author – Page 7 – Britt Skrabanek

Sometimes We Crash

On my favorite hike yesterday evening I had a soul-stopping moment.

There is a rather busy road hikers have to cross to pick up the trail again, with no light or stop sign, so cars have to stop to let pedestrians go. I had just crossed the street when I heard that all too familiar sound of crunching metal.

I whipped around expecting a fender-bender. Instead, I watched her car flip off the side of the road and disappear over the drop-off.

I sprinted back across the street, expecting her to be gone. Several people jumped out of their cars and we all joined at the side of the road.

The car was pinned against the base of a tree, which saved it from somersaulting down the cliff. Had there been a passenger with her, that person would not have made it.

Four men rushed down to the car as we called for help. We all watched in horror, expecting the very worst.

Miraculously she was conscious and crying, with no visible injuries.

We are always told that a person should not be moved until help arrives. However, when a car is cradled precariously by a tree with the possibility of plummeting into a creek way down below, that changes things.

And so the guys worked together and managed to bring her up the cliff to safety.

Good-hearted people kept running over to help. At that point there were too many cooks in the kitchen and we had to turn people away. We needed to keep traffic going so the ambulance could actually get through on the narrow, winding road.

Four of us remained with the driver until help arrived. We did what we could for her during that time.

Fortunately, one man was a physician and besides being extremely shaken up, he could tell that she was alright. Effing lucky as all get-out, but alright.

The other man called the young woman’s mother. It was heart-wrenching to watch her attempt to form a complete sentence on the phone, but you could see that just hearing her mom’s voice was the best thing for her while we waited.

The other woman I was with covered her shaking shoulders with a shawl and I gave her my bottle of water. We continued comforting her as best as we could.

Naturally, it seemed like years before the reassuring sound of sirens echoed in the distance when it had probably only been minutes.

I answered a few questions and then I began my long hike back home in a daze.

This was only my second hike since a pretty awful bicycling accident I had with Silvie a couple of weeks ago when I hit a jerk of a pothole. (Hence, the Band-Aid pic above.)

I crashed and burned on my way home from work, because I wasn’t paying attention the way I should have been. I paid for it too, with a mosaic of bruises, bumps, and scrapes all over my lower body. Crotch bruises…not fun.

I had trouble sleeping and walking for a week. Naturally, Yoga and hiking were out of the question. But I got back on Silvie the bike again two days later. Because after all of that, I was banged up but alright.

Sometimes we crash. The important thing about crashing is to learn from it, to recognize that life is precious and very, very fragile.

We live in a world of distractions that alarmingly moves faster and faster each day. Our minds are cluttered, trying to keep up with it all.

I’m not writing this to campaign against texting and driving, because duh—don’t do that.

I’m writing this to say two things…

There is no such thing as being too present. Slow down, pay attention, and be in every moment as much as you possibly can. It may save your life.
No matter what happens—an accident, a disaster, a crash—we are there for one another. The beauty of the human heart will always come through. And that, lovelies, is a powerful thing.

A Physical Perspective Turns Two

I thought about blogging for a long time—a few years actually. But I was holding myself back.

In fact, I held myself back most of my life by keeping my writing concealed. I can’t even blame a lack of support around me, because I was lucky enough to have it right in front of my face. Yet, I refused to acknowledge any of it.

My English teachers encouraged me like crazy, but I brushed them off. My parents both said I should be a writer when I “grew up”, but I ignored them too.

Then one day Mr. H dared me to write a novel. Being that I was spinning in circles at that time in my young adulthood—bored and a bit reckless—I told him I was game.

I didn’t have a clue how I would pull off writing an entire freaking book.

Insecurities raced across my mind every day. How in the hell are you going to write hundreds of pages? Why are you going to spend your minuscule free time working that hard? And, after you devote years of your life to one damn story…who in their right mind will ever take the time to read it?

But when I say I’m going to do something…I do it.

Five years after the day I took that dare, I’m still here, proudly finishing up my third book, The Bra Game.

My blog, a physical perspective, is having a birthday. She just turned two.

Naturally, I wanted to celebrate this special day with all of you.

Blogging was a necessary step in the indie author process. How else would anyone know that me and my words existed?

It was difficult for me to find the courage to share my writing with the world. I didn’t feel that I had anything worthy to offer in an online universe where there is already such an overwhelming chatter.

Throughout my writing journey I have been amazed by one thing above all…our awesome community. People from across the globe are connecting in a way I never thought possible. Every day I see so much beauty being shared through the written word, and I feel honored to be a part of it.

I am truly grateful for all of you, and all of this. Keep rockin’ the peace and the love.

Dream a Little Dream On a Streetcar

Last Friday evening I waited with a jittery bunch of passengers for the North-South line streetcar to arrive in the middle of downtown.

