AfricanKelli

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The tricky thing about self-publishing a novel is you don’t have a giant marketing team promoting your work. There are no ads in The New York Times or pop ups when you visit blogs. I don’t have an agent or even a specific website. What I do have, however, is a mighty little blog and a handful of people I consider great friends who live far and wide.

That’s you.

To get my book onto as many shelves and hands as I can, I want to reach out to small bookstores and libraries nationwide. I’m not sure the best way of doing this — my instinct is to send beautifully handwritten cards — but I do know that finding the right people and the right contact information is crucial.

So, dear friends, this is where you come into play. Do you have a great bookstore you frequent? Are you a librarian? Do you know any great ways to market a book? How would you go about spreading the word?  You would be doing me a sincere favor by letting me know what you think.  Leave a comment with the details, including addresses and contact information for those bookstores. I’ll leave the contest open through the weekend and randomly select 5 winners for signed copies.

{Never left a comment? Leave a comment every day? Delurk, please.}

And thank you. For stopping here, for reading, for being such amazing cheerleaders. I don’t need no stinking fancy New York publishing house! I’ve got YOU!

~kelli

My friend Sheila bought this basket for me when I recently visited Colorado. Isn’t it gorgeous? It’s from a women’s cooperative in Ghana. Imagine me in the Denver airport with this as my carry-on. I got more than a few interesting looks, but in truth — pretty perfect luggage for a girl who calls herself African.

Metaphorically, my basket is overflowing. This new job, that in truth I took because I was suddenly unemployed and unsure, has become  a gigantic challenge in the best of ways. I’m working in a fast-paced medical practice with a team of smart, energetic, focused people who make me want to be my very best self everyday. I am thriving. The expense of this great new career, versus the job I thought I was signing up for, is a personal struggle to find equilibrium.

My previous two nonprofit jobs were, to put it mildly, far less demanding. I worked fewer hours and many of those which I did work were in stretchy pants on the couch labeled generously as “work from home.” This gave time for community dinners, ample sewing projects, household stuff and mental health breaks.

Now, I commute. I suit up. I work feverishly for 10-12 hours most days and I am never, ever caught up. Within my first two months I was promoted and given a new department to manage. Now I have two. I feel like I could use another set of arms  — one to type and the other to file, answer the phone, pat people on the back, etc.  While it’s taken a bit to get back in the habit of getting up at 4:30 am to squeeze in my morning run or swim, this return to routine is such a gift.

I work with people! In my office! Daily! I go on business trips. I have minimal authority and I use it wildly!

(Crazy the things you don’t realize you miss.)

So, I haven’t been blogging with the same fervor because my daily schedule has become a rinse and repeat of workout, work, read until I pass out. I think the last three months have shown I’m committed and willing to put in the air miles and time in the office to see my departments are successful. This week I’m going to find time to add the other elements of my life that make me truly shine — art, writing, gardening, dresses and a social life, time with friends and blogging.

Balancing the basket,

K

I was watching “Julie & Julia” the other day when it dawned on me that the ever-so-remarkable Julia Child didn’t discover her fierce passion for cooking until she landed in Paris with little other to do than wander markets and make lovely meals for her diplomat husband. She discovered fame, fortune and her sense of purpose considerably later than say, Lance Armstrong, Billy Graham, or Stevie Wonder.

Probably because it is hot and my sleep patterns have once again have me wonky, flip flopping and up at 2 am thinking of essays I’d like to write — I’ve been pondering about what makes life remarkable. Is it a commitment to family? Is it becoming a spouse and parent? Is it seeing your name in lights on Broadway or on the New York Times Best Seller’s List? Is it winning gold at the Olympics, finishing a marathon at tortoise pace or learning how to bake a loaf of bread? Is it growing a garden, learning a new language, or having one of those moments of grace where you finally — after staring at the same verses for years — get it?

I don’t have any answers. But I am certain I want my life and purpose to be remarkable. Above average. The over-achieving end of the bell curve. I don’t think saying so is brash hubris. If you don’t want to be remarkable, something tells me you aren’t paying attention.

For me, remarkable doesn’t mean fame or fortune. It also isn’t defined by a family I create, but more by the family I have and how I nurture them. (The creation part is out of my hands; let’s be honest — if I could wiggle my nose genie style for a dozen little ones, I would. I will not, however, spend any more time feeling like my value is less because this magical wiggling hasn’t occurred. Not my choice. Not my doing. Not my guilt.) Being remarkable isn’t about being on Broadway, best-selling anything or the size of my waist.

