Snowed Out

Nature never ceases to remind me who has the final say. After six days away from home, I loaded up my dad’s truck with empty boxes, my Thanksgiving luggage, groceries, and my computer. Not willing to hike this gear up in three trips (which would have amounted to just over 3 miles), I borrowed the truck in hopes of getting up the driveway.

Wrong.

What was merely a smattering of rain at the base of Pumpkin Patch Mountain turned to total white out at the top of Cook Town Road. Determined, I attempted the driveway hoping I could get to the top, unload the truck, drive back down to avoid getting snowed in overnight…then hike back up and start the slow process of heating the house from 48 degrees to something more hospitable.

Not a chance.

About 2/3 of the way up the truck spun out and several failed attempts later I found myself backing down the snowy driveway in defeat. Reluctantly, I turned south and drove all the way back to my parent’s house, unloaded, and bitched and moaned about how much I miss Lady Blue.

Tomorrow’s forecast? Sunny and 50. That’s the Blue Ridge for you. Here’s hoping I can get home, get back on track, and head to the dojo by 4:45 in time to assist kid’s class and then test for sankyu!

Putting it in Perspective

There is so much to be thankful for. We say it all the time and we mean it, we really do. As I spent a leisurely four days with my family, safe and sound and stuffed full of this year’s Thanksgiving turkey, I couldn’t help but think of our US troops fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq.

What is thankfulness but a matter of perspective? They’re smiling here, but it doesn’t take much imagination to conjure how they must really be feeling that far from home at a time like this.

[Troops in Iraq]

These men and women are fighting in our name. It’s an odd yet powerful notion. We elected a man who had the power to send people with weapons into other countries and kill people. I don’t believe I can ever truly call myself a pacifist so long as I am also a citizen of the United States of America. Part of my citizenship means I pledge allegiance to a nation that is currently at war in two countries—a nation that is killing people and allowing its own people to be killed every day.

[Troops in Green Zone]

Never mind that I routinely declined to recite the Pledge of Allegiance in public school. Never mind that I’d go to jail before going to war. As a citizen of a nation that uses force and takes the lives of others, I am in some way supporting violence every single day of my life.

[Thanksgiving 2006...A mid-point of this war that’s nearing a decade? Only if we’re lucky.]

The human predicament is rife with irreconcilable differences. How do we empathize with troops whose violence we don’t endorse? How do we bring them home, clean up our mess, create a safer country for our children, and earn the respect of those we have so greatly harmed? How do we defend ourselves and remain peaceful?

**Facts? Read about troop morale: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/Afghanistan/article6865359.ece**

Referrals

Tonight I defer to two excellent bloggers who hit the nail on the head with recent posts about things I had brewing in the back of my mind. I'll let them speak for themselves: Cissy Majebe's brief article about the Chinese Medicine perspective on Swine Flu: http://ashevilleacupuncture.blogspot.com/2009/09/h1n1-flu-panic-and-more-panic.html Joy Tanner's short post and gorgeous photos of today's cloud phenomenon: http://joytannerpottery.blogspot.com/ Enjoy!

Walking the Path

One week after selling Lady Blue, it’s easy to remember my first winter here on Fork Mountain—a winter filled with hiking groceries in, hiking trash out, and obsessively checking the springs to see if they thawed. This bro-bra aspect of mountain living will make for good storytelling one day, but I have to say it’s walking up the mountain late at night that feels the most poignant to me now.

[Final ascent to the house, early winter 2007]

I know the road by heart even on a new moon night. I know it through sleet and fog. I know it especially in well in snow. I always curse the first big bend for its wheel-sized divet on the east side, but by the time I traipse up the third slope I’ve found my stride and forgotten the weight of whatever load I’m carrying. The final slope faces south and affords an excellent view of the Black Mountain range (a spur of the Blue Ridge where my parents live) in wintertime.

