When It Isn't Your Story

Seven years ago my life was unalterably changed. I didn’t find out I had an incurable disease, that my husband no longer loved me or lose a loved one to death. My challenge is two-fold, my loss is massive and it isn’t my story to tell. Even if the person whose story it is would tell me that I can share what happened, I cannot. The world doesn’t want to hear certain stories. I have learned this the hard way.

The truth of the matter is that I did suffer a loss so significant that to this day I can barely think of it without breaking down, but I have so profoundly developed the skill of burying my head in the sand that there are days I am able to pretend that all is well in my world. Except that at the jittery quaking core of me I know that I am fractured, loved ones are divided and avoidance is on the verge of lying.

The day I received this news I was sitting amongst loved ones at dinner, with nothing more on my mind than how I was going to get my toddlers to eat their spaghetti without making a massive mess; a typical mothers concern when eating tomato sauce at a friend’s house. Minutes later the world began to reel out of control and truly what I remember of those next few days is very limited. Then the real nightmare began.

Amidst this massive loss and pain I struggled to go through life as if everything was fine. I took my kids to preschool, swimming lessons, gymnastics, play groups and smiled as if all was normal. I began to envy others calm lives and divest myself of relationships that I couldn't superficially manage. I did this for over a year.

In the fall of the following year, my children were in the play area of the local IKEA when my cell phone rang. I answered it, sweating, because I knew I was going to be receiving more bad news. I had purposely taken myself somewhere I couldn’t fall apart. I was wrong. I found myself sitting on the floor in the kitchen utensils section crying, sobbing, oozing snot, and shaking with pain. Once I had been picked up by employees and taken to a private room, where I inwardly raged and prayed, I finally pulled myself together, declined the very kind staffs help, and took my children home.

I was raw. When my doorbell rang a few hours later I was in a vulnerable state and functioning on autopilot. I answered the door, and to this day I am at a loss as to understand why, other than I simply wasn't thinking at all. As it turns out a close friend stopped by with her kids to say hello. We sat and chatted for a while before she asked me what was wrong. We were close enough that I told her my story. When I finished, I expected to feel better, to feel the healing begin, because isn’t talking supposed to help? What I learned in the next ten minutes went on to shape my life all these years.

Already a wizard at compartmentalizing my life, this person’s reaction was so unexpected, so insensitive, that I learned to seal off this pain and to push it so deep that I could forget the truth from time to time. Life’s event; birthdays, graduations, baptisms, births, or weddings all continue to happen, and that face isn’t there, and while you try to smile and move on, the overwhelming weight of the loss lingers on the hearts and minds of those involved.

In trying to put some purpose to my loss I realized quickly that I needed to teach myself to look beyond the surface and recognize that I wasn’t the only person who was suffering. That neighbors, friends, and strangers may have had these pivotal and painful experiences that they were pushing down deep or being swallowed up in. When the rare few come forward to share their story I listen and try to learn. To some it might be odd, but I consider myself blessed when someone shares their pain with me. I want to offer them a judgment free set of ears and heart so that they can move through their pain and with any luck find some relief, even if temporary.

I try to understand what it is that makes me hold my story so close to myself. I’ve only recently started to delve into this and the part that I feel certain of is that I don’t want to feel that vulnerable ever again. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t understand my friend for not seeing past her own opinion to try to help me make sense of my loss and grief. I tried to convince myself that she and I weren’t truly friends, because a friend wouldn’t do this. But she was, she was a friend, she was just a friend who had arrived at that moment in her life without the skills I needed.

My early life taught me to look for the path through chaos and to find out whom to be wary of.  I generally consider myself to be very good at this and this is the part that kills me. I missed this one, but not in the way some might expect me to acknowledge the loss. I see it as having missed the chance to help the person, to prevent the crisis, to change the path and redirect the situation. I didn’t, I couldn’t, and it breaks me all over again. I have spent the last six years trying to perfect this skill. It is a hollow skill even if achievable. I feel no relief, no freedom from my loss, I’m not invincible.

So, why am I sharing something so painful and personal? I’ve been writing around this particular experience ever since I started blogging and I have avoided true exposure. The reason is my birthday. It was last week. And this person whom I love so much, who is gone from me, shares my birthday. For the many of you who sent your birthday wishes, you cannot know how much I needed it. I needed the reminder that the day can be happy. Because on this day, I am the most broken I can be.

It was unexpectedly warm on my birthday so when a friend stopped by and suggested we sit in the sun and chat, I was delighted. We chatted about all kinds of things, most of them sad, and I found myself telling her my story; not unexpected given my state of mind, completely unexpected given how long I’ve held my emotions inside. She listened to me and tried to help me find some peace in my confusion. When she had to leave she said she was sorry that the conversation hadn’t been about happy and cheerful things, but I thanked her. For in the true sharing of pain I finally began to believe that I will heal.

Thank you.

She's Back

If anyone has been wondering if I have quit writing the blog, the answer is No. I have made several attempts over the last few months, but there were a few reasons that my train of thought was uncontrollable and so now with a quiet morning ahead of me I thought I would give it a whirl.

Reason number one for having thoughts derailed: I am absolutely terrible at maintaining any sense of routine when my kids are on summer vacation. I tell myself I will write, work out, meet friends for coffee, clean my house, grocery shop, shower!! Yet when they are around it is so easy to slip into the vegetative state. The kids are also avid readers. So a typical summer morning has us wandering around the house in our pj’s with a book in hand, eating something absent mindedly, and finally ready to move onto something else at lunch time. So, having read half the day away and with questionable substances in my stomach I am disinclined to work out because then it will be even later before we get going and my body is all jittery from whatever I’ve consumed.

During the school year I do a reasonable job of working out three or four times a week, cooking with regularity, and keeping us all on track. By June it’s all too much and I need a break too. To be honest, by the end of summer I am pulling out the draw string shorts. I gotta, for reasons easily figured out.

Reason number two for derailment: “The Summer of Decorating!” Four years ago we bought the worst house in the neighborhood and have gradually fixed it up ourselves. We have now survived “The Summer of Demolition,” “The Summer of the Deck” and “The Summer of Flooring.” At long last we undertook having our kitchen remodeled, painting walls, and general fluffing up. For those of you who don’t know me, I’ll explain one or two apects of myself, but very quickly. I don’t like clutter, tolerate change, and love to daydream.

The daydream is that the house will reflect who we are, and be both cozy and comfy without looking full. The reality is that for three weeks we had furniture from all the bedrooms all over the house while we painted, and then we began the kitchen. At some point we restored the bedrooms to order, somewhat decluttered the family room, and I declared that we needed one public room in our house that didn’t have kitchen stuff in it.

I can be a bit like Gollum. Walking around the house whispering under my breath, pacing back and forth wondering where all clutter comes from, focused on the ring, the ring being uncluttered beauty. Here’s the problem, it’s all a day dream. For every project anyone takes on it begets two or three more. If you clean a closet you end up at making a donation to the local second hand store, buying organizing devices at another stop, throwing stuff away, and then the culminating project which is trying to get what’s left back in the way you want it. (This often necessitates another trip to a hardware or general purpose store.)

My husband is Samwise Gamgee. Steadfast, patient, willing to bear the burden of wearing my ring… hmm, that could be taken literally. I really mean the ring of uncluttered beauty. Last winter we finally finished remodeling the downstairs, and bought new furnishings for it. For three weeks it was as I had wanted. Then Kinect came into our lives. The furniture started being pushed this way and that to create the optimal playing space, and after five minutes (which was interminably long to me) my husband saw the terror in my eyes and put it all back where it had started out. We laughingly joke that I have OCD, but sometimes I think I’m one laugh away from going over the edge.

Always, always, always, keep your eye on the prize. It is now September, and I have worked out a handful of times, I am writing a blog, our bedrooms are ship shape, the kitchen is mostly finished, and all that I had hoped it to be. All is perfect… well, mostly.

Oddly enough Tori Spelling comes into the story. I was reading an interview of her in Parent Magazine. She was laughing at herself because she thought that once she got her children past the toddler phase life would get so much easier. Her children are three and four. In my world that is still toddlerish. I have always said that having children are the great equalizer in life. Whether you are rich or poor, you will have to deal with a cranky, stinky, over tired child. You will find out who you are and what you are made of.

So our daughter has dipped her toe ever so lightly into the pool of Middle School. With it has brought, through her eyes, tremendous change. She has a new school, new teachers, and mostly new classmates. No recess, gym every day, and all that goes with a little girl transforming into a young lady. We now get up an hour and a half earlier so that the preparations can begin. In truth she walks out the door looking very much like she did in elementary school, but it takes longer.

I will confess to the fact that no matter what time you make me wake up, I will always hate it. Even if I get eight hours of sleep, I hate getting up. I have to talk myself through it every day. But I digress…

There was choice in our daughter entering Middle School; she lotteried into a “choice” school, so there is the option of her returning to her elementary school and resuming life as she knew it. Just like her Mama, she tolerates change. She doesn’t long for it, she doesn’t hate it. I see my beauty struggle and every part of me wants to help her, and I know that accepting change is a necessary part of life. She keeps looking at me with these big brown eyes, wanting answers, suggestions and I think permission to quit.

As a person who moved often, I feel like I have a good understanding of what she is going through. So, we have been chatting about my life and how I coped, we’ve had family pep talks, and asked her to look at the pros and cons of her decision. Just last night she looked at me with tears and asked for help and I gave her my most honest answer, I told her that I had given her all the information I had, that I didn’t have anything new to share, and that I hadn’t purposefully held back the really useful pieces of help that I could give her for the most critical moment. I was tapped out. She just laughed.

I asked her when she thought she might feel like she had adjusted, her answer was, “At the end of the school year.” I’ve often sought a word to replace dazzle. But dazzle me she does.