Instead, I’m giving myself a new set of challenges as a reminder of what my very version of this word means. It includes continuing to nurture a successful garden in the heat of Phoenix. (Damn remarkable) It also means pushing myself in endurance races — half marathon scheduled for this fall. It means continuing to work on relationships that are so very, very difficult and draining because the remarkable love regardless. It also means finding the supernatural state of patience I am able to tap into when I see a stranger or animal in need, and applying this level of blind kindness and caring to other areas of my life that are simply a regular source of annoyance.

There are other forms of remarkable too — like finding the focus to sit down to write after a long day behind a computer, saving money instead of mindless shopping for a quick high of consumer satisfaction, being more careful with my words and complaints, eating slower, swimming faster, reading more, etc.

I know there is a remarkable version of me in here somewhere. I used to know her well. She’s slipped away for a much more comfortable and apathetic existence that is gross. I keep thinking of my friend Shailesh who told me, “Good is the enemy of great.”

The never-ending quest to be better continues.

-K

I do my best with a firm plan in place, which is why once upon a time, I created a similar chart for my 1/2 Ironman. That chart got me through thousands of miles of training (okay, maybe 1 thousand miles) on my own and saw me through the best race of my life. I’m hoping this chart sees me through a summer of running and yoga and to a couple personal best times in the 10K and 1/2 marathon. I’m also participating in the 100 Pushup Challenge.

The truth is, I’m not a natural athlete*. I’m not particularly good at any single sport I’ve ever tried to master. But I am stubborn, which comes in handy when trying to finish a novel, a 60-day-yoga challenge, manage three jobs, or any of the other crazy challenges I’ve pushed myself through. So, I may not be running any races at an Ethiopian pace, but I can promise you I’ll finish and give it all I’ve got.

I’m looking forward to a summer of long and short runs through the desert, around Tempe Town Lake, with friends, alone, with dogs, with music and with my two legs that I know will see me to success.

What are your goals this summer?

~K

* And yet? This doesn’t stop me from making bold statements at dinner parties, challenging friends and friends’ husbands to tennis matches, golf, bowling, etc. I wish my athletic ability could actually keep up with my cocky confident blabber mouth for once.

Sydney is coming to stay with me for the weekend. I can’t wait. He’ll be here tomorrow. Makes me giggle a little that Matty’s middle name is Sydney. So now I’ll have two on the couch.

Well, after two short weeks of being in the crazy la la land of undetermined employment, I’ve found a new job! I’m happily now employed in an entirely new field, which is both exhilarating and terrifying. I’m still working in health, but on the corporate side. Yesterday was my first taste; it feels refreshing to be so challenged by new tasks and information.

Yes, I’ve only done this for one day. And it wasn’t even a full day, but I can tell you that I slept well last night knowing I’m going to be putting my brain to use again. A few other perks:

• The social aspect is much healthier. Essentially for the last two years I’ve been working alone in an office. This space is entirely different, with new people coming and going everyday and no end of conversation.
• I’m wearing a dress. With heels. And a piece of jewelry. I know that sounds silly, but it felt good to get up this morning and find something great to wear to work. While I love a good stretchy pant as much as the next girl, there is something so fulfilling about wanting to dress to the nines. I feel much more confident when I also feel pretty. (Making Gloria Steinem proud, I realize.)
• Perhaps most importantly, I’ve been given a huge new responsibility I don’t yet know how to tackle. I love puzzles and a challenge! The easiest way to get me motivated to greatness is to suggest I am not capable. So, I’m going to prove the few naysayers to shame.

Thank you for your countless emails about my job loss. Your well wishes worked and I am so very grateful! Now, back to work…

~K

Have you ever wondered what 450 plastic Easter eggs look like? Well, there you go. Why are these heaped on my living room floor? Because I am organizing the egg hunt this Sunday at church for the kids. So, off to Coscto and the dollar store I went and a couple hours of craziness later…

they were each filled. Eventually I started finding a sick pleasure in color coordinating each candy to the color of the egg. I moved quickly, while listening to NPR, contemplating a few new challenges and wondering if it was wrong to scratch such an unhealthy itch. Like many, when something suddenly spins out of control, I find a sincere pleasure in being hyper-controlling of other things. So, while I can’t do anything to change Arizona’s state budget, I can bleach my floors. I can place watermelon candy in pink eggs. I can pull out the toothbrush and Comet.

