Awakening

Anyone who reads here much knows that I've been lonely lately. Might sound strange after being divorced for nearly 16 years, but I've begun to notice—and not in a good way—that I live alone. Of course, I've actually only lived alone since Katie went off to college, but that's been nearly four years now. And although he never lived here, I was dating Pink Boots Guy some of that time.

Whatever. I want to be in love and want to share my life with a man who loves me.

Enter Pink Boots Guy, who's been emailing again lately, carefully leaving a trail that would lead me back to him if I picked up even the first crumb. Even one.

I do not pick up that crumb. It's not a road I want to go down.

My mom loves Pink Boots Guy and can't understand why I won't cooperate. I explain over and over, but it's not what she wants to hear, so she doesn't. Yesterday, she found out about the recent flurry of email and nearly begged me to pick up the damn crumb. I explained—for the thousandth time—why I won't do that, and—for the thousandth time—she told me I'm wrong. "I don't want you to be alone," she said.

It's what she always says. And yeah, I'm not too crazy about that part, either. As always when this comes up, I reflect on my reasons and wonder deeply whether they're realistic or neurotic. As always, I realize they're both. As always, I fret. My folks think I should be with him. My sister and brother-in-law think I should be with him. Why don't I?

Last night, I picked up The Book of Awakening by Mark Nepo. You know the day's lesson was exactly what I needed to hear, don't you?

"...there are many feelings peculiar to human beings that prevent us from shedding what has ceased to work, including fear, pride, nostalgia, a comfort in the familiar, a want to please those we love. Often we give up our right to renewal to accommodate the anxiety of those around us."

Got it. I can't go back to a relationship that made me feel like I was suffocating just to make my mom feel better. Glad that's settled.

For now.

Lessons from Strangers

Over the past few days, I've been feeling ignored and overlooked by my family. Unappreciated at the best...slightly abused at the worst.

Right now I'm at a coffee shop trying to work, but the conversation at the next table is all too familiar. A middle aged man and woman are discussing in minute detail all the gifts and time and love being given to one of the woman's siblings while she, who has "truly earned" those things through her devotion, is overlooked by her parents. Check that. Not overlooked. Instead, counted upon for extra effort when it comes time to help others and then not rewarded. She actually got out a calculator to compute the dollar value of the time her mother devoted to making bedding for the nursery of the child (or maybe it's a grandchild) her sister is expecting.

Not a pretty picture.

Not hers, of course--my own. This stranger is reflecting to me the ugliness of my own attitude. Mind you, I don't get out calculators or say such things aloud. Not often, anyway and never in public. Instead, it's the constant sound track inside my head. Why don't they.... Why do they.... Why....

In the midst of this great adventure I'm on, I'm not truly appreciating and enjoying the ride. Any time I'm not working, I'm stewing in my own juices, feeling bad about other people's actions and choices. In this stranger's complaints, I hear the acid eating away at my own soul.

Time to get over my bad self, to let go of expectations of others and live happily with what is.

But first, I need to go get a gallon of milk and take it to my folks. The weather's too bad for them to be on the roads.

Drum Roll, Please

Finally!!!! I can tell you more about the-project-for-which-I-have-such-hope.

I'm working with a production company to develop an unscripted series for television (read: reality tv). The production company has done a lot of tv work, but the show most people would recognize is Bizarre Foods on the Travel Channel.

We're now working on a pitch to take to the networks, and you guys can help. I need to find interesting families where several generations live in one house, anywhere in the country. The bigger and more colorful, the better. Diversity is good. Strong personalities are good. Challenging living situations are good.

Here's what I'm posting on Craig's List:

Multi-generational Families for TV Show

We are developing an unscripted tv show and need families where several generations live in one house, anywhere in the U.S.

If you have a big, colorful family—grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, siblings, kids and pets coming out your ears—write and tell us why you should be featured on the show. 


Please feel free to post, forward, or copy this anywhere you think might help. Interested people can respond to: onerooftv@gmail.com.

And...guys? Thanks for all your encouragement and support. We've got a long way to go before this is a reality (!), but the long way I've traveled to get here would have been a much, much tougher road without you.

The Wait Is Over

The waiting ended. Not with a bang but a whimper, really.

The Man emailed yesterday. They want to take a slightly different tact, but they want to move forward.

I should be jubilant.

I'm not.

I am grateful for the opportunity. I am excited about trying something new. I am anxious to get started on whatever comes next.

Mostly, I am tired. I've got to meet a lot of other deadlines before even starting this next phase. Time to suck it up and put my fingers on the keys. If you haven't heard from me in a week, send food and water. Maybe a margarita.

The Eyes of the Beholder

This weekend, I met one of the former husbands of a much-married friend. The stories of this marriage and its demise have intrigued me throughout our friendship, and I've always wished I could be a mouse in a corner somewhere to see him. Friday night, I was.

Whoa!

The idea that this gorgeous, talented, wise woman ever pined over that man is beyond ridiculous. Beyond. RIDICULOUS. Granted, she says he hasn't aged well, but....

After we were safely away from the crowd, I said to my friend: "You cried over losing him? That man cheated on you? He should have been on his knees to Jesus every night, giving thanks you let him touch your panties in a drawer!

"Oh, Jerri," she sighed. "I quit wearing panties a long time ago."

See what I mean? On his knees to Jesus.

Baby Steps

Baby steps always sound like such a good idea. Crescent Dragonwagon talks about "radical incrementalism," which also sounds terrific. And it is, when the motion is forward. The thing is, sometimes the motion is going the wrong way but you don't notice it, one tiny step at a time.

My internet's been hinky for the last several months. Many months, come to think of it. It runs slowly all the time and flakes out entirely from time to time. I reset the modem, reset the router, reboot the computer, wait it out. I've called Comcast customer service several times and gotten nowhere, so I learned to live with it.

Until Thursday. That's when it died and wouldn't come back no matter what I did. I had to pay Sprint 49 cents a minute to call Canada for interviews instead of 1.5 cents a minute to Skype. That motivated me big time. Two 30-mile trips to the Apple store later, I was sure the problem was in the cable modem. More Comcast customer service BS and then a service person arrived this morning to rescue me.