I think back on the days when she was a toddler and how challenging some moments were, but in fact, they were only moments. Eleven summers ago I remember sitting in a rocking chair in front of wall of large glass windows with my daughter snuggled up in my lap. We were looking out at the garden and the several bird feeders outside. Quietly rocking. She and I watched the birds bob and weave their way to food and dart away from unfriendly feeders. She loved sitting there observing the world whoosh around her. Today when she climbed in the car to go to school she gave me a smile I remember first glimpsing eleven summers ago. There was something in her eyes that spoke of her soul, her mettle, her character. What exactly lies behind that smile I don’t entirely know, and never will, because it is only in the unfolding of her life that we get to know her.

What I have learned since January 3rd 2011

So I’m certain many of you are wondering what is significant about January 3, 2011. Yes, it was the day our children returned to school after the winter holidays, but it isn’t that. I did do a little jig as they walked out the door for the day. We all love our children, but who doesn’t enjoy a little time to oneself?

My dance was halted mid-jig, foot and arm in the air, when I caught an e-mail out of the corner of my eye. If I was a smarter woman, I would have learned to not dance and open my e-mail at the same time. Rarely are there any e-mails that require or inspire “The Dance of Joy.” In my in-box was a warm and welcoming letter from the company the school PTA had contracted to assist our elementary aged thespians to put on a play. Some time ago, way back when, I had put my hand in the air and said, “Sure, I’ll help.” Help in this case came in the form of “Producer.” If you’re asking yourself what do I know about producing a play, you’re a step ahead of the game. Nothing. So with reality striking me between the eyes, I put arm and foot firmly down on terra firma and immediately went in search of the cardboard box the previous producer gave me last April.

Upon opening the box I saw a notebook with a checklist in it. I read for about thirty seconds when my stomach clenched and I realized I was a tad bit behind schedule. I quickly compiled a list, responded to the e-mail, and the journey began.

Don’t laugh, but when I was a child I dreamt of becoming two things; an opera singer or a writer. Perhaps at one of the many schools I attended there was some kind of drama program, but none that made its presence known to me. Here’s another thing to not laugh at, I’m shy. People don’t believe me when I tell them. I learned to cope with being the new girl at school by being out-going (pretty tough on my natural predisposition to hide behind a book) and as an adult I have learned that all the years of making small talk at church socials comes in handy. At this very minute many people think I’m busy. I’m just hiding.

So when you put these two topics together you get a shy girl who wanted to sing opera. As you can tell by the fact that I’m writing this and not performing on the stage, the writer in me won out after stumbling down many a precarious path (okay Microsoft isn’t dark and dangerous, but it isn’t for the faint of heart). This all leads to how I raised my hand to be the Producer of the school play.

After much pounding of my head on my desk, I pulled it together long enough to make a million phone calls and got the ball rolling. In early February we began with auditions. Keep in mind every child was going to be in the play, the auditions were so the Directors could see and hear the different skills each child had. I knew from my daughter’s first school play last year what would be required. Each child would recite a one minute monolog and sing a solo.

Watching the auditions I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Some kids squirmed, others forgot their monologs, some were so quiet you could barely hear them, and others were Diva in training. Regardless, every last one of them had the courage to go on, to push themselves and prevail. Not one dropped out. I have since sat through many a rehearsal and I have to say they dazzle me. I often watch them and feel profound gratitude for the example they set and it is my fervent prayer that the confidence that they have now stays with them forever.

Every time my children try something new I think to myself, “As an adult, if someone threw me out on a field, on a stage, in a competition of any sort, would I rise to the occasion or just quietly excuse myself and go find a book?” As with most people the answer relies on whether I stand alone or with my village.

I’ve been exploring the idea of the Chicken versus the Egg lately. What begets me?

There are experiences in my adult life that bring me to tears, to weep, to feel so intensely that I believe that there is something way way back there on the memory shelf needing to be heard and felt. Twenty-ish years ago I was at the wedding of the friends who now live in Moscow, Idaho (see the blog regarding country music). A woman stood up and sang a solo; I believe it was Ave Maria. I was so enthralled with her voice that I found myself thinking, “It isn’t too late, I could go to voice school. It could be me; I could feel this intense fulfillment every day.” Unfortunately the path I was travelling on was extremely complex, full of twists and turns that I was far too immature and frightened to detour from. In this case the Chicken or the Egg is still undecided. Did I not pursue this path because I was frightened to fail?

In my early twenties I ended up at Microsoft through a very circuitous and un-thought-through process. My boyfriend’s brother in law worked there and knew the International Department was looking for software testers and I kind of spoke Spanish. The stuff dreams are made of! I arrived at my interview late on a very dark and rainy January evening (yes, my interviews began at 6:30 at night). While I was waiting for the woman to interview me there was much hub-bub across the hall. Some guy ran into the office I was sitting in and said, “I heard you spoke Spanish.” The next thing I knew I was up to my eyeballs translating an error message with all kinds of software developers and testers standing around me. My interview was finished at 6:44 and I had the job. I left my job of six years (I had worked at the Shipyard in Bremerton since I turned 16) and moved out on my own. Based upon what? The word, Microsoft.

On my first day I dumped my cup of hot chocolate into my boss’s keyboard, deleted my operating system file, and sat in a cubicle not having a single idea of what I was supposed to do. Later that morning I found out I would test one international version of a spreadsheet per week and travel my way around the world by the seat of my pants.

A few years later I sat at my desk at (in my own office) and watched the landscapers planting pansies one rainy spring afternoon and realized how far out of my element I was. Chicken versus Egg moment: Was I good at solving problems due to a chaotic childhood or was I naturally predisposed to it? Was I choosing a safe path versus following a dream? At that point I hadn’t dreamt in so long I didn’t know what my dreams were.

Fortunately I bungled my way through a very unhealthy relationship back into school. I took classes for two years in just about everything before I found my passion, my dream, my harbor; art. Whether it be art history, painting classes, design studios, or even the most hated urban planning classes, I found that I could ride the roller coaster because it was all leading me, for the first time ever, to a place where I felt successful, confident, and talented; Landscape Architecture. Chicken versus Egg moment: Was I good at this because my “good problem solving skills” had evolved into “great problem solving skills” or would I have been good at this if at some point along the way I had sat down and given my path thought? I didn’t even know I liked art before returning to school.

Life is what it is. I am the youngest of five children who had very busy parents and we moved every two to three years. I spent the better part of my childhood in coping mode. Move to a new place: (problem solving skills kicked in) who to hang out with? Who was cool? Who wasn’t? Who was safe? Who would accept me? Were my clothes right? How quickly could I figure out slang/vernacular/points of reference? The second year (if there was one) was spent in some state of moving out of original group of friends into new group of friends (those who fit better) and trying to figure out what I was supposed to have learned the previous year and get up to speed. The third year: spent get ready to say good-bye to friends, let myself believe I didn’t care we were moving, finding reasons to believe moving would be good, packing, saying good bye to my space.

I’ve learned that “my space” means everything to me. Establishing a space means a return to some normality. If the picture is on the wall and bed is neatly made, this must be home. My space has become to me what most people call friends.

As an adult I rarely say no to an event that means helping children. I walk into a place and my eyes immediately search for the children who need help being drawn into the group. I walk into a space and my heart feels for the children who need someone to believe in them. As an adult I choose to invest in children versus having a job because I must. Everything that lives inside of me, tells me, informs me, that what I get back is so much more than I give. I don’t know what the Chicken versus the Egg moment here is. It is all very convoluted, but what I do know is that no child was ever harmed by having adults in their life who believed in them.

So, on January 3rd, 2011 I began the journey with forty eight kids and their families towards a school play. This experience has had its highs and lows, but every step of the way I have watched a lost child gain confidence, a shy child say their line proudly, and a very popular child befriend someone who needed a friend. The play is being performed this weekend and I have to say I’m torn. I feel absolute relief that the intensity of the experience is coming to an end, while the bigger part of me will miss watching this self-discovery in motion. These kids who may not even know that I am in the room have taught me so much and I will be forever grateful to them.

If you are ever in doubt as to what you should or could be doing, find an organization that helps children. Even if you learn it isn’t your thing, I promise you that during that time if you call a child by their name, chat with them briefly about something that is important to them, or help them solve a problem no matter how big or small, you will have changed a life.

I remember when I was twenty one I asked my mother how old she thought of herself as being. She didn’t hesitate, “28 or 29,” was her answer. She told me that it startled her when she looked in the mirror to see someone so different than how she pictured herself. I myself am now just a handful of years younger than she was when I asked her that question, and how I can identify with her.

I wouldn’t say that I am having a mid-life crisis. I don’t think women have mid-life crises. Thanks to the twisted sense of humor of Mother Nature we get to celebrate our physical evolution on a regular basis. I will risk the wrath of the men who read this and say that I think that it is this continual physical self-awareness that prevents us from having the cliché mid-life crises men do. Women have to rethink themselves when they begin to develop curves, ovulate, give themselves over to the physical process of creating life, live with the emotional and anatomical changes that giving birth and raising children incurs, and then accept that lifts and tucks may be the only way they’ll ever cough again without peeing their pants.

Perhaps you could equate a breast lift or tummy tuck to a sports car… but if you are a man, I wouldn’t recommend it. Keep thoughts such as those firmly inside your head. As my husband always remembers, men can never trump the “giving birth” card (one of the many reasons why I love him.) The reason you can’t equate them is because no one worth a grain of salt would put loss of bladder control due to childbirth on par with thinning hair or “this is as good as it going to get.” You know why… cause women feel the same thing AND they pee their pants.

Back to me not having a mid-life crisis! I attempted to grow my hair long in my early thirty’s. I had lovely thick hair when I was younger. Back then I spent more time in the stylists chair having it thinned than cut. I would have people ask me if my hair was naturally that shiny, or did I put something on it (truly). The hair I grew in my thirty’s was an imposter. It was thinner, lacked shine, and turned odd shades of caramel-orange. To be fair, it served its purpose when my kids were really young. No time for a shower, great I can pull it back. Needed to entertain my daughter? I gave over my freshly washed and styled hair to hair clips, scrunchies, and red gel.