Let me explain.

Yesterday I came into work, high from my great trip to San Francisco and excited about the day ahead, when my boss called a quick meeting. State funding cuts in Arizona led to the cancelation of my program and job over the weekend. I’ve got a few more months here, thankfully, to figure out the next move.  Phoenix, the fifth largest city in America, will still be without a strong public health graduate program. Our health will suffer as  result. And the short-sighted Phoenician status quo drags its statistically obese, skin cancer-prone, Type II diabetes-laden self forward to an early death.

But hey, something had to be cut — right?

I’ve got no clue what I’m going to do next, but there is certain to be an adventure around the next corner. In the meantime, I’m making the most of the sudden free time I have by cleaning (see above: bleach, Comet, toothbrush) and making sure my life is otherwise as tidy as possible. This is the only way I know how to cope with sudden change: pick up the pieces where they are and make the best of it for the time being. And Magic Eraser the baseboards, logically.

~K

I’m terribly shiny, but also very happy (cue REM song) in this photo: taken before my 60th bikram class. Yesterday I completed that challenge and it was worth every sweaty drop of frustration. A note of gratitude:

Thank you to my friends and family who’ve listened to me work yoga into just about every conversation I’ve had for the last two months. For your patience and kindness, I am very grateful. Thank you especially to Lisa, Kim, Juliann and the African for coming out for the final class.

Also, to Bikram Tempe — owned by two of the sweetest people — Elaina and Ben. The married pair have a staff that made showing up for class each day something to look forward to. Depending on the teacher, the class was to be relaxing, screamingly difficult or a happy medium. Thank you to the entire staff. You have my admiration.

I’d love to say I feel enlightened. Or just lightened. I’m a few pounds down and definitely more in touch with my spirit — but I’m far from either zenith. Instead what I feel for the first time in my life is a sense of balance. I’m happy. I’m not ecstatic and I’m not depressed. I’m in this great gray zone that is unprecedented. I’m also far more confident in my body’s prowess. It’s more than likely just a change in perspective, but now I look at my form with a sincere respect for what it is capable of accomplishing. I’m far more flexible and wonder if I’m even a bit taller from all that stretching. I certainly carry myself with more confidence.

I’m stronger in body and mind; that alone is worth continuing Bikram.

I’ve found myself recommending Bikram to friends and anyone who will listen. Can’t sleep? Take yoga. Feeling blue? Yoga. Angry, lack of purpose, unhealthy, antsy? Bikram. Simple as that. It isn’t about 90 minutes, or the heat or wearing Spandex in public (although all are painfully part of the package). It’s about surrendering. You check your ego, body image, social status and importance at the door and enter into a healing atmosphere where everyone and every body is of equal importance. It is more than fulfilling — it is life changing.

Namaste friends,

Kelli

Yesterday, our sermon was focused on compassion. The minister — Jeff — said compassion is often confused for charity or pity. Really, compassion is trying to understand the other side and find similarities, not providing platitudes or feeling superior by providing for someone less fortunate.

My weekend included a blur of work and fun. The choreography of my schedule lately has left me running from one thing to another and not paying enough attention to what I’m saying or how I’m acting. (Yes, I’m my biggest critic.) After having fun with friends at the ASU basketball game Saturday afternoon, we ended up at our friend’s sports bar drinking wine and eating nachos.

Come on, who wouldn’t want to drink with that adorable face? Bec and I sat outside on the patio enjoying our time while the boys went back to the game for the second half. We hadn’t caught up in a while and it was so nice to enjoy the weather and just have girl time. Then I looked at my watch and realized I was to be at a debate about a mile away in 10 minutes. Of course, I’m wearing heels and jeans. Saying a quick goodbye, I raced (teeter tottered) through campus to Gammage Theater to hear Karl Rove debate Howard Dean.

(Cameras weren’t allowed and this is the best I could do without a flash.)

When Karl Rove took the stage, I joined in the frenzy and booed. I’m not proud of it, but in the moment, with a couple glasses of wine under my belt and a lot of anger about the war brimming in my heart — I screamed along with the rude masses. My friend Juliann sat next to me with disgust. It was fairly immediate that I realized I was acting like an idiot and should have given the man a chance to speak.

In fact, the debate brought out the ugliest in the crowd. While I then limited my reactions to appropriate clapping, there were dozens of interruptions from people shouting from the balconies. It made me sad that Tempe portrayed itself in such a crass way.