Turned out my modem finally hit EOL (end of life), which precipitated the total demise. But the age-old hinkiness was from a messed-up wiring configuration from when the lines were installed almost four years ago.

One tiny step at a time, the service slipped from semi-reasonable to unworkable and I went along for the ride. This isn't the only time I've done that, but it's sure got me thinking. Only a baby step, but....

Wait. That's how I got in this mess in the first place. Hmmmm.

Love Is Where You Find It

After a long, frustrating day yesterday, I stopped at a local restaurant to treat myself to dinner out. Not surprisingly, I was seated in the bar at a high top. No telling whether hostesses think I'll be more comfortable sitting there alone or whether they don't want to waste a big table or booth on one person, but it happens a lot. I never mind, and last night it turned out to be a blessing.

At the high top next to me, closer to the kitchen, sat a silver-haired man with a salt-and-pepper gray haired woman. They had three trays of appetizers on their table, but neither of them ever took a bite. Instead, a series of servers stopped by the table, helped themselves to the food and chatted with the couple. They discussed one young woman's upcoming hair appointment and whether she should cut off her beyond-waist-length ponytail. They commiserated with one young man about his car problems. Another young man stopped to ask what they thought of the new girl he's dating.

Tattooed and pierced, cheerleader-types, and faux-hawked young toughs paraded by, pausing as long as they could without ignoring their customers. A cook came from the kitchen to lounge and chat. A young man came by in street clothes before his shift started. The older gentleman leaped to his feet, held out one hand to shake and grasped the young man's shoulders with the other. The young man returned the embrace with enthusiasm.

Finally, I asked my server about the couple. "Oh, they're just the nicest people in the world," she said. Turns out this couple has been coming to the same restaurant every Sunday and every Thursday night as long as this young woman has worked there--four years. She doesn't know when it started. Every employee in the place loves them. These grandparent-ish folks make toys for the staff's children at Christmas, know details of their lives and provide counsel when needed.

Apparently, these folks don't have kids of their own, so they found some young people to love at a neighborhood restaurant. It's as good a place as any, I guess.

Blessings, Natasha

Natasha Richardson's death feels personal somehow. I do not know her, of course. I don't even know anyone who knows her. But she came into my home roughly 10 million times via The Parent Trap, one of Katie's all time favorite movies. We saw it at the theater and then over and over on cable. Katie can't pass it on the cable guide. For her, it's like a bell for Pavlov's dogs: she sees the words and clicks.

Natasha's death also reminds me how incredibly blessed I am. When I was her age--45--I hit my head with such force it could easily have killed me. On a beautiful spring afternoon, I was rushing to mow the lawn even though the grass was too wet. On a hill, my feet flew from beneath me and life dropped into slo-mo.

The lawn mower flew up and away from me, the blades whirling as it fell within 6 inches of my legs. I fell flat and the back of my head hit the ground with stunning force. A split second after that blow, my brain sloshed forward and hit the front of my skull so hard I saw cartoon stars.

I had no idea our brains could move within our skulls like that. Even today, almost 10 years later, I remember the eerie, fuzzy, recognition that such a thing really should not happen.

My whole body shut down for what felt like ages but could have been seconds or hours for all I know. When I finally gathered enough strength, I crawled around the house to a point where my neighbor angel could hear me yelling through her sewing room windows. She came down, helped me into my house and kept an eye on me. By morning, I was fine.

Natasha hit her head and died. There is no explanation for her fate. Or mine.

Blessings to the family and friends of Natasha Richardson. Go with God, my dear.

ZZZZZzzzzzzzz

Monday night's middle-of-the-night hours felt like bonus time, so rather than work on paying jobs, I put the time to use on an adjunct to the-project-for-which-I-STILL-have-such-hope. When daylight broke, I sent off a bright and breezy note to The Man, asking whether he'd like to see the new material.

Now, considering that I haven't heard a single word from The Man for more than two weeks and that it's been five weeks since we last met, I felt pretty brave. Also, pretty vulnerable.

When a response arrived from him an hour later, I couldn't open the message for several minutes. Instead, I stared at his name in my inbox and tried to gather mental strength to accept bad news.

The news was not bad. It was not good, either. In fact, it wasn't even news, just more of the "I'm very busy but I like this and want to work on it as soon as I can." Trying to be realistic and objective, I'm actually happy with that response. It would be easy to tell me to go away, that he isn't interested or can't take time to deal with this. A few keystrokes and I'm out of his hair forever. Instead, he keeps the door open and I keep knocking and flying paper airplanes in over the transom from time to time.

Made it through the day just fine yesterday, but about 6:30pm, I felt my brain shut down. My eyes were open and I was functioning, but I could literally feel my brain powering down non-essential activity to conserve energy. It was weird: I didn't feel sleepy at all, just like everything dropped into slow-mo. We were gathering at Mom and Dad's for corned beef and cabbage when it happened, and my sister told me my eye lids suddenly fell half way. Hard as I tried, I couldn't get them fully open.

The human body is an ongoing miracle, and I've got to be kinder to mine. Gonna need plenty of energy when The Man finally says Yes.

Sleepless in Independence

I didn't sleep last night.

Not 'I didn't sleep well.' I did not freaking close my eyes all night long.

First, I hit a groove with a writing project about 11:30 and worked on that til 1:30am. Then, when I tried to go to bed, my brain would not turn off. It bubbled like a putrid a stew of fear and worry and fretting. By 2:30, I gave up and went back to work. Before I knew it, it was 5:00 am and too late to try to sleep--a new day is upon me.

Saturday night I dreamed I'd borrowed a UPS truck and hit a car with it. I drove off without reporting the accident or calling for help. For hours on Sunday morning, I couldn't shake a strange sense of unease and serious disappointment with myself.

On the way home from my brother's house Sunday night, I brushed my hair off my neck and felt one of those damn whiskers I write too much about. Feeling around, it seemed to me I had practically a full beard. Seriously, I grabbed a sandwich from a drive-through on the way home because I didn't want to go in anywhere with all that hair on my face.

