I have failed the first and only “challenge” I’ve ever participated in. (Is it still considered a challenge if you put it on yourself and only yourself?) Dedicating myself to doing one thing a day actually meant doing two things a day–the assigned thing and writing about it. Super clever had I considered it before I embarked.

It’s day 11 in what should have been a seven day mission and I’m not going to lie–I did postdate a couple of blogs. In truth, my past few days have been a sloppy mix of work, reading, writing, Legos, aerial yoga, SUP yoga, learning Spanish, Gettin Sun on my Tums, drawing, circuit training, and amateur farming.

In choosing to devote each day to one specific thing and promising to write about it, I proved that I do, indeed, do way too much. Which I guess could be considered a win?

I’m gonna be honest with you guys. I was close to scrapping tonight’s blog. By 3:00 I’d done a little bit of everything and I was ready to get high with the chickens. While I was out there I decided to make a list of the things I’m grateful for that 2020 brought and the chickens were on it. Then I remembered that the chickens were also on my short list of things to dedicate a day to this week.

I decided that I wanted to raise chickens about two weeks before I ordered chickens. I’m not impulsive, just obsessive. I don’t take my time researching–I spend all of my time researching so that I can get what I already know I want sooner. I scoured six sources for every breed that interested me. I fell into rabbit holes about coops and food and feed. I spent a solid three days choosing a hatchery.

The kids and I named Edie, Effie, Phoenix, Lilac, and Veronica well before they had hatched. Allow me to introduce them to you now.

Edie (named after the kitten, Eddie, I was forced to give away who was named after Eddie Vedder, my high school soulmate) is the head hen. It’s always someone and we knew it was her as soon as she, and she alone, started breaking out of the brooder. Because of this, she’s the one who eats the most mealworms from my hand and has to suffer the consequence of me holding her.

Effie, I decided before she was born, is my favorite. Effie would have been Aubrey’s name had he not been born with a penis. It was my great great great grandmother’s name. Effie is strong and can do anything Edie can but knows how Edie likes to flex her muscles and she lets her.

Phoenix (named, of course, by Ella) is Edie’s right hand man and flock bodyguard. She’s usually the last in the coop and night and she’s the only one willing to face Quan. 

Lilac (named by Ella) is a fashionista (according to Ella.) Ella says she knows she’s into fashion because she always pecks and bright colors and sparkly things. Eventually, her theory was debunked as she noticed that all of the chickens peck at things. She’s the most maternal of the group and the one that Veronica most frequently snuggles under.

Veronica is a Silkie Bantam. All bantams are small but not all were born with two backwards facing feet like Veronica. Veronica is the reason we built stairs out of bricks to the food and water. For the first few  weeks in the coop, I had to climb in after dark, pick her up, and carry her to the roost to be with the rest of the flock. During that time, she learned to (cautiously) come when I called her. Sometimes she still lets me rock her to sleep.

Aubrey named Veronica and he has no idea why. I like to think it’s for Heathers. 

I attend a (virtual) poetry workshop every Wednesday. It, in combination breakfast, circuit training, half a dozen emails, and a quick Spanish lesson, carries me until lunch. I love my poetry group and I generally leave feeling inspired but I don’t often spend the rest of the day writing. In accordance with my doing a thing a day thing, assigning poetry to Wednesday was a no brainer.

I decided to let “poetry” encompass creating, editing, and submitting. After a hiatus that stretched almost since high school, I recently started submitting again. I saw 14 poems published in 2020 of which I’m both astonished and grateful.

I haven’t been sending as much work out recently so I feel like I need to catch up. But also, why would I need to catch up? Poetry doesn’t pay me and no one asks me to do it, let alone get it into print. So instead, after lunch, I played Legos. When I did commit myself to my computer, I weakly finished one piece, trashed a few others with a flourish, and took two old poems in new directions. I did not manage to submit anything. So many of the magazines I’ve been interested in ended up not feeling like a good fit. Looking back, I actually accomplished quite a lot, but the fact that I fell short of sending something off made me feel like I’d failed.

In conclusion, I hate this experiment I’m doing. I think its value for me is limited to forcing myself to shut up and do a thing, which seems at complete odds with doing less. Also, maybe it’s teaching me to recognize when I’m being too hard on myself by making me be too hard myself which is not a lesson I haven’t already taken on.

Let’s end with a my response to my friend’s declaration that she is going to become a fringe vest maker because she cannot find her perfect fringe vest. Note: In certain circles (really just one) my name is O’sana and hers is Jolene.

I’m working on myself, I promise. It’s one of things I do too much.

I got my first Lego set for Christmas, 2018. My brother had received one the year before and I’d found myself weirdly jealous. His first (and only) set was the Statue of Liberty and mine was The Golden Gate Bridge. My second Lego set was a ship in a bottle situation that ending up causing me all kinds of turmoil. My third was a VW bus. I don’t have a ton of interest in cars but Lego seems a bit too caught up in Harry Potter and Jurassic Park, so my options are limited. That’s how I ended up with my subsequent Beatle and Fiat.

I also built a bookstore with an attached row house. 

I inadvertently designated today Lego Day in honor of my son, Aubrey. Aubrey turned seven today and he’s the most proficient Lego-er I know.

So did I wake up thinking “Hooray! I get to play like a kid all day?” No. I woke up trying to remember which thing it was that I’d told myself I had to do today and then I avoided Legos for as long as I could.

I made the kids peanut butter banana birthday pancakes. I sat in bed trying to digest the peanut butter banana pancakes. I took care of some emails, did a 12 minute workout, and showered. Finally, I forced myself to sit down with my Legos and the sun was in my eyes.