I like to think that this opportunity to come full circle before I leave is a reminder that we may walk the same path more than once, but we never have the same view. I like to think, also, that the slowing-down required by such a trek is further reminder to take it all in—no matter the time of day, the wind and weather, or the weight on my back. Annie Dillard said it best when she wrote, “Because how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”

The Date is Set

We’re lined up at the kamiza (spirit seat) at the end of karate class, about ready to bow off the mat. Hanshi remembers something suddenly, steps into the office, then returns to our line with three sheets of paper in his hand.

“Congratulations,” Hanshi says. “You’ll be tested on everything you know on Tuesday, December 1^st.” He hands the two white belts and myself our kyu rank test notifications; theirs for yellow and mine for brown. Nate, our nidan (2^nd degree black belt) is beaming—he must have known—and starts to clap. Hanshi joins him, yet the three of us remain flat-faced, staring at the notifications in our hands.

It is both an honor and a terror to test for rank in the martial arts and I suppose it always has to be that way. Conceptually, I understand that I have all the knowledge a brown belt needs to test into that rank. Physically, I’m the strongest I’ve ever been in my life but my chi is spread thin because much of my energy is caught planning 2010.

I get home and send Lis (yudansha) a message: “The date is set. 12/1/09—exactly two years to the day since I joined Blue Ridge Martial Arts Academy and took my first ever karate class.” Lis, as always, is encouraging and realistic: “Some teachers like their students to grow into their belts and Hanshi seems to be one. He has consistently challenged you and you have consistently risen to his challenges. Remember, he wouldn’t test you if you weren’t ready.” Later, she writes, “Oh yeah, and don’t ever block a front kick with your hand. Fastest way to a set of broken fingers.”

I make a mental list of all the forms I will be tested on: Taikyoku (sai), Suishi No Kon (bo staff), Wunsu, Anaku, Empi-Sho, Naihanchisho, and Bassa Dai. He’ll add Gopeisho if he feels like it. Likewise, there are 15 animal body forms (three each for tiger, leopard, snake, dragon, and crane) and 30 one-steps (ippon kumite katas, kihon kumite katas, and taezu naru wazas). Add kihon (moving basics), kumite (sparring), pushups, and situps and that’s about 90 minutes with occasional “breaks” during which the question and answer sessions take place.

Here goes…or as we say in the dojo, Osu!

Artist's Shrines

My desk faces three windows with deep windowsills that have become, over time, shrines to this writing life. Living in a community of numerous studio artists, most of my friends have similar places in their homes. Picture bulletin boards in a potter’s studio, a gallery owner with a kitchen cabinet full of ceramic mugs (each with a story), or a blacksmith with a manhole cover collection. No matter the medium, it seems all artists have small collections of items in their homes and studios that remind them of their true calling.

The central window of my “shrine” is perhaps most revealing, as it lays to bare my deepest aspirations and connections. Items include: Andew Bird paraphernalia, ticket stub from train ride in Alaska (where I met the engineer, god help me), hunks of mica from Fork Mountain day hikes, and a handblown glass replica of the moon, among other things.

The windowsill directly behind my computer and the one I stare at most naturally, serves as an ode to writing friends and mentors who inspire me. A card from Wesley in the shape if Virginia Wolf, clamshell “angel’s wings” from Jan, a Valentine from Britt, an Alaska postcard from Cam, lavender from Loy, and my grandfather’s Daily Register calendar (1979). Several quotes are taped to the window, including: “Write with precise abandon.”

The windowsill to the far right houses two distinct stacks of paper: “Rejections” and “Acceptances.” Totalled, they add up to about ½ ream of paper, with rejections in only a slight lead.

As I pack my shrine in anticipation of one year on the road, I can’t help but wonder. What does an artist’s shrine say about him or her? Does it tend toward the nostalgic or the obsessive? The future or the antique? Is it meant to comfort or provoke thought?

Scenes from Sparring

“How do you hide a tree?” asks Hanshi. We’re sparring again and I’m slow to react.

“In a forest,” answers Nate, the 2^nd degree black belt.