Some, like me, were part of the late bunch who had just finished work. But most were out on the town, traipsing amongst the vast array of quality restaurants and watering holes.

I was in a mood.

After work I was wiped out and wanted nothing more than to get home, wind down with a cold beer, and hang out with Mr. H and the cats.

As the streetcar approached, it looked packed. It was warm that night, and being smashed up against strangers was the last thing I wanted to do.

Then, I began to hear a familiar tune.

Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper “I love you”

(Okay, I’m losing it. Am I hearing Ella Fitzgerald on the freaking streetcar?)

Birds singing in the sycamore trees
Dream a little dream of me

Yes, I was.

The streetcar doors opened to reveal a full-on jazz trio—two guys and a gal—clad in 1940s duds. She was the lead singer, one guy played the guitar and sang with her, while the other manned an upright bass.

We all squished into what I could only describe as a party train from another time. Fortunately, there were plenty of others around to console my fear of insanity. Historical fiction writing can blur the lines of reality and make-believe in my head sometimes.

It turns out that I happened upon another thing that makes the city of Portland that much more awesome.

Streetcar Mobile Musicfest celebrates the city by featuring local musicians on downtown streetcars at various times of the year. The live music is included with your streetcar fare, which is a whopping buck one way.

Lucky me had the privilege to see Boy & Bean. They were talented and mesmerizing.

To say that this was a magical experience doesn’t even do it justice.

The music transformed the public transportation experience entirely. Usually everyone tunes out on the streetcar, listening to music, fiddling with their smartphones, or sitting with their arms crossed and staring out the window.

That night everyone tuned in.

Riders were smiling, clapping, photographing, filming, and swaying in the seats and aisles.

There was an old couple next to me dancing and singing the whole time. The woman and I looked at each other with foolishly happy tears in our eyes. From two completely generations, we grinned and moved together, connected by a few beautiful minutes on a crowded downtown streetcar.

It would not have been hard to spend hours there, enjoying the vibe with all of those strangers as the city lights sailed by. Of course, I almost missed my stop and jumped up just in time.

I reluctantly exited the streetcar and walked home in a different mood than when I got on, jiving inside.

The Bra Game Gets a Description

I don’t think I’ve ever come across anything more thrilling and terrifying than writing a book description.

You create a fictitious world from the ground up, live and breathe it for years, painstakingly edit until you’re sick of looking at it, then you have to sum it all up with efficient charisma.

So, last week I finally sat my procrastinating ass down to write The Bra Game’s description and made a sweet little home for my baby on the blog.

After some careful consideration, I have decided that my original—ahem, impatient—spring release date is a no-go. Our cross-country move to Portland was a bit of an obstacle for the project. Though I trucked on with edits, I still have some buttoning up to do.

I want to deliver a quality piece of work to you all, and that takes time. With that being said, I am pushing the release to early summer. Since The Bra Game (new title…NOLA FRAN EVIE) boasts a retro summertime feel, it should fit in swell with summer reads.

The cover is currently in the shop, so I am using this temporary 1950s-esque selfie until then.

Without further ado, I present to you the description. Ta-da!

They were unladylike rebels, abandoning rolling pins for baseball bats to join the All-American Girls Baseball League. They changed history, and that changed them. After the league disintegrates in 1954 Nola, Fran, and Evie accidentally reunite on a popcorn-scented summer day where it all began, on Wrigley Field. Nearly forty years later Jacks Demonte makes a startling discovery…a trail of clues tucked away in a vintage handbag. Forever fated to the bra game, the extraordinary lives of these women intersect with her own as she falls deeper into a heroic past.

Inside these bra players lies a fierce beauty, an unconventional destiny beyond the kitchen. The American dream of sparkling cars and pastel suburbia is mocked by the turbulent reality of nuclear threats and civil rights. Nola, Fran, and Evie team up once again, connecting in truth to fight for a pivotal cause these brave dames can only win together.

So, what do we think?

It Pulls Me In

Give me mountains, give me deserts, give me rivers, give me forests and I am captivated—starry-eyed and serene.

Yet, the sea is so different. It pulls me in.

Its power is something I cannot fight, something I am willing to surrender to.

I am a happy slave to the sea. For I am so insignificant when I am around it, because it is greater than I will ever be.

Nothing feels better than being humbled and calmed this way. To know that all of my fears and worries are specks, like grains of sand easily swept away by the tide.

With my sandals casually held in one hand and a salty breeze brushing the other, my toes sunk into the wet sand as I walked along the beach with my love by my side. He is always like that tide, pulling me in, soothing me and making me a better person.

I was away from the sea for too long. I need it near me, to remind me of the unknown.

That it is okay to just be.

Last Sunday Mr. H and I hopped in the car and drove to Cannon Beach to recharge. I got more out of it than I expected, including a little sunburn and a lot of peace.

Here are some fun pix to round out the awesome day we had.

We drank local pale ales on the patio…