I remember Christmas of 2009, standing with my sisters-in-law and discussing dyeing our hair. We all swore we’d never quit, we weren’t interested in seeing how much grey had snuck its way in! Two things took place just six months later, I decided to cut my hair and quit dyeing it. Now to the men in the group, this may not be earth shattering or even interesting, but every woman who dyes her hair is now sitting before their computers wondering, “Why? Why would she do that? Think of all the quality salon time she is missing out on. Think of all those horrible grey hairs springing forth from her head. Think how different (code word for ‘old’) she must look.” I made such drastic decisions because I decided that my hair was never going to start growing thicker (I think 12 years of trying thickening and strengthening products, changing my eating habits, and giving it stern looks qualifies as giving it a chance). I also decided that the hair dye might just be adding to the weird caramel-orange hair color.

A friend who always has great hair sent me off to her stylist. I pleaded to not be given the proverbial “mom do” a.k.a. The Bob! I left the salon with a great asymmetrical chin length cut. I think the technical term used was “stacked.” I walked in the front door, showed off my new do and announced to my husband that I was finally stacked, no push up bra required.

I have to admit that the jury is still out on the hair color. While I am fortunate to have silvery grey hair, and that it is fairly evenly distributed, I get that jolt my mom mentioned every time I look in the mirror. On the one hand I give myself a pat on the back for being who I am, but then I realize almost immediately that I cannot quite believe how quickly time passed and that it cannot be too much longer before there is more silvery grey than caramel-orange (turns out that is my hair color, not a reaction from chemical treatments). Is it wrong to long for the days when my hair was thick, shiny and deep auburn?

To take my mind off of that I switched to my eyelids! Oh yes, you can see where this is all headed! Minutes here and there standing in front of mirrors spent pulling eyelids and forehead up, to the left, to the right. To be completely fair, I’ve always had these eyelids, but as I said, I am looking for distraction from the grey hair issue. It didn’t take long from me to start in on my jowls and neck.

By now you must have quite the image of me created in your mind.

Well, fear not! I am an improved version of who I was ten years ago, and I’ve decided that I would rather have my kitchen and bathrooms remodeled than avert the eyelid/jowl/neck issues. Just last night I was fortunate enough to attend a fashion show at the University of Washington with my tweenie daughter and our fabulous friends. The event wasn’t to showcase designers, it was to celebrate the wide variety of body types there are in the world, and some of the models spoke of their self-acceptance and the journey they’ve been on to embrace who they are.

They were college students, so sagging skin and grey hair are distant thoughts for them. However, sitting there I did give thought to the fact that every generation wonders what has “become of today’s youth.” Well, the people I saw applauded their friends for courageously being who they were in front of 700 people. The people I sat amongst clapped when an openly gay rather dramatic looking guy modeled skinny jeans in platform shoes. The people in the auditorium were silent and held to attention when a young woman read a poem about a girl struggling with Anorexia.

Needless to say that part of what was on my mind was how my tweenie was taking this all in. In my eyes she is all things beautiful. She is at that phase so eloquently described by Ray Bradbury, “all elbows and knees, and legs that are long like a colts.” I worry about words like Anorexia even making their way into her vocabulary, let alone her thoughts. As always she dazzles me, because she swatted away my gentle attempts at talking to her about her self-image with her excitement about a bridge building project at school. “I’m fine mom!” and off she went.

So, am I having a mid-life crises? Well, of a sort, yes. It is hard to articulate, but it has to do with how quickly time passes. When I was a child I had the absolute belief that at some point I would know I was grown up because I wouldn’t want to eat candy anymore. Well, that hasn’t happened. I like things neatly organized, paths to follow, hoops to jump through, boxes that I can check off. But life just isn’t like that. I have these moments when I absolutely forget that when my kids are grown up, I won’t be thirty.

I remember reading “The Places You’ll Go” by Dr. Suess and I dreamt right alongside my children. “Out there things can happen and frequently do to people as brainy and footsy as you. And when things start to happen, don’t worry. Don’t stew. Just go right along, you’ll start happening too.”

There are so many choices. Me, who rarely cries, is a puddle watching American Idol, because I worry that those who don’t make it onto the show feel like life is over. How can you tell them that at 45 they would [probably] rather have a lifetime of memories of singing in a hotel bar than working all day in a job where they barely recognize themselves? That is what age gives you. Perspective. The knowledge that you may not know what you do want to do, but you do know what you don’t want to do.

So, I am learning, deep down emotionally, that most of life does not unfold neatly with one clear path to follow. No, it is messy. There are parallel paths and it is in the intertwining of these paths where the truly beautiful moments of life exist. It is here where we can fulfill ourselves, listen to others with both ears, and reach for dreams versus just dream.

If you're of a mind, listen to Alan Jacksons "Remember When."

Thanks for reading!

You Put Your Right Foot in You take Your Right Foot Out

Instead of putting off various blog ideas for another day, I have decided to write down all the things running through my mind.

Thought number one: I finished wrapping my Christmas presents three days ahead of time! Yea for me. I was able to have my longed for Christmas Eve. I will confess that I bought one present on the 24th and instead of wrapping it, I put it under the tree as was. I am here to officially report the gift was still gratefully received and there were no comments resembling, “What the heck, I don’t want this. It wasn’t wrapped.” So next year, I’m going to get even braver!

Thought number two: New Year’s Resolutions! We had a lovely New Year’s Eve dinner at home with our children. At the end of dinner, where much of the conversation revolved around the idea of “dining” versus “eating,” our daughter asked what our resolutions were going to be. Well, I just get the heebie-jeebies at the thought. I have made them, never kept them, learned not to make them, and so the world has continued to happily revolve year after year since said lesson learned. Deflecting back to her for a while, I thought of one I could add when the topic returned to me. “I am going to try and not worry about the things I cannot change,” I said with conviction.

So here we are on January 14th and the question is, “Have I been successful?” The answer is, “Of course not.” I have learned to look at life a little more gently, a little more kindly, and I give myself permission for “do-overs” all the time. Honestly, I am rather impressed with how little the number of “do-overs” is. I was the Queen of hashing, rehashing, debating, berating (myself), and angst. Most people who know me well know that faster than Superman can fly, I can take myself to the worst case scenario in any situation and work my way backwards. I jokingly say that “this way I am always pleasantly surprised when the worst doesn’t happen.” Over the last six months I have really focused on living in the moment and many other issues, so the reality is, I had a pretty good head start on this resolution and it may be the first I have a good chance at achieving.

More on resolutions! A biggest loser scenario came up at the house. Mac and I would both like to shed a few pounds. So, what better way than to have a little healthy competition? I’d just like to report that by the time you read this I will have yet to weigh in… this directly ties into the other resolution, “I am going to try and not worry about the things I cannot change.” I go with the “How do my clothes feel” method. Since that fluctuates I’m assuming I will do better on some days than others.

Yes! I have complete control and can and will lose weight. I just keep giving myself do-overs on the actual weigh-in. I have worked out regularly, cut out a lot of unnecessary snacking, and have increased my water intake. I just have no idea how much I weighed when I started, so therefore I have the luxury of deciding how much weight I’ve lost. When I nail the number down, I’ll let you know.

Ironically one of my son’s first writing assignments on his return to school after the holidays was on Resolutions. He wrote a well-crafted essay on what his resolutions were and what needed to be done to achieve them. The last question he was to address in the essay was whether or not he thought he would keep his resolution. Boldly, the answer he wrote was “No.” He explained that he’d likely forget and that it was a lot of work, and so, he couldn’t see it happening. I tell you, I laughed so hard. He was candid, honest and human!!

Thought number three: Maybe this should have been thought number two, but since the conversation has been on-going since the Holidays, it is getting last billing. Tying into the whole dislike of wrapping, I have now learned from several parents that the secret of Santa has been revealed or that the parents would like to reveal the secret of Santa.

We had a similar conversation at our house. Since “Supreme Ruler” is what appears on my husband’s caller ID when I call him at work, I invoked my powers and kiboshed this notion. Everyone must make their own decisions, but I’m not ready to leave that part of our life behind, and I think that counts. In my most authoritative voice, somewhere around midnight on December 23rd, I asked why we went down the path in the first place if we weren’t going to see it through (yes, another insight into my personality). Well, needless to say, you don’t want to be dragged through that entire conversation. All I know is we were really tired, and someone compromised (it wasn’t me), and we’ll rehash this at some later date.

Maybe I’m the only one fooling myself at our abode, but I need the magic to continue, and we don’t live in Disneyland. It isn’t because I’m not ready for the kids to grow up. I think it has more to do with the fact that I found out through my siblings, not self-discovery and I wasn’t ready. I wanted to believe, but I was still wobbling on the path with one toe in the pool of childhood, and one toe in an ocean of puberty. When our kids arrive at that moment, the one where they verbally acknowledge beliefs and suspicions, I will pony up. I just need them to do it.

Thought number four: A Happy New Year to you all. (Just so you know, I began writing this on 1/14, finished it up on 1/24 and still haven’t weighed myself.)

Thought number five: I have no idea where the green underline symbols came from, so please ignore. I will attempt to solve this. (No hidden messages.)

Thanks for reading!

Back to the Other Writer...

Well, it’s a funny old world. I’m back to wearing the hat that wants to know how and why things came to be… this week’s (over) focus is wrapping paper. Now, in addition to knowing that I dislike the word hate and I hate epilogues, you will now know that I strongly dislike wrapping paper!

I cannot remember a birthday, anniversary, holiday, or a just “cause I feel like it” gift that I’ve given where I’ve rushed home and thought, “Yeah! Now I get to wrap it and fluff it up with all kinds of goo-gaws!” I tried to convince myself one year that it was all about the bow. At the time I had a lovely friend who knew how to tie beautiful bows. She’d taken a class and could produce works of art. Her bows looked like Chihuly Sculptures (www.chihuly.com). She spent the better part of a weekend trying to show me how. This was about sixteen years ago and I use the bows she tied for me out of beautiful red velvet ribbon every winter holiday in some fashion. They are beautiful, but really I place them about as a connection to my past and my friendship with her.