“Good. And how do you hide movement?” Hanshi turns to me.

“Within movement,” I say.

“That’s right.” He steps into fighting stance and bounces his body a little, keeping his feet poised for action but not letting them leave the floor. In this way, it’s more difficult for an opponent to see where the next move is coming from because every part of his body is moving a little bit already. “Katey, Nate—bow to each other. Fighting stance. Ready? Kumite!”

And we’re off, a snap kick here, lead punch there. Backfist to the head then reverse punch to the solar plexus. Fake footsweep and round kick to the kidney. For my rank as yankyu (purple belt), I’m far behind on sparring experience, having only been in about 15 very casual matches at the dojo. Some karateka get that many matches into one month, yet I’ve been at this almost two years.

Kumite translates to deciding hands and that is precisely where I struggle. I square off with an opponent and I know his hands are faster than my feet so I hesitate to kick. (Have you ever taken an elbow jab into the top of your foot? Sounds simple enough but it stings, let me tell you.) Struggling to decide what next, I step past the kicking zone into the punching zone and either luck out because my opponent doesn’t attack (which is unrealistic) or I take a snap kick to the ribs. Either way I’d be done for if it was a street fight.

Once inside the punching zone, I can get a decent haky ryu, backfist, or lead jab in but I never fully commit my body—I’ll send my arm and fist out full force and on target, but if you stop time and look at my stance, I never bring my body into my technique, therefore the entire move is only 20% as effective as it could be. In other words, my body reveals that I haven’t actually committed to my technique and therefore am poor at making decisions on the spot.

“Yame! Stop!” Hanshi yells. Nate and I disengage and stand at attention. Hanshi turns to me. “You’re thinking too much. What is wu wei?”

“To act without thinking, Sir,” I say.

“That’s right. Now do it. Ready? Kumite!”

Farewell Lady Blue

You know you’re committed to your career when you sell your vehicle in service of it. Reluctantly but rationally, when I decided to embark on “one year of writing residencies on the road,” I understood this would mean selling Lady Blue. A few weeks ago I found a buyer. Like me, he needs it for his difficult driveway, and also like me, he understand just how beat up this old Ford Ranger really is.

I took her up Fork Mountain one last time and my friend took this photo of me wielding a mighty pen—the instrument I’ll use the most in the coming year. Would you trade a truck for a year with a pen? I just did.

For the next 7 weeks, I’ll be hiking ½ mile up a steep grade to get to and from my house (flashback to winter 2007).

We signed the papers, had the title notarized, and I accepted a check for $450. That covers the money I put into Lady Blue in the one year that I owned her—including the initial purchase of the vehicle. I’m breaking even but it still feels like a financial boost. Every penny is going into savings for 2010, which is already looking like an epic year.

Update

STATS:

No from Shenandoah (with the word “thanks” spelled incorrectly)

No from Nano Fiction (but a personal rejection requesting more work)

No from New Southerner (again, a personal rejection)

Radio silence from Seneca Review

Still holding my breath for Flash Fiction Online and Vermont Studio Center

YES from the International Art Critics Association & Creative Capitol Foundation accepting me as a Arts Writing Workshop Fellow (all expenses paid, 4 days, NYC)

12 submissions still out there…

NOTED:

I still think about Alaska approximately once every six hours. Two months ago today I walked on a glacier whose source was as high as 16,000 feet in the alpine peaks of the Wrangells in this country’s largest National Park.

Interlochen, Michigan received 209 inches of snow last winter. That is where I will be a writer in residence for four months this winter.

Vehicles of Note

There are more vehicles of note in Mitchell & Yancey Counties than there are hound dogs. I do not purport to represent them all here. We all have those places and things on the side of the road that our eyes gravitate toward each time we drive past. Here are a few that keep my attention:

First, the artist/baker’s anti-war/pro-feminist truck. To be technically anti-war, it should probably be a bike, but there wouldn’t have been enough room to paint all the bombs.