Monday morning I brought out my strongest glasses, my five times magnifying mirror, and my super-duper tweezers. Couldn't find a thing in the bathroom mirror. Brought my gear out to the sunroom windows and found two barely-there dark hairs. Two!

Perhaps...just maybe...I could be over-reacting to things a bit.

Maybe some sleep would help.

La la la de de da

As I think of this, I hear Billy Joel singing quietly...

It's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes.

For the last few months, Dad has been trying to get Mom to go to church.

That might not sound radical, but it is. Long before "spiritual but not religious" made its way onto match.com profiles, Mom and Dad lived a deep but quiet faith without Sunday morning services or Wednesday night prayer meetings. They've always been suspicious of people who declare themselves to be Christians but behave in very un Christ-like ways.

And now, Dad wants to go to church. Mom gave in last Sunday and they went together to the church that sponsors the program where we cook for the homeless. The people there welcomed them warmly, and Mom and Dad were both glad to have gone. This morning, Dad was feeling well enough to drive a load of blankets from the church to the shelter.

I asked Mom why she thought Dad wants to go to church now, after all these years.

"He thinks he's going to die," she said.

"Well, yes. But what does going to church have to do with that?" I asked.

"He doesn't want to be buried...."

"No, Mom. That's not it. He's doesn't care where he's buried, and he's at peace with God. Dad doesn't want to go for himself. He wants you to have a community after he's gone. He's making friends to carry on for him, to take care of you when he can't."

(pause)

"Oh...oh.... He is, isn't he?"

Yes, he is.

It's sad and it's sweet, and incredibly complete, the love this man has for his wife. How many of us can say the same?

Goose Wars

Honk! Honk! Honk! Squeeeeeeeee. Crack!

Ahhhh. The sounds of spring here on the pond.

Spring is getting ready to sprung, and geese are looking for places to nest. My neighbors are determined it won't be in OUR back yard. Once again, their campaign includes flares and gunshots at dawn and intense lights in the night. My poor little doggie is a nervous wreck. If she hears a goose honk, she runs for the closet. She knows what's going to happen next.

When I moved here, we had 6 or 8 semi-permanent geese, one resident pin duck, a heron, and a muskrat to entertain us. A neighbor shot the muskrat under cover of darkness and the crazy campaign has driven off the heron and the pin duck. A few Canada geese are stubborn enough to keep trying to land, but that's a tough gig here on the pond.

Not long ago, a neighbor sent around a warning to every house: don't feed or encourage those dangerous wild animals. Now, I ask you--why buy a house on a pond if you don't want to be exposed to "wild animals"?

Strikes me that humans are the wildest animals of all. We create situations bound to distress us and then fight against the things we perceive as problems or threats.

If you don't like geese, don't buy a house on a pond surrounded by cornfields--whatever the geese or the cornfields may be in your life.

Fear Factor

We're having one hell of a spring storm this morning: thunder, lightning, pouring rain--even a little hail now and then. My little dog Cassie is huddled in bed beside me, panting and shaking. Her heart is beating like a munchkin's jackhammer breaking up the Yellow Brick Road after Dorothy returned to Kansas.

For humans, the chances of being struck by lightning are 1 in 280,000, according to the National Lightning Safety Institute (who knew?). For dogs, I'm guessing it's even less. And yet, she's miserable every time a storm blows up, which happens approximately every day and a half from March to October here in the mid-est of the MidWest.

How much of my own fear is just as pointless? Again, this is just a guess, but I'm thinking nearly all of it.

It's a good thing if fear keeps you out from under trees during a storm. Sure: Put down the aluminum bat. Set the golf umbrellas aside. Refuse to carry metal extension ladders upright across open spaces. But after you've covered common sense, there is exactly squat you can do. If a lightning bolt has your name on it, you're going to sizzle. Fretting just prolongs the pain.

I've been fretting a lot lately, but I'm going to try to stop. Check that. I'm going to stop. (Can you hear Yoda saying "Do or do not. There is no try." right now, or is it just me?)

The world is in a hell of a storm right now. We'd all be smart to put down any big metal objects we're carrying but after that, we might as well go out and dance in the rain. We may get fried, but it's better to go out having fun than huddled under a musty old towel in the back corner of a messy walk-in closet with a frightened little doggie who doesn't know better.

Time Passes By

Can we talk about how fast time passes?

Big Saturday night here. I'm sorting a box of filing I set aside for "later." In December 2006. "Later" took more than two years, but I remember putting the box aside as though it were last week. Last month, tops.

The tv is keeping me company as I sort. The movie "Click" is on, and get this—Henry Winkler is playing the grandfather. Fonzie is a grandpa! Last year (or something like that), Henry was the epitome of teenage cool. Now he's a gray-haired grandpa doing lame magic tricks for a pretend grandson.

Jeezus Squeeze Us. Fonzie as a grandpa.

Mom and Dad invited me to go out to dinner with them tonight. (They're worried about how much time I've been working lately and used a dinner invitation to get me out of the house, bless 'em.) Anyway, we were talking about renewing license plates, and Dad said something about when he last renewed their plates.

"Dad," I said gently. "You didn't renew the plates this time. Remember, last week? I took the Jeep to be inspected and Mom went to license bureau."

Dad looked confused. Mom did, too.

"Jerri? Honey? That wasn't a week ago. It was a month ago."

For Dad, a year faded to let him still live in a time when he managed the details of their lives. I've lost a mere month.

Well...maybe more than a month. Last time I looked, Henry Winkler was wearing a black leather jacket. Now he's sporting orthopedic shoes.

Telling Stories

Came across youtube of Ira Glass talking about storytelling. All you writers out there, do yourself a favor: Watch all four segments. He's talking about broadcasting, but his ideas on story are simply brilliant. Last night I read every interview I could find with him and learned approximately 3000 useful things. Give or take....

Monday Means Meatloaf

Monday was our day to cook for the homeless. I truly did not have time this week, but I put that problem aside and dragged myself (and my laptop) to the church. While the other volunteers had lunch and later when they took a break, I banged away on a magazine article due the next day.