It has nothing to do with ineptness! My wrapping technique was taught to me by my father, who at the time was in the Army and applied ‘spit and polish’ to all things. It has nothing to do with frugality. I love wrapping paper and buy it by the mile. It has nothing to do with it being destroyed within moments of being handed to someone. I actually enjoy watching people open gifts. Is it with caution and care, gently easing tape up and carefully unfurling the item; or is it just a wild abandoned ravaging?

Of course there is nothing like the holidays to really make me want to go running wild and screaming through the woods.

Here is my fantasy. After weeks of calmly walking the aisles and shuttling to and from the shops, I separate the gifts into stacks of his, hers, his, theirs, and ours. I then prepare the present wrapping table with tape, scissors, festive paper and bags, bows, holly sprigs, candy canes, and other assorted accoutrement. I turn on the Christmas music, and spend the day wrapping. By the time the children come home from school I’m finished, everything is carefully hidden and all is well. As a result of my incredibly organized shopping and wrapping days, my husband and I have a lovely Christmas Eve after we’ve chased the kids to bed. We cozy up on the couch, in front of the fire, sipping a favorite beverage while Bing croons in the background. After an hour or two, we put our gifts under the tree, and go to bed so that Santa can make his deliveries. Christmas morning everyone is dazzled with the bejeweled gifts, thrilled with the package contents.

Here is what really happens. My children make their requests and I commence to shopping two weeks before Christmas (with little kids this is a must since opinions and wants change over nights). I rush from this store to that, trying to find what I need. It gets shuttled into the house and hidden wherever there is an empty space high off the floor. This means my husband’s clothes in our closet get covered in bags and boxes. Then I do the rest of life. This means that on Christmas Eve, after chasing the kids to bed, I am locked in the study with piles of presents, miles of wrapping paper, searching for the tape and scissors that have been lost in the bin with the self-adhesive bows and gift bags. I wrap, wrap, wrap, until my fingers bleed, all the while checking the clock hoping to finish in time for the previously mentioned fantasy. Eventually, I come staggering out of the study, with an aching back and knees (because I have of course wrapped all the presents on the floor). It is too late for fires, cocktails, and romance. It is all about checking to see if the kids are asleep and can the gifts get delivered and did we remember to put out the milk and cookies. (Just to be clear, he has always been elsewhere assembling the gifts that need to be ready Christmas morning. He doesn’t bail on me and leave me all alone. He is in his own Christmas Eve nightmare!) Christmas morning is still a great time!

My husband finally sat me down two days before Christmas last year and helped me get the gifts wrapped. We had the lovely Christmas Eve that I’ve always dreamed of. (We made a promise to each other two years ago that any gifts requiring assembly would have to wait until the kids were absolutely desperate!)

Last year, in a moment of zealousness, I purchased Christmas fabric so that over the course of the year I could sew Christmas bags that would be reusable. I still have the fabric. I love to sew, but when it comes to wrapping, I have a block/barrier/hurdle/thing, that I just cannot overcome. Truly, I have to say I just don’t see the point. I say we throw caution to the wind and hand someone a gift and leave the guessing out of it.

Why do we do this? I dreamt up stories… someone needed to discreetly gift a married lover with a bauble? Someone had a utilitarian offering and wanted to fancy it up? Someone loved a piece of fabric and wrapped up their favorite rock? Who knows? So, I went looking.

Here’s what I found out on www.mymerrychristmas.com.

The tradition of gift giving became associated with Christmas because of the offerings of the Three Wise Men, though early on the Church discouraged the practice of gift giving because of its pagan associations. But by the Middle Ages the tradition had become so popular that it became a mainstay of the holiday season.

Early on gifts were wrapped in simple tissue paper or more sturdy brown paper. In the nineteenth century, gifts were sometimes presented in decorated cornucopias or paper baskets. The technology did not exist to mass produce a decorated, foldable, paper until the 1890's, when developments in printing presses allowed colored ink to be printed fluidly on stiffer papers. A rotary system developed that allowed the printed paper to be rolled onto cardboard rolls or cut into smaller sheets. The printed gift wrap industry took off at the turn of the century. Hy-Sill Manufacturing Inc., founded by Eli Hyman and Morris Silverman, became the first American gift wrap company in 1903. Wrapping paper's biggest name, Hallmark, stumbled upon the gift wrap market by accident. In 1917, the Hall Brothers's typical offering of green, red, and white tissue paper had sold out in their Kansas City, Missouri store a few days before Christmas. The resourceful owner, Rollie Hall, had sheets of decorative envelope liners shipped over from a manufacturing plant. He placed these large patterned sheets on top of a showcase and sold them for 10 cents each. The decorative paper quickly sold out. The next year, the sheets sold for three for 25 cents, and again they quickly disappeared. The brothers began printing their own Christmas wrapping paper, and soon gift wrap sales rivaled their greeting card department.

Early gift wrappers had to be especially dexterous; scotch tape wasn't invented until 1930! And it wasn't until 1932 that the rolls of adhesive tape were sold in dispensers with cutter blades. Before then packages were tied up with string and sealing wax. In the 20's and 30's small sticky circles were sold in packets along with folded papers that allowed the wrapper to attach the paper. During this time also, small gift tags and a type of sticky decorative ribbon were developed, often included in packets of matching wrapping paper.

Over the years the look of wrapping paper changed as well. The first wrapping paper was decorated in the ornate style of the Victorian era, similar to the Christmas greeting cards that had become all the rage. Gilded flourishes of cherubs, birds, and flowers draped across sheets of popular wrapping papers. In the 30's and 40's, patterns became more stylized due to the popularity of Art Deco. Decorations moved away from nature to symbols we commonly associate with Christmas today. Popular patterns included ice skaters, snowflakes, Christmas trees, and candles. While the symbols remained the same, the artwork became more realistic again in the 50's and 60's. By the 70's and 80's, Madison Avenue had realized the potential of wrapping paper and hence, wrapping paper often had movie or TV show tie-ins, with designs incorporating popular movie or cartoon characters.

Gift wrap was saved from the rationing that many other products were subject to during World War II. The War Office believed that gift wrap and other Christmas traditions contributed to raising morale amongst citizens, and also believed that it encouraged people to send packages to soldiers far from home. Some gift wrap manufacturers turned to weapon and other wartime production, but the ones that remained making paper saw business boom. Sales actually increased by more than twenty percent during the war!

Innovations with gift wrap have continued. The 1980's introduced decorative plastic and paper gift bags, though these "new" bags weren't as new as some people thought. The Victorians had often given their gifts in decorated bags. The introduction of stick-on bows and cascade ribbons in the 80's and 90's further helped less than perfect gift wrappers. Nowadays one can wrap a gift without even using paper, by going on-line and sending an e-card wrapped in "virtual paper."

The two most interesting points that I learned were, there were envelope liners and that gift wrap wasn’t rationed during WWII. I have complete and utter respect for Eli, Morris and the Brothers Hall for their innovative spirit and desire to earn a few dollars. But, did they ever stop to think of the pressure they were putting on the rest of us?

I know many other countries have other traditions; some place gifts in shoes, some in pillow cases, or baskets. I like these ideas. The problem is, as adults we didn’t all get together and say, “This is what we are going to do!” Do gifts appear on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day? Do you give one gift from yourselves and rely upon Santa for the rest? Does Santa only bring one gift and rely upon you for the rest? Stockings… well, there is another subject. A little continuity might be a good idea. I say we get together, collaborate and come up with a list of suggestions for the next generation and make things a little more standard.

If you haven’t seen it, the epitome of gift wrapping ridiculousness can be seen in the movie, Love Actually. The store clerk places the gift in a box, inside a cellophane bag, adds potpourri, then places it inside a box, then places sprigs of holly, cinnamon sticks, and evergreen boughs inside, before sealing it all shut. All done with great flourish and enthusiasm on the clerks part (played by Rowan Atkins (Mr. Bean)) and painfully tolerated by the customer (Alan Rickman).

My husband’s mother is a creative genius when it comes to gift giving. She would switch it up. One year nothing was wrapped. The next year one person got a certain paper, the next year she wrapped presents without tags and then the opener had to guess whose present it was! I think this is fabulous, it would certainly keep people engaged and entertained. This I can appreciate and get involved in.

For those of you who love to wrap (and I know a few of you do), I commend you! Your gifts are festive and fun. I have reconstructed some of these boxes and use them as props under my tree at Christmas. Just after the kids got used to the idea that they were empty, we used them a few years ago to put presents in and the children were delighted. So, thank you.

So, will I have learned my lesson and get my wrapping done before Christmas Eve? I certainly hope so! I still haven’t looked to see if I have any paper. I am pleased to say that I am 90% done with gift shopping. I have ten days to finish shopping and get it all wrapped. My motivation is my beau! I do love snuggling up in front of a crackling fire with nothing but the sound of carols ringing throughout the house.

Thanks for reading and Happiest of Holidays!

My Girlfriend loves…

As the holidays were approaching my thoughts began to flip through memories. My parents did an exceptional job creating traditions and experiences that not only gave the five of us a great time, but also taught us the significance of the day. I think ultimately the most important piece that I took from their efforts was that we were a unit and that as long as we had each other, everything else was gravy.

As time passed and siblings married and had families of their own, traditions changed, as did the experience of the day. Being the youngest, and last to marry, what I really loved was watching the newest member of the family get deluged with love and attention; not to mention gifts, even if it wasn’t Christmas or their birthday. It was unbelievably wonderful for me when our children were born and became a part of the holiday frenzy.