Second, the creepy dude’s hideout bus. Into the Wild, anyone? As meticulous as his wood pile is, the owner won’t be around this winter to enjoy it. He was thrown in jail last month for threatening his lawyer. The threat? “I will kill your dog and eat it in front of your children.” Like I said—creepy.

Third, a local gardener’s truck. Did he get stuck in quicksand and the truck saved his life? Was he merely playing games, alone with the bliss of his work in the mid-afternoon sun?

Fourth, a rarity—the Volkswagon Rabbit Pickup Truck. What I find almost as interesting is the fact that this vehicle, along with the others nearby, is parked on top of old 2x4’s. Not a bridge. Just slats of wood laid side-by-side. Beneath the wood? A tributary of Cane Creek.

Fifth, this clever variation on the oft-altered TOYOTA logo:

Sixth, my truck. Meet Lady Blue, the $150 Queen of Fork Mountain. Key feature: "Havoc Unleashed," a barbaric plastic figurine given to me by none other than Dad Schultz.

Bird Attack: Foot in the Door

There is only one way to say this: Andrew Bird’s manager responded to my query letter.

 She invited me to call her office any time, to write whatever I wanted, and to feel free to check facts with her. She is a nice person. The good part of this: I have not been written off as insane and I have my foot in the door. The bad part of this: I wasn’t clear enough in my query letter.

Enter, plan of action: I pick up the phone, heart pounding, and dial the ten digits. A man answers. I open my mouth and words come out:

“Hi, this is Katey Schultz calling for Andrea.”

“Just a moment please.” [Put on hold…] “She’s on the other line, Katey, can you hang on a minute?”

“Yes,” I say. “She responded to my email about writing about Mr. Bird’s music so I am calling to follow up.”

[On hold…]

“This is Andrea.”

“Hi Andrea, this is Katey Schultz…” She remembers who I am. I thank her for her response to my slightly tongue-in-cheek query letter, then get down to business. “I’d like to be considered for your short list of writers available to write in depth about Mr. Bird’s discography,” I say.

She talks for a while. Something about a publicist, about Andrew’s upcoming year (or year-and-a-half) off, about hiring a new publicist a year from now when the next album is in the works. She mentions that magazines like Spin, Paste, and Rolling Stone already come with “a fleet of writers,” to which I respond with a knowing “Uh-huh.” In short, she says call me back in a year.

What she may not know is that, to the exact day, I will do precisely that. At that time, she tells me, she can put me in touch with whomever their new publicist is and we can go from there.

“Thank you, I will certainly do that. But I’m also aware that on the Airmchair Apocrypha tour there was a small chapbook for sale at the merch table. It was hand printed in a limited edition run. I didn’t buy it because I bought something else, but I noticed it,” I say. “I noticed it and I thought that I might like to do something like that. While I may not be breaking in with Rolling Stone, I can certainly write a relatable, comprehensive, accurate essay with as much information as something that Rolling Stone might print, but with a more personal feel that reflects…[Insert embarrassing string of approximately five run-on sentences]…You know?”

[Awkward silence.]

“Yeah,” says Andrea in a genuine yet generously upbeat tone. “And in the meantime, feel free to try and break in to the music writing scene as much as you want. That won’t hurt any and it might help a year from now.”

“Thank you,” I say. “But I’m not actually interested in being a music writer. [Insert internal monologue that plays in my head over the top of my speaking voice. The internal voice says: Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking.. The external voice continues: ]…I only want to write about this man, this music. One time. The perfect essay.”

“I see,” she says.

“I’ll call you in a year.”

Andrea laughs a little—a kind laugh, but a little laugh. “Talk to you then.”

I hang up the phone and walk out my front door, down Fork Mountain, over two overflowing springs, round the bend, past the dog that wants to eat me alive, and all the way to the pavement. It is raining. I stare at the pavement. I stare at Little Rock Creek, raging louder than a John Deer tractor. I stare at the sky but it hurts so I stop. A writer must be willing to make a fool of herself, I think to myself, and I know this is true. But I also know that if there’s nothing at stake, it’s not worth writing about. How much is at stake here? More than I have words for.