It was so worth the effort.

Just hanging out with these people lifts my spirits. The joy they bring to their work is so pure and so real you could wash it with the other dishes. The loudest, most frequent sound is laughter.

Mom and I are the group's bookends: I am the youngest and Mom is the oldest. I try to do jobs that involve heavy lifting. So does Mom. She doesn't want anyone to think she can't pull her weight. Believe me: no one would. That woman is indefatigable. You want a five-pound meatloaf mixed? She's your girl. Got a washtub full of mashed potatoes that need stirred? Step aside. She's got it covered.

I love these people and I LOVE watching my mother work and laugh with them. Wearing a purple baseball cap, a green apron and a smile, she sparkles. I've rarely seen her so happy as she is when up to her elbows in a vat of hot, sticky potatoes she's making for total strangers.

Monday means meatloaf, and it is a good thing. Even when you're on deadline.

Unbelievable

An attorney, the most gracious man I've ever met, once said to me, "I'm not going to tell you what he's up to now. If I did, you'd have no choice but to pick up the nearest heavy object, go upstairs and beat that son-of-a-bitch to death."

He was speaking of my former husband.

I had dinner with Evan last night, and if what he told me is true, somebody better batten down the heavy objects, because the time has truly come.

Let me be clear: I am not threatening the man, not physically anyway. But if he tries again to hurt my son, I will hound him to the gates of Hell, if necessary. Hell hath no fury, people--not even a woman scorned--like a mother whose child is being cheated by a father who knows better.

Just saying...

Food with a Face

I like vegetables. I don't care much for meat. My family has always found this troublesome, if not downright dangerous. When they urge me to eat meat at a family dinner, I laugh and say, "No food with a face."

Now I'm beginning to think we all lost something important when our food stopped having a face. Not an animal's face, but the face, the image, of the farmer who raised it.

When we all knew where our food came from, we could pronounce all the ingredients. We didn't need a seal certifying milk as organic because we knew what the farmer fed his cows. The government didn't need to define "free range" in terms of how many inches wide the door to the chicken coop needed to be—their range was the yard.

Last summer Katie and I froze gallons of blackberries we picked with my mom. This morning I thawed some berries to put on the waffle I toasted for breakfast. (Yes, I made waffles this weekend, too.) Each bite had not only the flavor of real blackberries, but the memories of them. I tasted sunshine and laughter and dogs barking and cows mooing and bees buzzing. I tasted the sweetness of life.

Very few calories. Tons of nutrition. Food for body and soul.

Simmering

Still waiting. Not patiently.

Yesterday I busied myself with baking, starting with blueberry muffins. By 9:00am, I arrived at Mom and Dad's, warm breakfast in hand. Then I trudged through the falling snow to the grocery store to gather 6 bags full of vegetables.

For the next three hours, I simmered and sauteed and roasted vegetables. I made dough for pizza crust and let it rise. Then I assembled a dozen individual pizzas with toppings like oven roasted eggplant, tomatoes and red peppers, caramelized onions, garlic infused spinach, artichoke hearts and mushrooms.

Later, I whipped up a double batch of corn waffles and a tasty black bean salsa. All of it went into the freezer for quick meals on busy days--some for Mom and some for me.

I'm still simmering, but at least the freezer's full.

Which Is Which?

Still no word.

Today is the last day before "hopefully next week" becomes the week after next. How long before I give up? Move on? I don't know.

Looking around me, I see Tanya, who leaped into a good cause with all her might, got involved in improving not only her daughter's school, but the California education system. She has blogged about feeling in over her head at times, about feeling inadequate to the task before her, about succeeding beyond her original imaginings. She has been sick and tired and plagued by failing electronics. She has not given up.

Tanya spoke on a panel on Motherhood and Social Activism for the ARM Conference on Feminist Motherhood, held during the Mamapalooza Festival in NYC. She wrote a guide to Westside elementary schools. On February 23, Tanya's guidebook was featured in Daily Candy Kids, quite a coup.

Her story buoys me, strengthens my "if you build it, they will come" faith in the work I'm doing.

But then, there's the other side. Always with the damn other side.

Last night Katie called, laughing til she could barely breathe. She'd run across a kid from her junior high on myspace, someone we hadn't heard from or about in several years.

Katie sang in junior high choir with this kid. He had a solo in nearly every concert and seemed to believe the entire choir revolved around him. His voice--kind of falsetto in the middle of changing--was sometimes fairly good, sometimes complete disaster. His parents believed in his talent so much they built a complete recording studio in their basement. After 9th grade, the mother moved to LA with him to "launch his career." He recorded a single that got a fair amount of attention on the internet, much of it hateful.

In 2003, he made an appearance on Jimmy Kimmel Live, where he didn't seem to recognize he was an object of ridicule. Sites sprang up around the internet with names like I Hate XXX dot com. The kid was about 15 years old.

Now he's almost 22. He maintains a website where you can a) see video of the Jimmy Kimmel appearance, b) view dozens of professional images of him, c) buy a t-shirt or coffee mug bearing his logo. He writes about himself in third person: "ringing true to (his) thirst for perfection and knowledge....

He has worked very hard. He has tremendous faith in what he's doing. He's fooling himself.

So, how do you know? How can you tell if you're determined or deluded?

I really, really want an answer, but I'm pretty sure there isn't one.

Not Good at Waiting

Yesterday I had to call a friend to talk me off the ledge. I know I've done everything I can. I know I cannot call or email The Man. I know this is a waiting time. I needed help to act on what I know.

Following great advice in comments from Cheryl and Deb and Tanya, I decided to choose peace, to step away from the macaroni-and-cheese and go for a walk, do something constructive. Cassie and I walked along the Little Blue River and then stopped at Mom's to borrow her new steam cleaner. Shortly after I got home, Mom called to remind me not to open the water compartment when the unit is hot. She described the proper procedure for removing the valve. In. Extreme. Detail. "It's under a lot of pressure, Jerri. Give it time."

After I'd written every word I could make myself type for the day, I got out the steam cleaner and cleaned the big mirror in my entry and the floors in the living room. Then I took the thing down to clean the shower doors in the downstairs bathroom.