That’s when I first realized the importance of being flexible while adhering a strict and unyielding set of guidelines. I was supposed to play Legos but the position of the sun was making it wildly uncomfortable. For the next two hours I moved between the bedroom and the balcony, shifting the sun from my eyes to my tums and letting the clouds have my eyes.

I originally thought Legos would be best played high. Then I started making all kinds of mistakes that Aubrey had to eventually correct. I don’t think I’d ever before played sober Legos for as long as I did today and I was tickled to discover it’s just about as confusing when I’m not high.

I’ll post a picture when it’s all done and then I’ll probably do a time lapse of the auto garage I’m starting next.

Today’s pre-determined area of concentration was my literary magazine. I started Throats to the Sky Magazine to share sex positive art and creative writing. There is so much more amazing art in the world than there are magazines to share it. The inaugural issue came out last fall and submissions recently closed for Winter 2021.

This issue’s cover artist apparently felt my intention and passed along her completed, jaw-dropping painting this morning. I was sitting in a lawn chair beside the chickens when I received it. The back legs of the chair were sinking into the earth and I was wearing high waisted yoga pants, a bralette, and my dad’s old army shirt–my tum sunnin uniform on a rare rainy day. I was avoiding working on the magazine the same way I avoid anything that I’ve categorized as work, no matter how fun it actually is. I should maybe release the idea of labeling a thing work in order to give myself permission to enjoy it.

Anyway, I spent the day working on the layout of the upcoming issue. I’m so grateful for all of the amazing artists and poets who contributed. Keep an eye out for it in the next week or two! Tomorrow, we Lego.

 

 

 

I recently asked you in a poll if you’d prefer to read every day for a week about my chickens or gettin suns on my tums. While I know that at least one person voted for the same thing from two separate accounts–I’m looking at you, Amir–Instagram reports it a dead tie.

As I’m sure you understand, deciding what to do with this information has been excruciating. What is clear is that you’re all intensely fascinated by every aspect of my life. That’s one of the reasons I’ve decided to (drumroll) focus on a different thing each day this week. That, and the fact that I just wrote this sentence in my journal: I’m supposed to be doing things half-assed [my therapist’s advice] but instead I bought Lenny Kravitz’s paddle board.*

If you know me, you know that I do too much. If you don’t know me and are in fact that app through which I’m teaching myself Spanish, you know that I do too much. (Duolingo has asked me to translate that phrase several times and I know I took a screenshot but I can’t find it and I only dug through two photo albums and one text thread before giving up. Take that, therapist!)

It’s not that I’m a perfectionist (I am) it’s that I’m interested in so many things. It’s not that I have an unhealthy need to succeed (I do) it’s that there’s so much to enjoy.

For example, I’m currently reading three books, maybe four. I’m studying Spanish, chickens, and cannabis and am an estimated two weeks away from taking up oil painting. I make and sell original art and notecards mainly in support my writing, by which I mean crafted poetry, my long untouched memoir, and journaling. I’m trying to maintain my Ashtanga practice but I’m also invested in aerial and SUP Yoga. I started a literary magazine to promote sex positive writing. I participate in weekly poetry and mediation workshops. I’m relearning how to roller skate. I’m a recently realized AFOL.

Also, I have kids and a business.

So starting tomorrow, I’m going to direct my focus towards one thing per day for a week and I’m going to tell you all about it. Who else can’t wait for Monday?!

*Not the actual man’s actual paddle board but the and probably not even the same style but the paddle board company vaguely suggested as such.

Photo: 2019

Scene 1: Alison starts to put on her favorite white tee shirt, realizes it might be a bad idea to wear her favorite white shirt on the day she’s making cranberry bread, and puts it on anyway.

Scene 2: Alison gets two steps into her recipe and realizes that what she thought was sugar is salt. Her husband goes to the store for actual sugar and Chips Ahoy for Santa because Alison did not make cookies this year.

Photo: 2018

Scene 3: Alison returns to the cranberry bread and realizes that what she’d thought were regular walnuts were candied walnuts. She gets the bright idea to give these nuts to the mail carrier instead of the sweet and spicy ones she over-salted and sort of burned.

Scene 3: Alison’s daughter enters the kitchen and asks, Is this going to be the best cranberry bread ever? Alison replies, Probably not.

Photo: 2017

2018Scene 4: Alison leaves the following message in her mom’s voicemail: Hypothetically, if someone realized she didn’t have walnuts and she’d already sent her husband to the store for sugar because her sugar was salt, should she
a) Omit the nuts
b) Sub salted peanuts
c) Sub pepitas
d) Sub cashews even though there’s a decent chance her son is allergic to them

Photo: 2016

Scene 5: Alison is about to start slicing cranberries when she thinks better of it and takes off her favorite white shirt. Our heroine slices the cranberries (and a few more steps) and puts the shirt back on.

Scene 6: Alison starts to transfer the batter to the pan but stops and takes off her favorite white shirt. She gets the bread in the oven and puts the shirt back on.

Photo: 2015

Scene 7: Alison washes one dish and cranberry juice hits her shirt.

Dear Friend,

I made spinach and artichoke enchiladas today. I bought the artichokes last week because I was craving them and then stumbled upon a receipt that included spinach which I’d overstocked based on unrealistic exceptions about smoothie making.

I didn’t tell the kids what was in it and they might have licked their plates clean anyway. Ella said they were better than anything other than S’mores.

I didn’t connect a single two Lego pieces today but the kids have named and constructed every snowman in the puzzle  my mom sent them, to be gifted alongside the ornaments she cross-stitched and the books she inscribes every year. At some point in the early 2000s I lost 1978-1996 of mine. The world ended that day.

Anyway, the enchiladas. Make the enchiladas.

Love,
Alison