Years ago, before they moved away to Moscow, Idaho, friends used to host an annual Christmas Party. Everyone showed up wearing their best, hors d’œuvres were served, people mingled, music played quietly in the background. Pretty upscale and controlled of us, considering most of us were in our twenties and quite a few of the attendees were what I would consider to be the ultimate Microsoft geeks.

My boyfriend and I fancied ourselves up and headed to the much looked forward to event. I offered to drive, so after I turned on the ignition music came screeching out of the radio at a fairly high volume. If I could type the look on his face I’d have bazillions of dollars. He first looked irritated (he hated loud noise), then he looked confused (he only listened to classic rock), and then he looked horrified (he had listened long enough to know it wasn’t classic rock or NPR).

We had lived together for six years at this point and in all that time I had carefully kept the secret that I loved country music. Too many people associate country music with “My Achey Breaky Heart.” (To this day I think all country music fans owe a debt of gratitude to Shania Twain. She made it cool to listen to.) So, I let out a deep breath and answered the question, “What was that?” bravely. I held my chin up, looked him square in the eye and said, “I Try To Think About Elvis, by Patty Loveless.” I put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway wishing the song had been Independence Day by Martina McBride.

I swear he walked around the party telling everyone we knew, “My girlfriend loves Country Music.” Having been outted, I proudly admitted to anyone who said, “Really?” with “Yes, I do.” To make a long story short we were more than halfway to the end of our relationship and that single confession convinced me that I would never deceive anyone ever again about my love of country. (I quit Trick or Treating so that I could go Square Dancing; while others got candy, I do-si-do’ed.)

Other than confessing my secret all night, I spent the better part of my time trying to convince my now husband that he really ought to give a mutual friend a chance. She clearly had a crush on him and was doing her best to catch his eye. MacGyver and I had been friends for several years at this point, and I fear I had too much influence. He did in fact date her for several months. Considering my own relationship was meeting its demise, I was a bit irritated with myself for having encouraged him.

Life has a way of turning out as it should; one year later my man MacGyver proposed and we announced our engagement at the same friends Christmas party. We now we go to parties together and he never asks me, “What was that?”

Leaping a little forward down the timeline, our daughter was in First Grade and I was patiently waiting with her for the door to her classroom to open early one Fall morning. Her lovely teacher greeted each child and after my pink and purple fluff ball said good morning, the teacher said to me, “Your pink and purple fluff ball told me yesterday that you celebrate Rosh Hashanah and I was wondering if you would like to come to class next week and explain the holiday and its traditions.” Stunned, I said, “Sure.”

I was stunned because we aren’t Jewish and I didn’t know anything about Rosh Hashanah, but I had my daughters back and decided to go with it until I could discover what had happened. I immediately called my husband and told him the story. After sharing confusion and laughter, I immediately set about researching Rosh Hashanah and found out “what to do.” I then called a Jewish friend to make sure I was on the right track.

At the end of the day, tucked snuggly in her bed, I asked my fluff ball why she told her teacher we celebrated Rosh Hashanah. It was all logical. The previous two summers the kids and I had attended a week long Jewish Summer School that my parents were involved in and our daughter had made the leap that we were Jewish. The next morning at drop off I confessed our lack of Jewishness to the teacher and told her the story. I offered to pull a Rosh Hashanah experience together, but suggested that someone who was actually Jewish might do a better job. The teacher quickly agreed. That Christmas and several following we celebrated Passover by lighting the menorah.

That very same year MacGyver and I woke up Christmas morning, not to the alarm clock or excited shrieks of our children, but due to sufficient sleep. We went out to the kitchen, made coffee, turned on the Christmas music and plugged in the lights. We stared at the tree and sipped coffee while quietly wondering when the children would wake up. Somewhere around 9:30 we heard the sounds of their stirring.

With giggles and feet pounding, the two made their way down the hallway and gasped at the sight of the spread under the tree. Christmas morning mayhem ensued followed by our family tradition of a massive breakfast. After all the excitement of presents and food we were scattered around the living room playing with toys and examining other items with more care when a little voice made a hesitant confession.

It turns out that our sneaky Kindergartner woke up during the night and convinced his older sister, with very little encouragement, that they should see if Santa had come. Once they saw the gifts it was more than they could resist, so they had apparently rooted under the tree and found their gifts, and proceeded to unwrap several just enough to see what they were receiving. The more dexterous of the two replaced the tape and their night time caper went off without a hitch… until the guilt set in.

Looking at me with enormous brown eyes, I could only do what any parent would do (I think). I chuckled. I could only imagine their excitement and sense of accomplishment and it was impossible to feel anything other than happy. To me it was the ultimate childhood caper. To the best of my knowledge they’ve never done it again… but I allow for stories to unfold in the future.

I began this blog just before Halloween and have mulled over why these three stories stand out in my mind. The invisible link is honesty. When I began writing the blog, the intent was to practice writing styles, to give myself short story writing prompts, to gain confidence in sharing my writing. While I still achieve all these goals, I also know that the stories are more personal and my feelings are much more involved. The other writer is me too, the person who pursues the history of mascara and hair plucking. However, life happens to us and we cannot shelve who we are and what we are feeling, and so other stories are written.

In an earlier blog I mentioned that I was taking this year to learn to live in the present and not be so busy. The results are that I am exploring all kinds of thoughts, feelings and experiences that have been on the back burner for a very long time. I think that in living life this way, one has to be more honest. There is nothing to hide behind. No looming PTA decisions, no major conflicts or crisis, no busy, busy, busy.

So, what have I learned? Well, I’m a bit bored! I feel a bit Eeyore’ish at times. I feel adrift when I think about the future. I’m definitely hermity. But, I also know that I laugh more, have a deeper understanding of my family and myself and am firming up the blurry edges of myself. I love living in the moment. I have to be honest and say that I haven’t perfected this and I tend to fritter time away. But, I will find balance, eventually.

Not long ago a friend told me about a yoga website. As I was contemplating taking up meditating, I read a blog that had to do with a method called “Catch and Release.” While I cannot say that I meditate, I have included this method into my life and I think it is powerful and useful. The idea is that thoughts and feelings forge their way to the front of our minds and want our attention. It can be at inopportune times, such as when we are trying to sleep, concentrate on our children, or have some one on one time with our significant other. So the concept is to acknowledge the thought and then let it go once you’ve scheduled a better time to think about it. You say to yourself, “Okay, I need to think about why this is bothering me, I have time tomorrow morning, so I’ll get to it then.” It takes practice to remember to think about it when you’ve scheduled time to do so, but it eventually works. I can think of no better time than the holidays to give this idea a try.

So, back to Country Music! I will share part of the lyrics to a song that has great meaning to me and makes me laugh and cry:

Mary Chapin Carpenter, The Bug:

Well it's a strange old game you learn it slow
One step forward and it's back you go
You're standing on the throttle
You're standing on the brake
In the groove 'til you make a mistake

Sometimes you're the windshield
Sometimes you're the bug
Sometimes it all comes together baby
Sometimes you're just a fool in love
Sometimes you're the Louisville Slugger
Sometimes you're the ball
Sometimes it all comes together
Sometimes you're gonna lose it all

You gotta know happy - you gotta know glad
Because you're gonna know lonely
And you're gonna know sad
When you're rippin' and you're ridin'
And you're coming on strong
You start slippin' and slidin'
And it all goes wrong because

Sometimes you're the windshield
Sometimes you're the bug
Sometimes it all comes together baby
Sometimes you're just a fool in love
Sometimes you're the Louisville Slugger
Sometimes you're the ball
Sometimes it all comes together
Sometimes you're gonna lose it all

One day you got the glory and then you got none
One day you're a diamond and then you're a stone
Everything can change in the blink of an eye
So let the good times roll before we say goodbye because

Sometimes you're the windshield
Sometimes you're the bug
Sometimes it all comes together baby
Sometimes you're just a fool in love
Sometimes you're the Louisville Slugger
Sometimes you're the ball
Sometimes it all comes together
Sometimes you're gonna lose it all

(For Linda, with much love.)

Paranormal is the new Normal

I have a million and one things that I want to write about and generally I take several runs at a topic before I figure out what it is that I really want to express. It is at this point I generally tear what I’ve written completely apart, delete quite a bit, and then hopefully, arrive at the heart of the matter. I began writing this particular blog two months ago and though it’s been rearranged, edited, slimmed down, beefed up, I still find myself wondering, “What am I trying to understand?”

A few days ago I stumbled upon a blog written by a former literary agent, who is now a children’s author. One of the blog entries is entitled Ten Commandments for a Happy Writer. (http://blog.nathanbransford.com/2009/03/ten-commandments-for-happy-writer.html) I’m fairly certain that these commandments apply to all people, regardless of your profession. In the first paragraph he states, “Writers aren't generally known as the happiest lot. As a recent Guardian survey of some top writers shows, even the best ones don't particularly enjoy it all that much. And in case you think this is a new development, an 1842 letter from Edgar Allen Poe to his publisher recently surfaced in which he was found apologizing for drinking so much and begging for money.” So much for the happiness quotient!

What I believe is that writers are inventors who quietly tinker in solitude. I think it is ironic that these inventors endeavor to create whole worlds filled with people, events and emotions that represent to many an escape from reality – so they can be quiet and solitary.

The first time I was utterly consumed by a book and had the happy circumstance of spending an entire day living in another time and place was when I was ten years old; the book was Little House on the Prairie. When I finished the book I remember wandering to the kitchen to find out what we were having for dinner. Some part of me wanted rabbit stew and hardtack by a fire. I’m sure by evenings end I was grateful for a bathroom and not some scrubby shrub off in the distance. I still remember the power of escape that the book provided and I couldn’t wait to get to the school library to check out the next book in the series. My passion for reading had been ignited.

A few years ago I was at the public library trolling the shelves for locations unknown and not finding anywhere to go. Deciding this was ridiculous I applied my strategy skills and now have a handy set of rules to follow: I check out at least one biography, one staff recommendation, one fiction, one non-fiction, and two artsy books. For the last two years I have added books by authors who I think might belong to the same genre as the one I am trying to get published, so I end up with an additional four or five book to read. At this point I would guesstimate that I read approximately four to five books per week (and skim two).