You know what's coming next, don't you?

I loosened the valve and waited a minute or two. Impatient as ever, I decided to loosen it a bit more, take it just one little step further. The pressure blew the valve right out of the opening and that little yellow steam unit turned into Mount St. Helens, shooting steam and hot water skyward...faceward.

The steam and scalding water hurt, especially near my eyes, but I was incredibly lucky I didn't get seriously burned.

Patience is a virtue, and I want some.

NOW!

About that Slumdog

Yesterday when I wrote about how great it was to go see Slumdog with my family, I told only part of the truth. Another part, equally true, is not so pretty.

As I mentioned, we drove to the theater together. My nephew dropped us off at the door and Mom, Dad, my brother-in-law, sister and I walked in together. Mom and Deb walked to the far corner to wait, as women often do while their men buy the tickets or pay the bill or whatever. I followed Dad and Jim to the ticket line.

In that moment, I felt bereft.

I had money in my pocket for the ticket. I buy my own ticket nearly every time I go to the movie and have for years. But for some reason, it felt horrible. No man to protect me. No man to take care of things. No man to stand in line while I waited with the women.

Dad turned and put his arm around me. "I'll get your ticket, Honey," he said.

Although I appreciated it, somehow, that almost felt worse—like charity for the old maid aunt. For a few minutes, I silently wallowed in sad and bad.

The first few minutes of the movie shook me out of that. Pretty quickly, I was ashamed of myself for being so childish and petty. Perspective is a beautiful thing, even when you find it among images of squalor.

Miracles

We went to see Slumdog Millionaire last night.

By "we" I mean my mom, sister, brother-in-law, nephew and MY DAD.

My nephew drove and dropped us off at the door with Dad. We paused inside the main doors, when we got to the right theater, when we got to the ramp and in the middle of the stairs. He gasped for air at each stop, but he continued.

Dad has outlived doctor's predictions for more than 30 years. He describes himself as a "tough old bird."

I reckon.

He loved the movie, by the way. Me too, especially because I watched it beside my Dad.

Inertia

A body in motion tends to stay in motion.

A body at rest tends to stay at rest.

A body that can't decide between the two turns to assault eating.

In this waiting time, I'm trying to rest, but it's not in my nature. I keep thinking, circling inside my brain, looking for one more thing I could do to tip the pendulum my way. Put in another marathon session over the weekend on "one more thing." Also baked chocolate cookies, made macaroni and cheese twice, and ate an entire pizza over the course of two days. We won't talk about the bag or Doritos or the half box of Triscuits.

And, Lord save me, I've turned to the hard stuff. No...don't make me say it.... Yes, it's true: I've been drinking Coca Cola. Let me assure you, things do not go better with Coke. High fructuose corn syrup is not the answer.

I've hit "Refresh" on my email so many times my beautiful new computer may blow up.

I wish the Buddhist part of me could get the rest of me to sit down and shut up. Even when you believe in faith, faith is a hard thing to believe in.

A Waiting Time

For 7 days, I worked nearly non-stop—more than 20 hours most days. By turns, I was excited, frustrated, disappointed, exhilarated, exhausted and energized. It was intense: the work, my feelings, the impending deadline.

I delivered the finished proposal to The Man on Tuesday afternoon as though crossing the finish line of a marathon. I wanted a shiny space blanket and a cup of yogurt, you know?

What I got was such flat acceptance it broke my heart. "That's nice. Thanks." And a promise to look at it next week.

This is business and I understand The Man has no idea what it took (and how many people helped me) to complete that proposal. Honestly, I wouldn't want him to know. Even so, "That's nice. Thanks." broke my heart.

I drove home to Kansas City on Wednesday. On the way, I thought of one more thing I could send The Man and got to work almost the moment I walked in the door. Put in about 26 hours between 5:00pm Wednesday and half an hour ago, when I sent off this new project.

As of this moment, I cannot think of anything else to do. Not a thing. Now it's time to rest. Time to wait. Someone noteworthy, I can't remember who right now, suggests that when you've done everything possible, you stand.

I've done everything possible. It's time to stand. I feel you all standing with me, and I'm profoundly grateful.

Whirlwind

Today will be a whirlwind of meetings and interviews and coffee. Lots of coffee.

I've been in Minneapolis so much longer than I expected that I had to find a laundromat yesterday. Now, you can add a working washer and dryer to the list of things I'm super thankful for this week.

Yesterday in a gift shop, I saw a sign: Miracles happen to those who believe in them. That's it, isn't it? You can't sit inside waiting for lightning to strike. If you believe in the possibility, you go out in a storm with a kite and a key.

Got to go fly my kite. Updates later.

EUREKA!!!

Just nailed down the last interview I need.

Deep, loving thanks to all who helped and all who offered support and encouragement. If I get this done, at least half the reason will be the kindness and smarts of the folks I'm lucky enough to know.

Blessings.

Changes Afoot

Yesterday I cold-called a 68-year-old woman whose name Michelle found in a grandparents.com article on a group of cookie-baking grandmas in Minneapolis. I asked if she knew anyone who fits the description of the people I need to interview for the-project-for-which-I-have-such-hope. She did.

Later, I walked up to a complete stranger in a restaurant, gave her my card, and asked if she knew anyone. Her answer was yes, too.

I swear I walked out of that restaurant half an inch taller than I walked into it.

Later, I met Lee Wolfe Blum a simply fabulous woman virtually introduced to me by GoMama. Lee gave me several possibilities, too.

This crazy thing I'm doing may change more than my work. It may change my life. I've gotten so isolated in my red leather chair facing the pond, retreated so far in my cave. This work requires going out into the world, requires boldness and confidence. Whatever happens with the project, these are good things.

Late yesterday afternoon I got very close to locking down the last interview I need. I'll hear back today. If it doesn't pan out, I'll wander the streets til I find someone if I have to. The power of connection, the power of intention have never been more clear.

Ask and ye shall receive.

Maybe not the first time you ask, but if you keep asking...and asking...and asking....

10 Things I've Learned This Week

Two-thirds of the way to my goal, and I've learned a few things this week.