Here’s hoping.

[under the weather...]

Master One Technique

“Master one principle, learn 1,000 techniques,” Hanshi says as we’re moving through the basics of sambon kumite (promise fighting) at the dojo tonight. Nate (2^nd degree black belt) and I are called to the front to demonstrate and I know Hanshi is expecting us to light it up. We pop and snap our gis (uniforms), crescent step in time, and kiai (spirit cry) at the right moment. Hours later, I’ll go home with a bruised forearm but in general that seems the only frequent casualty at Blue Ridge Martial Arts Academy.

We’re working this series of contact movements for a reason: the white belts are studying timing and distance and there is no other drill like sambon kumite to demonstrate this principle. In Japanese, this principle is described as ma, which translates into our word “distance.” But In Japanese, this word can also mean timing. If I step forward and punch at Nate’s face and miss, I would say it is because I was too far away. That is a problem of distance. The Japanese might agree, or they might say it was a problem of timing…that if I had waited longer to release my punch or waited until he moved toward me, I would have hit him.

There are three kids of ma: the distance between my fist and the target on Nate, the distance between Nate’s fist and the target on me, and the common distance between the two of us. If the white belts, or any karateka for that matter, can master this principle, Hanshi likes to remind us that there are 1,000 techniques we can apply it to. In sparring, we will know when we’re in the punching zone and when we’re in the kicking zone, for example. In kimenokata (self-defense), we’ll know when to strike and when to avoid, where to step and where to attach.

It’s a simple mantra but rich with meaning. Put even more succinctly, the notion that mastering one principle leads to countless applications, Hanshi writes on the board: 1 + 1 = ∞ [infinity]. How true this is in daily life as well. Master the principle of compassion, then apply it to numerous situations on the spot. Mater the principle of awareness, then apply it to our multi-tasking, over-stimulated society. It’s no wonder that training as karateka means training mind, body, and spirit.

Lost Crossings: One More Letter from the Family

For new readers, this letter is the 3^rd I’ve printed from fans of Lost Crossings, the community-funded book project published by myself and Shane Darwent. Learn more or order the book at http://katey.schultz.googlepages.com/lostcrossings or simply enjoy the stories this reader had to share with us. I have added a few images of the bridge she is talking about.

“Katey and Shane,

I have been very interested in your research and photographs of the bridges of Mitchell and Yancey Counties having heard about your work from Corinne Canipe while visiting her this past summer. [Corrine is the widow of George Canipe who designed, surveyed, and helped build the swinging footbridges.]  Corinne’s daughter married my husband’s brother.

The Roses Branch Swinging Bridge in particular has played a vital role in my life.  I grew up on the Mitchell County side of the bridge where we used to play and throw rocks off the bridge during those lazy summer days when it appeared there was nothing else interesting to occupy our time.  Of course, we had to be on the lookout for copperheads as they reportedly lived in close proximity to the bridge and the nearby railroad tracks.

A family living just across the bridge on the Yancey County side had children who attended school in Mitchell County.  These youngsters walked across the bridge every school day, regardless of the weather, to catch the school bus at the end of Roses Branch Road.  Have you ever tried to walk across a swinging bridge in a snow storm or heavy wind carrying a load of school books?  It could be a frightening experience for children and, I dare say, to most adults.

My husband of forty-six years crossed the bridge many times to visit me before we were married.  He has interesting “tales” to tell of leaving my house late at night and riding his bicycle home approximately eight miles, five of which were on a gravel road.   Crossing the bridge on his bike was no problem for him, except that he became frightened of the many night noises of wild animals, thunderstorms and creaking of the bridge, not to mention the total darkness which enveloped him on his ride home.  His grandfather would tell ghost stories to deter his bridge crossings to come “courting” but he was never scared enough to stay away.  Obviously, the Roses Branch Bridge has played a vital part in my life as without it there would have been no link to those twice a week visits from my “sweetie” from Yancey County.