So, I feel completely free to blame some poor, innocent employee of the library system for my recent encounter with a Paranormal Romance Novel. As far as inventions go I haven’t found a need for werewolves, empaths, vampires, and shape shifters. I couldn’t care in the slightest how popular The Twilight Saga is/was! Before writing this blog I had no idea who wrote it, where it was filmed or that it was a saga. I thought it was one book.

At the behest of the employee I read about four pages of some horrific book about a woman who had a piece of dragon in her body, was consumed by a wild and lustful crush on some “thing” who was mostly dragon (it was conveniently tied to DNA and blood issues, he didn’t actually look like a dragon), but was the consort of some other “thing” that resembled the Devil. Now, one must commend an author who can give that much information in four pages, but none-the-less, I decided I couldn’t read the remaining 350’ish pages.

As I was ranting about the ridiculousness of the storyline to a friend she sadly shook her head and asked who the author was. When I told her the authors name she said, “She isn’t any good. You have to read…” Now I knew she was a huge paranormal romance fan and the person to go to for information, because as with all genres there are tried and true conventions and formulas successful authors use. Basic continuity rules must be observed. After getting the low with regards to all things paranormal my lovely friend gave me half a dozen novels to read, which I have now made my way through.

By no stretch of the imagination am I converted or an expert, but I feel like there are a few insights that I can share. My favorite generalization is this: once a paranormal critter finds its mate it cannot be unfaithful! It is repugnant. Fidelity is the result of sharing either blood, mating pheromones, or empathic abilities, or all of them, which forges a connection both so emotionally and physically binding that they are truly “one.” I have decided that the author who invented this paranormal truism was jilted at some point and is looking for their “happily ever after” fictionally.

My second favorite generalization is that these creatures are either immortal or cease to age at a normal rate. There are many smoking hot guys who are over 600 years old. (I truly burst out laughing when one hero explained his tan was the result of being turned into a vampire during the summer and so his tan was permanent.) When you combine the previous generalization with this one, well… you have invented the unbeatable combination; people who will always look their best, have super strength, unusually developed senses, and pheromones that will rage between them for forever!! These people won’t grow old and bored. These creatures know that once they have met their mate this is their eternity, so they are happy to wait around a few hundred years for the right person to come along. Who wouldn’t? Most of us would take a bite to the neck or become genetically altered by a scientist if we could be in our prime forever. I’m equally as certain that I will become more willing to be vampire fodder as I age. This getting old(er) business is for the birds. AND I’m still going with the idea that a jilted lover invented this concept as well. Because let’s face it, who wouldn’t want to see an old flame fifty years after splitting up and look like a twenty five year old?

From a Science Fiction perspective, my favorite book had to do with creatures that live in parallel universes and can travel to the past or future; returning to present time to bring technology with them or prevent some disaster. Somehow they are the guardians of humanity and live amongst us for generations. Other books deal with the retelling or foreshadowing of stories that can be quite interesting; a vampire might have lost his wife and children to the plague, his mistress and children to the crusades, another mistress or two to various wars. But voila! All is forgotten once he meets his true love. I’m telling you, their patience is enviable!

My favorite paranormal creatures so far are similar to those in X-Men movies. Some creature is the result of human DNA crossed with animal DNA and the result is that “it” has incredible sense of smell, sight, and/or hearing along with phenomenal strength and speed. These creatures are feral! There are all kinds of alpha dominance issues going on! I’m telling you, no mortal male can compete with these guys! So next time someone appears to be appreciating your perfume, take a deep long look in his eyes and see if they remind you of a lion or coyote!

As you can see, I have endeavored to make my way through all permutations of creatures, but have yet to find a normal human romancing a paranormal creature. I don’t think it can happen; there are too many differences of lifestyles; what to buy for dinner (bottled blood or steak), who sleeps where (coffin or bed), whose blood is this (a feeder or victim), do we plant a moonlight garden (we can both enjoy it for a few hours every night). In all honesty, if you’ve read a successful combo of this sort, let me know.

If at this point you are wondering how Paranormal Romance ties into the question I am asking myself, the answer is, I admire the forerunners of Science Fiction for taking us into worlds created purely from their imagination, borrowing only minutely from reality. I admire the inventors of genre standards. In every way that I can measure, these people are creative and financial geniuses. Last year over 1.3 billion dollars was spent on romance novels and a hefty chunk of this money was on paranormal romances. It has to be because these books are an interesting combination of action hero and titillating romance. If you are a fledgling author, I’d recommend going down this path. If you’re suddenly wondering whether I will or not, I have to be honest and say it’s tempting, but I think the bases are covered.

What spurred this sudden emergence I can only venture an educated guess. As farfetched as it may be, I think it has to do with the Harry Potter series. JK Rowling introduced children to supernatural creatures who are cuddly and kind as well as menacing and cruel. When we were kids supernatural creatures definitely lived in the realm of the terrifying (unless of course you were watching Scooby Doo.) I watched Vincent Price’s Wax Museum when I was in the sixth grade and all I can say is, “Egads!” I avoided all things spooky for years after that. Readers now fully accept and want to integrate science fiction themes with everyday events.

I believe that it is virtually impossible to measure the success of artistic pursuits. By the public – everyone knows the artists name and loves their work? By the artist – satisfaction in the completion of the piece or public acclaim and financial solvency? There are many authors that I’ve read, who have invented a formula that is incredibly successful and they have published many (predictable) books and there are authors who’ve written one brilliant book and they are considered to be successful.

My new friend, Nathan Bransford, writes for Commandment number three: Recognize the forces that are outside of your control. While it's tempting to think that it's all your fault if your book doesn't sell, or your agent's fault or the industry's fault or the fault of a public that just doesn't recognize your genius, a lot of times it's just luck not going your way. Chance is BIG in this business. Huge. Gambling has nothing on the incredibly delicate and complex calculus that results in a book taking off. Bow before the whims of fate, because chance is more powerful than you and your agent combined.

Author Ann Lamott poses the question in her book, Bird by Bird, “Do you want to write or be a published author?” People have kindly asked me whether I’ve made any progress in getting my book published. Alas, the answer is no. In all honesty I can say that I am thrilled to get responses to my submissions. The knowledge that someone in the field of publishing has taken a peek at my book makes the experience all the more real. At this point in my life, what I want is “real.” I want to take things from the “Wouldn’t-it-be-great-world” to the “I-gave-it-my-best-effort-world.”

Right now, I have great balance. To date I have had over a thousand visits to my blog from people in nine different countries. The feedback has been fabulous and I believe my tinkering has improved significantly. This feeds my confidence and helps me move forward with another submission.

So, finally, at the end of this blog, I know that the question I’ve been trying to explore for months is, have I the talent to invent interesting escapes? Can I create people and experiences that supplant living in the here and now and take readers to the end of a day, wondering whether to return to the real world or to stay adrift on a cloud of my imagination? I believe the answer is yes.

Thanks for reading!

Bonjour, Allo, Kalimera, Eh?

We’ve recently returned from a family vacation to Montreal, Quebec (Canada – that’s where the “Eh” part comes in). This past summer our children requested a trip to see their Grandmother and we were happy to oblige. It couldn’t have been more fabulous!

We landed in Montreal at 4:00 in the afternoon during a hellacious rainstorm. Normally I wouldn’t see rain as something to be grateful for, but to make a long story short, the weather was bad, traffic slow going, and the need for food was growing. When you combine this with the knowledge that it was dark and we were lost, the final result was Smoked Meat at Chenoy’s. MacGyver and I couldn’t wish for a better first meal in Montreal, but what made it spectacular was that our daughter ordered it as well and loved it. MacGyver Junior gave it a nibble and returned to his chicken assuring us that he’d try it again – sometime!

(For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of eating Smoked Meat, it is pastrami amped up a million times, served on really great rye bread, with just the tiniest amount of mustard. It is served with vinegary coleslaw and a peppery pickle. Reading the description might not lead you to ordering it, but trust me, given the opportunity, take it!)

Finally, three hours behind schedule, we arrived at MacGyver’s best friend’s house. Normand has been MacGyver’s partner in crime for thirty eight years. He had the key to the apartment we would be staying in for the first few days. We had told the kids to expect people to greet them by giving them a kiss on each cheek. It was incredibly sweet that Norm and Isabelle (his lovely partner) initiated them into this cultural experience. Again, somewhat dubious, little MacGyver accepted it, while our daughter giggled and participated with a little more gusto.

We haven’t been to Montreal with our children in six years and haven’t seen Norm’s children in nine. My tender hearted guy was moved to see the four kids together and took great delight at the immediate connection. They all went downstairs and watched Shrek in French for a few minutes. After a hasty conversation and the promises of a get together, with key and children in hand, we took off for places fondly known!

MacGyver grew up in the middle of Montreal in a house on a corner in a neighborhood that I have dreamed of living in since I was a little girl. We lived in Ahuntsic, his childhood neighborhood, briefly in 1998. Every day I took walks and marveled at the different architecture of the detached, semi-detached, apartment filled, shop ladened world. Most everything is built of brick or stone, many homes have stained glass windows, wrought iron railings and balconies; there are huge street trees and streets filled with playing children.

So, with the fortune of having the key to Andre’s apartment (Normand’s dad), we spent the first four days living in Ahuntsic and showing the kids what MacGyver’s normal day to day life as a child was like. We showed them the house he grew up in, the school two blocks away, the playground that gets turned into ice hockey rinks in the winter, subways, and parks. Many neighbors still live there and it was nice to know that familiar faces were all around us.