10. If you stand up after sitting at the computer for six hours without a break, 54-year-old legs creak and wobble in protest. You have to move around every hour or two.

9. Coffee shops are wonderful meeting places, but three or four meetings for coffee in one day can alter your brain chemistry. Best to switch to tea after the first meeting, or at least the second.

8. No one cares what you're wearing if you've got a good idea, especially one that might help them make money.

7. The world is a very small place. A friend in LA probably knows someone you need to know in Minneapolis.

6. Keep contact information for every person you know or meet. When someone reaches out, do everything in your power to help.

5. Written records lead to resolutions. If you've got an issue, keep the name, ID, and contact info of every customer service person you speak to. Faced with hard facts, it's easier for a company to do the right thing.

4. Apple is one of the best companies on the planet. They make excellent products and stand behind the word of their employees. (I'm typing this on the brand-new MacBook Apple gave me to replace a nearly two-year-old MacBook with persistent problems.)

3. Few things in life are better than laughing at a Japanese game show with your daughter at 2:00 am.

2. Every project is a building block for the next opportunity. Your work is your calling card to the world.

1. You don't have to be brilliant if you have brilliant friends.

Baby Steps

Yesterday was one of the longest, most discouraging days I've had for years. I googled, emailed and called relentlessly and to very little effect. Despite my early morning words about stubbornness, by late afternoon I was ready to fold my tent and go home.

Fortunately, I have very, very smart friends. I reached out to several remarkable women, each of whom offered stellar ideas. Each idea led to another idea. And another.

Somewhere along the google trail, I landed on a page that provided my horoscope. I don't know how the page knew I'm a Taurus, but I've learned not to delve too deeply into technical mysteries. It works because it works.

Things are about to equalize in all aspects of your life, so get ready to enjoy a healthier period that will give you a stronger sense of security and confidence. You're standing on a firm foundation again, which means you can reach higher and try harder for the things you want. It's time for bolder action and bigger stakes. You are feeling totally in control and it looks like no one is standing in your way. Ignore your fears and move ahead at full steam!

"Reach higher and try harder. Bolder action. Bigger stakes." Sounds good. That control thing, though. That's not happening. I have no illusions of control--just riding the dragon's back over here, trying to hang on and keep up.

I've got a full list of calls to make as soon as the rest of the world wakes up. With any luck, each one will move me a tiny bit closer to the goal.

Thank God for friends.

What Happened Next

Inside the office of TPTB, I was greeted by a pleasant woman who happened to be passing through the reception area. She welcomed me warmly, as though my presence there was something other than an interruption, and went off to find the man with whom I had an appointment.

The Man showed up in moments and ushered me into a conference room. He set a timer on his watch and waited for me to speak. I could barely breathe. The Moderate Control Garment was only part of the problem. The larger issue was the enormity of the opportunity before me. A good friend told me not to worry, that getting into the room was the hardest part.

He was wrong. Getting the first sentence out was the hardest part.

The Man mostly looked at the table or toward the far corner of the room. I looked over there too, wondering what was so fascinating about that empty corner. Nothing I could see. Absent any facial clues from him, I said what I'd came to say and stopped talking. It took less than 2 minutes.

TM pronounced the idea good and timely and worth taking to his boss. He said he'd get back to me with her response. I thanked him and offered him the stack of my books I'd brought along and a DVD of a video for which I recently wrote the script. TM accepted the books with thanks. And then he mentioned some research that needed to be done to clear the idea.

I'd already done that research and described what I'd done, how I'd done it, and what I'd found. "It might seem kind of obsessive," I half-apologized.

TM looked straight into my eyes for the first time. "That's not obsessive," he said. "That's what it takes."

He paused then asked if I was willing to take the next steps toward the goal.

I looked straight into his eyes. Yes, I said. Yes.

Since Tuesday at about 10:45 am, I have been working like a maniac at something I have no idea how to do. I have this chance because I sat up into the wee hours, night after night, doing something else I did not know how to do. I did that thing only because it was the one thing I could think of that might help. It did. It got TM's full attention and moved me from the wanna-be square to the much smaller square of people who are willing to do the work.

Last night, Michelle sent me a link to a talk Elizabeth Gilbert gave about genius. Elizabeth says we're not responsible for whether or not genius arrives. Our job is to show up and do the work, to simply be stubborn enough to keep going no matter what.

I'm grateful for that reminder. This morning I've run out of ideas on how to accomplish this next goal. It feels like I've hit a brick wall. Listening to Elizabeth, I remember I can always find one thing, even one tiny thing, that might work. The trick is to find one tiny thing and one more and one more.

I've got your stubborn right here, Elizabeth. The one thing I never run out of is stubborn.

Yesterday

Up before 6:00 am, I dress in the dark: black turtleneck dress, jean jacket, colorful scarf. In Katie's dimly lit bathroom, I put on makeup and slide red dangly Our Lady of Guadalupe earrings into my ears. I wrestle myself into a "moderate support" undergarment that permanently alters my respiratory system. Seriously, it's an iron band around my midriff, restricting my ability to breathe. Heck, it's restricting my ability to think. But as my friend Deb Karnes says, "Beauty is pain."

I can't find my black socks in the dark, but the dress is long. I grab white gym socks and step into kicks for the trip to the car. Paula sits in the parking lot across the street, cold and forlorn. I dig around in her back seat for my boots and the black slip I almost forgot and had to go back for Sunday morning as I was leaving KC. It turns out to be a short slip rather than the long one I meant to grab. Oh well.

Standing behind the open car door, I step into the slip. When I sit down in the driver's seat, my dress settles onto my legs, revealing a ridge where the moderate control garment ends and my unrestrained flesh bursts toward freedom. And blood flow.

Stopping at Kinkos to make some copies, I step into black-and-red cowboy boots and stride toward the door. Below the Fed Ex logo, the reflection reveals that the dress is neither as long nor the boots as tall as I thought. The white gym socks shine like a thousand suns with every step.