Having lived in New Jersey for the past thirty-seven years, we recently retired and moved back to North Carolina.  We have a renewed interest in the state and the many wonders it has to offer, especially the few remaining bridges in Mitchell and Yancey County.  Thank you both for your interest in these bridges.  Perhaps with the popularity of your book and photographs, there will be interest and funding in preserving those bridges as a vital part of our states history as they truly are “Lost Crossings.”

Sincerely,

[extended family member’s name]"

Short List

An incomplete, short list of short stories I can’t live without:

“The Hermit’s Story” by Rick Bass (from The Hermit’s Story)

“Fell This Girl” by Aimee Bender (from The Girl in the Flammable Skirt)

“Boys” by Rick Moody (from Best American Short Stories 2001)

“Wanting Only to Be Heard” by Jack Driscoll (from Wanting Only to Be Heard)

“Squalls” by Jack Driscoll (1^st chapter of his self-proclaimed shnovel How Like an Angel)

“We Didn’t” by Stuart Dybek (from I Sailed with Magellan)

“ ‘Hidden Meanings, Treatment of Time, Supreme Irony, and Life Experiences in the Song Ain’t Gonna Bump No More No Big Fat Woman’ ” by Michael Parker (from Don’t Make Me Stop Now)

“Geek Player, Love Slayer” and “My Life in Heavy Metal” by Steve Almond (from My Life in Heavy Metal)

“Near-Extinct Birds of the Central Cordillera” by Benjamin Fountain (from Brief Encounters with Che Guevara - FYI, that’s a misleading title)

“Ghostless” and “Jolo” by Ann Pancake from Given Ground

“Adultery” by Claire Davis from Labors of the Heart

Snapshot with Words

It’s a good sign when you’ve lived someplace for more than seven years and you still find yourself pulling over on the side of the road to look at something beautiful. Last month it was the Black Mountains skirted in fog. This morning, it was the light of late sunrise, clear enough to crack like glass. Driving down the mountain, I hadn’t even hit hardtop before being taken aback by the view.

There they were, textured gray trunks of tulip poplar and white oak, maple and sassafras, pointing skyward into the light that bathed them. The slopes of Fork Mountain come down at a particular angle on this part of the road, and the sunlight poured through at its own angle, creating a second forest of long, thin shadows cast in near perfect stripes across the duff-littered mountain face.

It never occurred to me to take a photograph. The trees, the sunlight, even the chattering calls of wren and chicadee in the background are at once fleeting and expected; a daily paradox. Every morning I drive down the same mountain. Every morning, so far in this life, the sun rises. And every morning humankind flits about this tiny planet like so many fruit flies on an apple. The challenge is not taking the photograph for a keepsake, but living in a way that assures that angle of the mountain, that clarity of morning light, that chorus of bird calls will be there many eons after we are gone.

*            *            *

After fielding several phone calls and reading comments on Blogger and LJ, the verdict rings loud and clear: Option B, the French press. One reader put it best when he commented, “What would Thoreau do?”

Reader Poll

If you had to pack your life-for-the-next-year into your car, which of the following means of making coffee would you pack. Choose only one:

A)   SAECO Incanto Sirius espresso machine (market value $1,000). Fact: The number one personal espresso machine in all of Europe. Fact: Travels best in its original, protective box, which is roughly 6 square feet.

B)   BODUM single-cup French Press (market value $17). Fact: French pressed coffee, when brewed correctly, has more caffeine per ounce than espresso. Fact: Fits inside the glove box of most vehicles.

Incidentals: The conductor of this Reader Poll holds a public bias toward espresso machines, having served the greater tri-county area as a barista for 4 years. (Case in point: How else do you think I got an espresso machine that is worth more than the cost of my Volvo? C-o-n-n-e-c-t-i-o-n-s.) Likewise, the conductor of this Reader Poll is a Capricorn and therefore occasionally manifests borderline Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Symptoms include meticulous packing and organizing, over-thinking, over-thinking while caffeinated, and over-thinking.