As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up moving every two years, so this constancy, this sense of home that Ahuntsic offers is like candy to me. There may be other neighborhoods with bigger houses or that are less urban, but in Ahuntsic MacGyver showed us where he played tennis every summer day, showed us where he spit on a street lamp one winter night and counted how long it would take to freeze solid (he of course did this over and over with Normand), where he raced his bicycle after his brothers, where he trained to run his first marathon. These aren’t just houses filled with transient people, these are homes filled with people who will raise their children and watch their grandchildren skate on ice rinks at the neighborhood park and remember when it was their children they watched.

The morning after we arrived in Montreal we took the children to see their Yaya (the Greek word for Grandmother) and one of MacGyver’s brothers and his family. It was my turn to watch my children grow up in front of their eyes, and experience my own disbelief when I got to hug and kiss our niece and nephew. I’ve known them since they were three and four and I just have to say, I was dazzled.

I hit the jackpot when I married MacGyver in many ways. One of the most important was in receiving a fabulous brother and sister in-law. They both make you laugh until you cry. They will both do anything they can to help you. My sister in law is Greek and is only happy when everyone is eating; my brother in law happily supports this endeavor. Tell me, what is better than sitting around a table loaded with incredible food while you laugh your head off with the people you love? Nothing! I’ve spent many nights of my life at their table talking, laughing, overeating, and wondering how in world we can be so comfortable with each other when the time between visits is far too long and life experiences are so different.

One night during this visit, our lovely niece and her lovely boyfriend spent a few hours playing with our kids and our special friend, Artemisia, in the living room while the rest of us chatted at the table, in the kitchen. From where I sat, I could see the whole group talking and laughing, getting along so well. Given that our niece is now a student at McGill University, I was deeply moved that she was interested in getting to know her young cousins and gave them her time. She may never know how deeply that night impacted our children; their laughter was filled with warmth and acceptance was tangible in the air. I can only think of the phrase, “the ties that bind us.”

Much of our family time was spent in one of three ways, eating, going on adventures, shopping. We got our kids to eat Shish Taouk (very garlicky Lebanese chicken), Souvlaki (very garlicky Greek chicken), and pretty much every doughnut Tim Horton’s makes. We saw Monet, Picasso, Cassatt, Seurat; we saw our daughter ride a unicycle across a wire suspended 15 feet above the floor at the Science Museum; we watched bugs crawl across our son at the Insectarium. The third best adventure for our kids was probably the dollar store! Tell a child everything costs a buck and everything becomes affordable. I think we spent $56.00 on the first trip; imagine all the “stuff” we brought back.

The best adventure was probably La Ronde; an amusement park that mostly features roller coasters. We spent that cold and sunny day with Normand and his son. There were bright blue skies and it was 41 degrees. We waited patiently for about 45 minutes to get on Goliath. For much of that time my husband’s back was to me while he chatted with Norm in French. While one could have complained at being ignored, the thought that went through my mind over and over was how lucky they were and did they know it? I know that they do! It was written all over their faces; they laugh so hard, they speak so intensely, they are so relaxed. There is an acceptance and understanding there that I long for.

A while later, finally sitting on Goliath between my daughter and Normand, the only thing I could do was laugh! I had willingly strapped myself (and my child) into a device that took me straight up so that all I could see was blue sky and then with clicking clacking in the background, we finally crept to the precipice and hurled our way straight down at an alarming rate which then lead us to twists, turns, loops, and a series of bumps that made you feel like a rock skipping on water. I heard Normand laughing the whole time. As a person who is generally earthbound, all I can say is, it was a beautiful ride.

A few short days later, we made our final visit to say good-bye to family. What was going to be an hour or two turned into four hours. We finally forced ourselves out the door and into the car. As always I found myself crying, but trying to do so quietly so that the kids wouldn’t be sad. As we pulled away from the curb we heard sniffing from the backseat of the car. Both children were crying. They didn’t want to go home, they wanted to stay. We had a long conversation about the word “bittersweet” and what it means to really love someone. Time and distance mean nothing to love.

As parents we learned what great travellers our children are. They embrace new opportunities, they like people, they are curious about the world they live in, and they love whole heartedly.

Mac and I are blessed, happy, and content. But we are also confused. Since 1999, when we moved from Montreal, we have talked about when we will move back to Montreal. We love the urban buzz and hustle; we love the food, the architecture, the opportunities; we love so many people. The fact that our children embraced all that Montreal offers is a great delight to us. We are torn.

We are torn because our life, here, is so rich. We have all that we want and need and then some. We have quiet, we have a home, we have opportunities, and we love so many people. The day after we got home I was cleaning up the front yard when a friend drove past, rolled down her window and yelled, “Welcome Home. We missed you.” What a great feeling to have so many friendly familiar faces all around us.

The ties that bind us and time and distance mean nothing to love. These two phrases I roll around in my heart and mind. Whether here or there we are thankful, you mean the world to us.

Merci beaucoup for reading!

The loveliest Rumble

One of my fondest hopes is that every girl has a Granddad like mine. While he was alive he lived in England, so my opportunity to see him was very limited. But when I was able to spend time with him, I felt like he and I grabbed as much from those days as possible, they were very, very special.

At one point, I think I was two or three, my family moved from Germany to England. My father finished his tour of duty in the army and went from being a soldier to being a Milkman (many hilarious stories here). We lived there for just a few years, but because the economy was doing poorly my parents made the tough decision for my father to re-enlist. We were sent back to Germany. My Granddad came to visit once and we returned to England for a wedding, not long before our family was moved to the U.S. in 1972.

I remember on holidays and birthdays my mother would have us write letters and draw pictures for him (my Nana died in 1968, while we lived in England). At that time phone calls were extraordinarily expensive, so when the chance came, phone calls were quick, usually with the five kids shouting “we love you” in the background. Though the memory of those calls are vague, I have a memory of a happy rumbling voice chuckling at some random thought I had chosen to share, and the assurance that he loved me too.

In 1985 my brother, the one who teased me about reading romance novels, decided to go to England to visit our relatives. I jumped on board and went with him. Thirteen years had passed since we had come face to face with most of our relatives in England. My aunt and uncle met my brother and me off the train and whisked us to a great-aunt and uncle’s house. The house was full of all sorts of relatives, but my Granddad was absent. Someone told us we were going to see him the next day. Who told us I do not know because between the sleep deprivation, the inability to understand much of what was being said, and hunger, my brother and I dissolved into laughter at regular intervals. I just remember feeling as if we were parrots, because we kept repeating the same word over and over, “Pardon?”

Finally we were allowed to get some sleep. I was to stay with my Great Aunt Beryl and Uncle Len while my brother went off to stay with our Uncle John and Auntie Barbara. In my sleepy stupor I had no idea whether we were in a city or farming community, what my room looked like, or where the “loo” was. My disorientation was complete. At some point in the morning I woke to the sound of birds I’d never heard and my only thought was, “Are we on a farm?” before drifting back to sleep.

How much longer I slept, I cannot remember. I only know that I woke to the sound of excited chatting. I leapt out of bed, found the “loo” and then went to the bathroom to complete an abbreviated version of my morning ablutions.

Following the voices to the lounge I heard my Great Aunt Beryl say, “I told you I’d call when she woke up.” To this day it brings tears to my eyes when I remember hearing that happy rumbling voice say impatiently to her, “I thought she’d be up by now.” (Now that I think of it, there was a bit of a Wallace and Gromit cadence to his speech.) This was followed by what would become a familiar sound, the sound of his tongue popping against his teeth.

I have to admit I was very nervous about seeing him. So, I pushed open the lounge door with my heart beating really fast and feeling sweaty. My Granddad spun around to look at me. He just stared at me, so I dashed a look at my aunt, who had an enormous smile on her face as she watched her brother’s face… watched as I went from being a seven year old to twenty. When I looked back at him I could see the confusion on his face, but it was quickly replaced by a huge smile as somehow the features he remembered grew from a child to an adult.

As he gave me a very tight hug, he said something, and I said, “Pardon?”

It turns out it wasn’t the accent that was the problem but the tears that were in his eyes and the choke in his throat that were causing the confusion. To give us a moment alone my aunt did what all British people do in times of emotional upheaval, she went and made tea.

My Granddad and I very quickly covered the basics; health, the flight over, the train ride, the car ride, how my parents were, how my siblings were, and when should we go see my brother. Then there was a bit of silence. We didn’t know each other, and we were both trying to figure out how to move forward. I am here to tell you that drinking tea does solve a lot of problems. In this case it gave us something to do.

I quickly gave my brother a call and told him we’d be down soon. Not twenty minutes later, my Grandfather repeated the experience by having his grandson grow from an eight year old to twenty one right before his eyes.

Honestly I cannot remember what we did for the rest of that visit; I just remember that we made plans for the next day to go to Fritton Lake (http://www.norfolktouristattractions.co.uk/attractions/31.htm). We were happy to go, having no idea of what there was to do at Fritton Lake. It turns out to be a great place where you can row boats, play golf, hike, play on the playground, ride ponies… I will risk embarrassing my brother by sharing that the singular most laugh-out-loud-until-you-have-to-pee-but-you’re-too-busy-crying moments of my life was watching my 21 year old brother ride a pony. His feet were literally less than a foot off the ground. I have a picture to prove it and will never give it up!

I think it was seeing this that helped my Grandfather realize that we were adults and not children. It must have been a bittersweet moment.

I have the fortune to say that all my male relatives fought and returned from the battle of WWII. As a result of having several ships shot out from underneath him, my grandfather was deaf. So, at first our relationship was the result of what we could learn about each other while shouting and misunderstanding each other’s accents (at times).

Upon reflection I think that something very beautiful came from those obstacles. Did my Granddad know my deepest hopes and fears? No. Did my Granddad know of my triumphs and struggles? No. Nor did I really know much about his strengths and weaknesses, achievements or regrets. But somewhere along the way we learned to be comfortable with each other; we also learned to have a relationship that included a great deal of quiet time; thus we had quite a bit of time to observe each other.