Next stop: Target. I buy black tights and go into the restroom to put them on. Not wanting to put my bare feet on the floor of a public restroom, I stand on the discarded gym socks to slither into the tights. I'm relieved to find that the lycra tights smooth out some of the sausage-bursting-from-its-skin effect of the moderate control garment. Progress.

At the sink, I look up and really see myself for the first time. Horrors! The makeup I used was my summer color. My winter-pale face looks like it's been painted with orange Kool-Aid. After a few moments of desperate consideration, I pull the white gym socks from my purse (yes, the same ones that so recently protected my feet from the floor of a Target bathroom) and buff away a layer or two of orange. I may catch some dread disease, but surely the pustules won't erupt until after the big meeting.

I drive to the office complex and sit in the parking lot, watching minutes tick down to the appointed time. I would sigh, but my ribs can't expand that much. Instead, I huff and drag myself from the car.

The News Is Good

To all who have kept me and the-project-for-which-I-have-such-hope in your thoughts and prayers: Thank you. The story of this day is absurd. The news of the day is good. The road ahead is long but opening up before me.

Blossoms of blessings, folks. Always falling all around us.

More soon.

Hope...and Hair

In the morning, I take off for (not so) distant lands in pursuit of the-project-for-which-I-have-such-hope.

When I read the email inviting me to meet with TPTB, my first thought was to call the friend who has worked so hard to help me on this. The second was what to wear. I'll spare you the endless internal discussions about whether to color my hair. You know I caved.

I kid you not, I've spent most of the last two days getting my nails and feet buffed and polished, my hair colored, my eyebrows done. I've shopped in two states, buying new duds from the bra out.

Tomorrow morning I'll set sail on a new adventure. I've always loved the Andre Gide quote about be willing to lose sight of the shore, something like "People cannot discover new lands unless they have the courage to lose sight of the shore for long periods."

I'm surrounded by nothing but water here. But heck, I've always loved the ocean.

Unlikely Dreams

Someone else's dreams are being delivered to my psyche.

Last night I was coaching a small group of runners. Or...maybe people who wanted to be runners would be more accurate. Anyway, we trained in parks that look like a park near my old office in Eden Prairie. We ran up and down small hills surrounded by ponds and trees and grassland. I was always at the head of the pack, urging the others to catch up. (I hear you laughing, B.) Then my band of runners was in a race. I was near the sidelines, cheering and calling to them. Near the end one guy bogged down completely--stopped with his hands on his knees and his head down. I could tell by his posture that he was giving up. I jogged over to him and held out my hand. He shook his head and turned away, but I stayed put. Slowly, reluctantly, he put his hand in mine and we started walking, then running. When the finish line came in sight, he smiled at me and dropped my hand. He ran the last 100 yards in full sprint and crossed the line alone. As he kicked it into high gear, I felt a satisfaction so solid you could hold it in your hand like a polished stone.

Several nights in the last couple weeks, I've dreamed of smoking. Cigarettes. I inhale deeply and feel the rush of nicotine through my body. My shoulders drop and my muscles relax and I am so very happy to be smoking. I can feel the smoke in my mouth and nose. I do that fancy blow-smoke-out-my-nose thing and feel very satisfied. It's a filtered menthol cigarette I'm smoking. I love how the end of the filter feels against my tongue and the way the paper sticks to my lips. I love the feeling of inhaling and exhaling deeply, smoke rushing through my mouth. That's the whole dream: an in-depth, up-close experience of smoking a cigarette.

Crazy thing is, I smoked part of one cigarette, 36 years ago. WTF do I know about smoking or how cigarettes feel or taste? For that matter, it's been 10 years since I ran seriously, and even then I can assure you no one turned to me for advice on running or any other sport. Ever.

Like I said, someone else's dreams.

The Mathematics of Love

Backed by 100s of unknown contributors, 20 people working 5 hours each can feed and clothe 832.

Driving into the church parking lot, I notice the words on their monument sign: "Our hands are God's tools." I may not be a big fan of organized religion, but this is something I can get behind.

We load carts filled with home baked cookies and cakes and head to another church in a run-down area of town. They don't have much other than a big space and a decent commercial kitchen, but they're smack dab in the center of a population with needs. It works. We unload the cookies and cakes and carry them down a freight elevator to the basement.

John* directs the loading and unloading processes. One of his eyes is completely covered by a bandaid-like patch. The other eye is a shiny blue beacon magnified by the thick lens of his glasses. Total baldness earns him an exemption from the "everyone wears a hat" rule.

Dave looks like he just rolled in off the farm: work boots, t-shirt, farmer's cap. He's the wheelhorse of the outfit, the one who knows exactly what to do and how to do it. Later, when he pours grease from the pans of baked meatloaf, his hands shake so much it takes a 3-gallon can to provide a big enough target.

Joe has a smart remark for everyone and everything. His laughter is big and loud and welcome in the kitchen. He's the leader of the meatloaf crew, mixing without measuring but getting nearly the exact same proportions in each batch. During the second mixing session, he bumps his arm slightly and we watch a hematoma the size of a grape develop. He laughs it off.

Erin wears a ball cap from a park in Colorado. She moved to KC five years ago, shortly after her husband died two months into their retirement. One of her sons lives here, and the grandchildren were an irresistible magnet. She leads the potato operation. When we finish, she's going to dinner with the widow's support group from the church. The newer members need the older ones, she says.

Janet's white hair glows beneath a white tennis visor decorated with crosses in primary colors. A clear phone-cord-like thing holds the "hat" on her head, a clear violation of the "hair must be completely covered" rule, but no one rats her out. She's a meatloaf mixer, and her white sweatshirt seems a questionable choice once she's up to her elbows in hamburger and tomato sauce. "It looks bad now," she laughs. "But I wear white because I can bleach it."

Eleanor works hard all day, but she steps aside when the hot stuff comes around. The tremors in her arms don't let her judge distances well enough to get near hot grease, but she can judge within half a scoop how much tomato sauce it takes to cover two giant logs of meatloaf, including the minor dribbles to and from the pan as her hands shake.

There's a formula for everything: mix two cans of drained corn with three that still have their juice; 10 eggs in every batch of meatloaf; one cap of bleach in a sinkful of hot water for sanitation; rubber gloves at all times.

