Moving Slowly.

Last Friday, I visited the Tao of Tea in the Lan Su Chinese Garden. I drank chrysanthemum tea (good for sore throats and allergies), ate steamed dumplings, and then reveled in moon cakes. Moon cakes are a secret obsession of mine.

Outside in the Garden proper, two people were moving through Tai Chi forms. One was a tiny Chinese woman wearing a loose fitting pink martial arts uniform. The second was an older Chinese man who had been playing music for us in the Teahouse.

Tai Chi can be done quickly. But it is usually seen with slow, graceful movements

There is something truly beautiful about moving slowly. I'm always in a rush - afraid to miss anything before death comes for me. This fear drives me to exhaustion - I don't write fast enough, I don't dance enough, I don't give enough to my loved ones. It has ruled me all my life.

The idea of going slowly, of every move being clear and deliberate - is alien to me. I cannot slow down, no matter how much it hurts me.

But the Tai Chi artists outside in the sun- their movements were focused, strong, and deliberate. Somehow, they are getting to where ever it is they are going without fuss or bustle.

What would happen if I slowed down? Just the thought of it fills me with panic.

That panic is a good sign of something I need to try.  Does going slow tie in with my idea of Dare to be Average? Could there be a way to be ambitious without being tense?

I think it's a worthy experiment.

Writing and alcohol

Vino Vixens, 2929 SE Powell Blvd.

Last week, I visited Vino Vixens Wine Bar. A good friend of mine is a bartender there. Between his encouragement, glasses of Monte Velho Portuguese White Wine, and delicious grilled cheese, I was able to get myself back on track.

I really tied one on that afternoon. For me, that means TWO glasses of wine, instead of one. Yeah, I know. Writer's Gone Wild, right here, baby!

I rarely drink. I drink alcohol and write even more rarely (I usually prefer a nice hot chai). On the occasions that I do combine the two, I receive sudden insights into the Lost Generation and their love affair with the lovely booze.

It can silence those endless litanies of your inadequacies.

It can make you feel more relaxed.

It can make you feel like a genius.

However, booze means I can barely read my handwriting. It gives me nasty, sucky headaches. It's expensive. And to top it off, I really love my liver and my brain. So I'll take the gift of grape and yeast, but not revisit it anytime soon.

With all apologies to Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Eliot, and Dos Passos, I'll avoid their creative elixir and write like a romance writer - unstoppable, alive, and with all my faculties.