There were many sunny afternoons spent digging in the soil in his backyard; picking peas and beans, tying up gladiolas, drinking beer he had brewed in his garage. There were cool evenings spent sitting in his lounge in front of the fire reading books he’d picked out for me at the library (he picked out mystery novels, his wife picked out romances) while sipping tea and munching on the stockpile of treats he would buy, knowing we didn’t have the same things at home.

We shared a lot of giggles over my dubious glances at the particulates floating in my beer, his stealing the much hated brussel sprouts off my dinner plate or hikes we would take across graveyards; the latter a result of my odd obsession with finding the oldest grave stone. We spent hours sitting then walking then sitting and walking some more, slowly making our way down the beach, poking at rocks and shells. On those days he would take me out for ice cream at a place called ‘Celie’s.’ (My family nickname.)

We shared many tender moments. One of my fondest recollections is of him holding my hand to make sure I crossed the road safely. I was twenty five, he was using a cane, and we were on our way out of the pub. But he was making sure I was safe.

Perhaps the most emotional conversation I’ve ever had was the last afternoon I saw him, in the summer of 1990. In the four trips I took to England between 1985 to 1990 we never talked of death. But that last afternoon he talked to me about life for him and my uncle after my Nana died; we talked about where he was to be buried; we talked about how much he had wished my family had never left England but that he could see it had been for the best. He had worried many years about my mother “with all those children.” It was a terribly serious conversation, but I listened as calmly as I could because it was clear he needed me to understand these parts of him.

In October of 1991 my Granddad died in his sleep. It took me quite some time to absorb it since we lived thousands of miles apart and there was quite a bit of time between visits. It wasn’t until I went to England in 1995 and my uncle took me past my Granddads home that I realized he didn’t live there anymore. It took me that long to find comfort in the knowledge that he’d died in his sleep, at home. We then went to the cemetery to visit the graves of my relatives. After a little sprucing up of all the headstones, my uncle showed me something truly beautiful. In my grandparent’s headstones is a place for vases of flowers. When you pull the vase out, there are pink stones naturally heart shaped that my sister had sent to be placed there. They quietly and lovingly rest on the earth close to them.

Lately there seems to be much need to figure out the timeline of life and the purpose behind those issues which we flesh and blood beings must accept. Rattling around in my head, in those quiet moments, I keep returning to the purpose of quiet; the opportunity to reflect, to absorb, to appreciate, to simply hear and experience the qualities of being alive. I love that I have so many more moments where I exist in the present.

When I think of my Granddad I believe that the biggest gift I received from this relationship was much can be learned from observing, that there is more truth to be found in observations and actions than in the words. When he died I knew that we would never be separated by the barrier of hearing loss or distance. All the things we never knew about each other were discovered, because I believe that he is with me always. It is an issue of the heart. I held him dearly to me in life and I hold him as tightly today.

For me there is not greater feeling of peace than when I am with those I love and I am digging in the soil or walking on the beach. Amdist the fundamental elements of life that will continue to be here for longer than I can imagine. This is where I go to meditate.

Thanks for reading!!

Outside Myself

My brother will laugh when he learns that I’ve been trying to write a blog about Romance Novels. He’ll laugh because for years he has accused me of reading them and I have staunchly and passionately denied that I did. He of course based his accusation upon the number of Harlequin Romances I had stashed around my room when I was in my teens. That tiny irrefutable fact was not enough to make me pony up and give an inch.

My denial was partly based upon being embarrassed at being caught at such a schmaltzy thing; he also delighted in bringing it up in front of absolutely anyone who was around; friends, family, boyfriends, boyfriend's parents, strangers – it didn’t matter. My denial was also based upon the fact that I wanted to be an intellectual, and be above “that kind of thing.” There are a million reasons behind that, and we’ll leave it to your psychological examinations to figure out the reasons why.

Here’s the big revelation… I still do! As a member of Romance Writers of America, I recently learned through the Romance Writers Report that over a billion dollars was spent last year by romance readers. Fortunately not a single dollar of that came from me (at least not directly), as I use the public library for most of my reading material. My intellectual side would now like me to assure you that I have read many other types of books as well! (Examine that at your leisure as well.)

I have been pondering my need to write a blog about Romance Novels and what I really want to communicate – either about the world at large or about myself. It comes down to this… passion! Like many women I know, we are at the place in our lives where our children need us less and we are looking at the skills we have, what we can bring to the working world, what will fulfill us. What is our next chapter? What is our passion?

If you’ve read my first blog, you know that I spent quite a bit of time at the University of Washington. Twelve years on and off; mostly on. I originally started out in Journalism, but quickly found geology, which then quickly shifted to sociology. I think my true interest in sociology turned out to be that my instructor looked and moved a whole lot like Yoda and I found her fascinating to watch. I pondered this while I sat through a history class and decided I wanted to study psychology.

However, the universe had different plans for me, and I learned that I could get college paid for by the Navy Shipyard in Bremerton if I studied math and engineering. So, I let this direct me. It didn’t hurt my feelings any that I was one of three women, the only single one, among around three hundred men who worked in my division (I worked in the Nuclear Engineering Division while I went to school). It was a very good time for my self-esteem. I cannot remember if I cut back on the romance novels at this time…

Moving forward a few years, I then went to work at a little known company called Microsoft. I lasted just a few years, and the misfit between me and my position was such that I just wanted out. For me it was a passionless experience. I didn’t even stop to wonder if there was a different position to be found. I watched the landscapers dig in the soil, and thought, “That I can do!”

Oddly, my next step was to study Interior Design at the local community college. I think those years of reading romance novels were starting to pay off at this point. I could see spaces and places in my imagination and it was up to me to get them from my head to the paper. In my imagination, not only was I helping to create aesthetically pleasing spaces, I was creating nurturing environments.

It was during these studies that I found a life-long passion which is art. I had a great art history teacher who had been a comedian earlier in life and she made studying art fun. She had HUGE passion for what she was doing and it showed with every slide that flickered on the wall in front of us. She’d get up on a desk and strike a pose and call out, “What culture is this?” (Most cultures have specific poses that represent the hierarchy of their society.) I took every class she taught, and still I wanted more. I began to wonder if I wanted to be an historian, archeologist, artist, or curator. I kind of liked the idea of being the female version of Indiana Jones.

The next logical step was to return to college and take more classes. Wasn’t it?

So, after researching various fields of study, in the Spring of 1990 I returned to the UW and began the battle for a position in the College of Architecture and Urban Planning. It was a grueling class, taken by hundreds of students, and only a few would be chosen. I was pretty clueless as to what I had signed up for. It was five days a week, four hours a day, taught by six professors, all of whom gave us daily work to do. Remember we were all juggling other classes as well! The most incredible thing happened though! My passion, my purpose for being, my joie de vivre was found. By June of that year every part of my brain hurt, I was exhausted and living on pins and needles waiting to find out who was selected, but I was thoroughly happy.

The story had a happy ending and I ended up with one of the coveted positions. The second battle was then waged; a position into the College of Landscape Architecture. I had found out about Landscape Architecture during that grueling spring, and I knew it was where I belonged. Yet another couple hundred students were vying for sixty positions. It took two attempts to gain admission, but I did. The first time I was passed over, I was heartbroken and bewildered. Many friends were already in the program and they were supportive over the next year and pushed me to try again. When I gained admission I was euphoric.

If you haven’t been inside a design studio, imagine a huge room filled with beaten up wood drafting tables jammed up against each other, an aisle for walking, and more drafting tables. Along one long wall are windows to the world beyond, to the “Ave”, to the College Inn, to the sandwich shop run by a really good looking Italian guy, who knows he’s good looking. Opposite are more glass windows overlooking the interior grey concrete courtyard which is filled with mismatched tables and chairs, a coffee shop, students, and all manner of models and drawings on display. On either end of the room are the functional spaces, the bulletin boards, refrigerators, microwaves, and mountains of unclaimed projects.

I sat in my first design studio, excited to have my very own work station loaded up with drawing tools, fancy markers, lettering guides and any other piece of equipment I might possibly need to be successful. I sat and listened to a guest lecturer discuss our first project. The key point of the discussion was that as designers we needed to learn what our process was. The second, and more terrifying point to ponder was, what skills did we have that would lead us to become talented designers. Most of us were floored by these provocative questions, a few were cocky enough to think they knew; by the end of the program, we’d all have many opportunities to passionately, logically, artfully, technically, and creatively evolve our own answers to those questions.

I figured out my process. It requires a window, a cup of coffee and a molasses cookie, and the opportunity to think. To this day, when I have big issues to solve, I return to this process, and it never fails me. The cookie may vary, but nothing else. I stare out the window, sip my coffee, eat my cookie, and think about "what should be."

Passion. Along with Landscape Architecture and art, I have found many other passions along the way; my husband, my children, friendships, and my home. However, this year I have stepped back from many years of being freakishly busy to learn what it means to be quiet, to be still, to hear the thoughts in my head, to see if they lead me to the next chapter. I want to find a place filled with the same passion that kept me enthralled for hours upon years. That which satisfies me; not me the wife and mom, the me that lives all by myself inside my head.

I think many of those I know who are in this same process feel guilty. It is as if we are saying that the life we have right now is not enough. Though intellectually I have always known, I have only recently begun to feel, that it is healthy to want to satisfy myself. We encourage others to try new things, in fact we throw our kids in the deep end and hope they can swim (or kick the soccer ball, or read a book, or be a good friend).

So I say, feel passion, not guilt.

When I say, “Thanks for reading” I truly mean it. Because your reading is helping me to find my passion

Thanks for reading.

I have been asked by a few what was the last romance novel I read. It is When Strange Gods Call, by Pam Chun. A story that includes love, art, history, and folk tales. What could be better?

One review, "One is deluged with the fragrance of Hawaiian flowers and the tantalizing smells from the luau in this riveting love story, a timeless classic of opposing families, between East and West." Teresa Tse Bartholomew, International author and curator of Himalayan Art and Chinese Decorative Arts, Asian Art Museum of San Francisco.