It wasn’t until Sunday morning, still confused and angered by a lot that was said at the debate, that I realized finding a common ground politically in our country is going to take heaps of compassion. I should have been merciful. I should have been kind. I should have listened more clearly for the similarities, rather than clapping at each of the differences I thought made me superior.

So, I don’t like a lot of Rove’s policy decisions. I remain steadfast that war isn’t the answer and that there must have been another way to handle our conflicts with Iraq and Afghanistan. I also think the amount of money we are spending on warfare is criminal and could be the final straw for our economy’s back. But, there were things he said that I did agree with too. I am a big believer in personal responsibility first and foremost. I think government should be smaller and community should be strengthened to help citizens in need. I think our immigration policy is failing wildly.

I look forward to having lunch with my friend Dena this week; she was at the debate and our political views couldn’t be more different. I plan on speaking less and listening more. There has to be a middle ground.

~K

I’ve been spending a lot of steamy time lately with a certain hot Indian. Not to be too politically correct, but the way my heart races! The fluttering in my stomach! The sweat pouring off my shaking frame!

That Bikram yoga challenge* is, in all seriousness, doing some good. Today was class 38 of 60. I’m down a couple pounds, have newly discovered muscles in my stomach and an empowered state of mind that I can imagine is highly annoying to those who spend time with me outside of the sweat lodge yoga studio.

Recent observations:

1. If there is an instructor you truly dislike, it is probably because he/she pushes you to be better. Give in. Suck it up. Keep taking his/her class.

2. Figure out where the scapula is on your body and keep this in mind. I’ve taken plenty of science classes and had no idea . It’s pointed out as an area you should be thinking of about 10,000 times per class. Scapula = shoulder blade. Got it.

3. If you are taking an afternoon class, eat at least 4 hours prior. (Better yet, just take the morning class.) Otherwise, the first Dandayamana-Bibhaktapada-Janushirasana** – Standing Separate Leg Head to Knee Pose — will result in revisiting your lunch. I haven’t yet figured out the best timing, which means I’m eating less; nothing is worse than vomiting in public.

4. My car smells like yoga. My closet smells like yoga. The workout clothes I wore last week and have since washed twice smell like yoga. It is a particularly distinct combination of sweat, feet and incense. Sounds disgusting, but in a very weird way you begin to love it.

5. Coco water is just about the most refreshingly powerful thing I’ve ever drank. After class, I sip one of these 60 calorie containers and it’s like someone plugged my battery back in. The potassium is high so you don’t cramp and it is all natural.

6. Aside from the physical and flexibility stuff I can do all of a sudden, the mental side of this challenge has been a bit of a roller coaster. There are weeks where I am so fired up. I race in the door, throw my sticker on the 60-day challenge chart and burst into class ready to namaste it like the best of the spandex-clad monkeys. And there has been one week in particular where it took sheer grace to get my completely exhausted frame to class each day, pushing through one sore pose to the next. Thankfully, I didn’t give up.

I couldn’t.

There are stickers.

And a chart.

And if there is one thing this type A spandex-clad monkey loves, it’s public accountability and a challenge that seems pretty insane. Even if I have nightmares where people randomly shout “LOCK YOUR KNEE!”

yogi in training,

k

* I almost titled this post, “Namaste that, Bitches!”

** Trying saying that three times fast. Jeez, Bikram. I bet you rock at Scrabble.

I spent Saturday working in Nogales, Arizona. It has a variety of economic and health issues — none unique to this border town. Nogales, Sonora — just across the imaginary line — is regularly plagued with disease that you rarely hear of in the US. Cholera, scurvy, malnutrition, etc.

When it rains, the poor drainage mixed with houses that have been built on top of each other, cause a catastrophe. The top soil has eroded. The water table is corrupt. A healthy existence is not easily found in a town where 500,000 push against a wall, waiting for their turn to cross.

With a group of volunteers, I helped in a medical clinic. I served as translator and quickly realized my Spanish skills are rusty at best. I need to find a Spanish podcast to regularly listen to and get back to a conversation group.

That said, there is something about this sort of work that makes me feel at peace. I hold hands, I listen intently and I truly love trying to figure out how we can help others. It hasn’t always been this way, but I am so glad it’s where I’ve arrived.

“The measure of achievement is not winning awards. It’s doing something
that you appreciate, something you believe is worthwhile. I think of my
strawberry souffle. I did that at least twenty-eight times before I
finally conquered it.”
–Julia Child

~K