fish out of water. “Okay, why am I doing this again?” I asked. “Ahhh..I know” Like finding my favorite little black dress, I smiled and thought back to where this all began.

I wanted to change my name to Kirk when I was five, only problem was I was a girl. I guess tomboy-hood is not every girl’s rite of passage, but as fate would have it, I seemed to be cut out perfectly to fit the role. Our family lived in a neighborhood packed with boys, so naturally I was forced to either to hang with them and be one of them or bored to tears at home. My buddies and I built forts, took long bike rides, got dirty making mud pies and climbed trees as far as we dared. We had a blast. Some girls never stop being tomboys, but not me. The spark to transform was lit under me when I was around 12. It didn’t take long to realize that I could either continue being the girl who ran with the boys or be the one the boys ran after. Boys didn’t run after girls with dirt on their face, mud under their nails and holy jeans. As it turns out they tended to like girls who did up their hair, had polish on their nails and wore sweet frilly things. After trying it out for a while, I decided it was definitely more fun being run after. I never grew out of being prissy, but deep down I’m still the tomboy who threw rocks and ran around climbing trees without a shirt.

Flashing back to present time I took one last, less-disapproving look in the mirror and headed out. I was in for an adventure. When my husband Ron and I arrived at the bike shop to get our bikes, the snotty bike clerk with nose rings and tattoos up and down his arms looked me squarely asking my husband “you’re taking her on the greenbelt?” Who the heck did he think he was talking to? Obviously it was my pink top and Coach purse sitting on the counter that threw him off. “Don’t let my good taste in handbags throw you off buddy” I thought. “Sheesh!” I was determined now.

Soon we were off, crossing Lamar and headed down Barton Springs to the greenbelt. Arriving at the greenbelt entrance near the Barton Springs pool. Most of the people coming out of this area were rugged, serious-looking mountain bikers. I didn’t notice any women. Some of the guys were beat up, bruised and worse – bleeding. “No missing teeth” I thought “that’s where I draw the line”. “Are you sure you want go?” Ron asked “Heh”, I laughed nervously “of course!” “Oh crap, what have I gotten myself into” I thought.

The beginning of the trail wasn’t so bad. Despite the dust, large rocks, pot holes and occasional tree trunks sticking out from the ground it was pretty easy to navigate around the major hazards. I soon found my trusty mountain bike easily would hop right over these painful roadblocks. We continued on about a mile and a half passing a spot Ron pointed out. “Look honey there it is” he shouted. Just a month earlier he had taken a nose dive after his front tire got caught between two rocks and chipped his front tooth. At this point, the trail started to get scary. I underestimated a large boulder and took my first fall, breaking the skin on my shin with the metal pedal. I had been initiated now and soon the dirt from the trail covered my bloody leg in a fine dust that looked like cocoa powder. “Good thing my shoes are black” I thought. Then under my breath, “what’s wrong with me? I’m riding a stinking mountain bike with bleeding, bruised legs risking my neck and I’m still thinking about my shoes?”

We proceeded on to an even narrower, unforgiving path that seemed determined at each twist, turn and bump to knock me off my bike. To my left was a steep ledge, to the right boulders the size of an 18-wheeler tire. Neither was an appealing place to fall. Thankfully, I could see Ron too had had enough and he soon asked if I was ready to turn around to gentler paths. “Sure” I huffed thinking “thank God almighty – I made it through alive” I proudly rode my way out of the greenbelt hopping curbs and even racing down a steep hill.

We ended our journey with what I thought would be a smooth ride on the 8-mile Town Lake jogging trail. Wouldn’t you know it, a rude biker ran me off the trail? Oh, the irony. I flew off my bike with such force that my helmet came lose. My newly inflated ego was as flat as a pancake now; it had taken a swift jab from the trail which along with all the joggers around me seemed to be snickering hysterically. Beaten, bruised and fresh blood on both my legs I hopped up quickly, whispering loud curses at the man who ran me off. We continued our ride back to our car where two very sympathetic tourists offered me peroxide and band aids.

Satisfied my adventures for the day had settled all doubts in my husbands’ head that I could still run like a boy; we headed to a local restaurant where we sipped strong fruity margaritas until dusk. Maybe it was the tequila, the mariachi music or maybe it was the satisfaction that I had truly proven myself to still be a tomboy at heart; whatever the case, I couldn’t stop beaming ear to ear. After dinner, buzzing from the alcohol we strolled into a swanky shoe store. Me in dirty, blood-stained cloths and Ron still looking fabulous of course, paraded around the store getting lots of second looks from the other shoppers. I didn’t care, after all I had been through I deserved to be here! I tried on heels until I found the most marvelous pair of stilettos. Sold! Maybe a girl can have her heels and still kick butt on the greenbelt.