Cast your votes in the comments!

Budo from Heart to Heel

Life at the dojo has been full-bore these past few weeks. To prepare for my sankyo test (brown belt), I come an hour early on Tuesday and Thursday nights to train with Hanshi. Since his daughter Sienna left, he no longer has a Sempai (first student) on weekdays and has asked me to take on that role. This means I attend the kid’s class and assist with the white belts so Hanshi can work with the other ranks.

As stand-in Sempai, I arrive at the dojo a little before 5pm and don’t leave until about 8:30pm two nights a week. Saturday mornings, my time commitment can range anywhere from 1-3 hours, depending. If Sensei Nate is there, he is Sempai because of his rank and I gladly submit. Either way, we both help with shoji, or ritual cleaning of the dojo. This usually happens on weekends and is sometimes as simple as sweeping and other times includes carrying in wood, offering to clean the bathroom, or moving any array of mats.

[1 year, 11 months, and 2 days of this karateka’s notes and achievements.]

Outside the dojo, any good karateka knows there are more responsibilities. In the case of Shuri Ryu Karate and Shintoyoshinkai Jiu Jitsu, these responsibilities are threefold. First, I must cross train at least three days a week (cardio and weights). Second, I must keep a journal of new concepts learned in class, as well as Japanese words and extensive lists of all the major principles and identifying features of the systems. Third, I must practice kata (forms) and kobodu (ancient martial weapons) to work the kinks out of whatever technique we examined in class.

Last, there is the expectation that all of this work is not simply the work of someone who wants to get fit, rather, it is budo. Budo translates to “martial way.” Budo is characterized by the highest and best use of our mental and physical abilities (sieryoku) and by applying maximum efficiency with minimum effort (jitakyoei). The highest principle of budo is the notion that gentleness conquers force. A good karateka may spend hours a day fending off imaginary attackers or perfecting the art of bone breaking, but when it comes down to it the essence of this art is not in its ability to destroy or cause pain. The power of budo lies in its ability to transform a person from head to toe, from heart to heel.

Getting Ready to Roll

Each day my momentum picks up speed: I am packing, sorting, selling, donating, and organizing my life for one-year on the road. The first 4 ½ months will be at Interlochen. After that, who knows. I will not be the writer who is also a nanny or the writer who is also a barista or the writer who is also the waitress. I will be the writer who is always the writer.

To that end, I intend to pack everything I think I’ll need for the next year of my life into my Volvo station wagon. What doesn’t fit, doesn’t come. My parents have generously agreed to store what they can. This includes the essentials such as books, my grandmother’s chairs and china, and what I hope will only be a few boxes of memorabilia and artwork.

During the month of October, I sold 2 couches, 3 chairs, 1 table, 2 bags, 5 articles of high-end outdoor clothing, and a few other things amounting to $300 in sales (or roughly the cost of gas for my first big move). During that time I also took a small truckload of things to the dump and donated two grocery carts full of belongings to the local thrift store.

But perhaps most exciting of this all has been the act of taping boxes shut. Viewed here from left to right, the boxes are as follows:

[One small victory: The first round of boxes has been taped up!]

Top row of small boxes: Published clips in chronological order from 2000-2009.

Bottom row of larger boxes: One—5 years of lessons plans, Montessori Certification albums, and teaching journals. Two—3 years of arts writing folders on artists, sample magazines, and a few freelance files. Three—2 years of graduate school (craft handouts excluded).

Although I didn’t anticipate it, the satisfaction in taping these boxes shut has had me flying high the past few days. Box by box, I’m building my foundation for the next stage in my writing life.

***

Note to readers: My road is impassable for much of winter, therefore selling the furniture now has been essential. I've enjoyed the experience of eating cross-legged on the kitchen counter all week. Really. It keeps it interesting.