Janet saves the egg shells for a woman who used to help cook. That woman is too sick to come any more but misses having the shells for her compost.

Erin flattens the cans from the corn and the tomato sauce and carries them to her car. She brings along her recycling each month and takes the whole load to the recycling center on the way home.

John leaves as soon as the last pan of potatoes goes into the oven. He's on his way to take a church member to chemotherapy.

As we head out, the serving crew begins to arrive. They will carry food to tables, serve drinks, and ask about clothing needs. Everyone who comes to dinner receives a good hot meal and clean clothes if they need them.

God's tools, indeed.


*All the names have been changed.

Stone Soup

Dad is doing a bit better. He got out of bed for almost an hour yesterday, the longest he's been up in several weeks. Thank you all for your thoughts and prayers.

More later. Right now I've got to get a few things done before I head off to cook at the shelter. I've been looking forward to this so much. President Obama (you just can't say that enough, can you?) says we've all got to do what we can. I can peel potatoes.

I'm in, President O. Heart and soul, I'm in.

Control

In all her 74 years, my mother has never paid bills, managed a checking account, or even renewed a license plate. Dad has always taken care of details like that.

Sunday night, Dad asked me to take him to the DMV to renew the plates on Mom's Jeep. He thought he'd sit in a chair while I waited in line and then come to the window when it was his turn.

Monday morning, I took the Jeep to be inspected and came back to get Dad. He couldn't get out of bed. I was more than willing to go, but Mom insisted on doing it herself.

Daddy cried for 45 minutes. "I can't control anything anymore," he said.

"We never can really control anything, Dad."

"But it was better when I believed I could."

I've always liked the image described by the Chinese—the one about living on a dragon's back. If you're aware you're riding a fire-breathing, reckless and powerful beast, you're not surprised when it bucks. If you understand you're at the mercy of forces beyond reckon, you give yourself over to fate. If you never imagine you have it, the loss of control is not devastating.

Maybe I better tell Dad about the dragon.


*The picture is the side of a cut through the Ozark Mountains down near my home town. Looking at the rocks/scales of the dragon, it's easy to believe we're on the back of a beast.

My Father's Shoes

After spending the night at Mom and Dad's, I got up early to take the dogs out. Stepped into a pair of Dad's slip-ons near the door and clomped out into a dark, cold morning.

No one will ever fill my father's shoes.

My father is dying.

My beloved dad, who holds up the sky, who can fix anything with spit and baling wire, who loves me always and all ways, is dying. His COPD has turned severe and he's turning Home.

On Wednesday, his pulmonologist said he will never fully recover from the pneumonia that's held him in its grip since before Christmas. The road will only get rockier from here. No one knows how fast it's moving, but something wicked this way comes.

One of Dad's brothers died last year. His sister has Parkinson's. One sister-in-law is lost in dementia, a brother-in-law is close behind.

Mom spent all day yesterday and today cleaning out the basement. She says she can't change what's going to happen, but she can make it easier on us when it does.

That, my friends, is love in action. Dad always teases that the three of us kids did a darn good job of picking parents. That doesn't begin to describe the grace and gift of being their child.

Backbone

"Takes backbone to live the llfe you want."

Haven't seen the movie yet, but that line gets me every time I hear the trailer for Revolutionary Road. It reminds me of my favorite line from Eat, Pray, Love, the one where Richard from Texas tells Liz she's got to stop keeping her wishbone where her backbone ought to be.

Been working on my backbone lately. The-project-for-which-I-have-such-hope got a polite brush off from someone on Tuesday. Discouraged me for about 5 minutes, then I realized I had absolutely nothing to lose and shot back an equally polite question. Surprised the heck out of me to get an answer that opened an actual conversation with someone who had no reason to spend a minute talking with me.

Wishing and hoping hasn't done much for me lately. Taking the lumps that go with taking action may work out better. If not, at least I've entertained myself.

Cause.... Guys--I've been having fun with this and can't wait to tell you all about it.

Noises in the Dark

Twice in the last week I've awakened to small, unidentifiable noises. Both times I strained to hear and understand. Both times I wanted to roll over and forget it. Both times getting up and checking it out avoided big problems.

Last week the temperature dropped below 0, a rare thing here in Missouri. A strange clicking sound outside my room woke me up early in the morning. I already had my grump on, so I added a coat and some boots and went outside to figure out what was going on. Turned out a switch in my heat pump had developed some kind of glitch. Switching the system to all gas solved the problem until a service person could check it out. More importantly, it avoided burning out the compressor, which could have been quite expensive.

Last night the sound of a small rush of water woke me. Following the strange little noise, I found that my icemaker was stuck on refill for some reason, and water was pouring down the front of the frig and all over the hardwood floor. Switching off the icemaker stopped the flow. I mopped up the water and went back to bed.

Can't tell you the times I've ignored warning signals in my life. Giant red flag waving inches from my face? No problem. I just closed my eyes and my mind. This never, ever resulted in anything good.

So, it's only a heat pump and a frig, but maybe this means I'm making progress. It's about time.

So Our Children Can Fly

CNN is broadcasting Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech today, the entire thing. It will be good to see more than the few clips they usually play. I remember the original speech on the evening news, back when the world was black and white. Television, drinking fountains, classrooms. Take your pick: It was all black and white.

From our tiny, totally white town tucked into the Ozark Mountains, it was hard to understand what was going on in the cities—the protests and marches and such. But when Chet Huntley and David Brinkley showed us footage of a fire hose being turned on a black man to keep him from registering to vote, we got the picture.

I tear up every time I see the t shirt: Rosa sat so Martin could walk. Martin walked so Barack could run. Barack ran so our children can fly.

"Our children" is all children, of all ages. We fly forward from this moment when hope triumphed and Martin's dream prevailed. History will judge Obama by the content of his character and the results of his actions. He may be starting in a deep hole, but tomorrow marks the starting of a brand-new day.

God bless us, everyone.

You Never Know What's Coming for You

Work on the-project-for-which-I-have-such-hope continues.

Gathering materials for the proposal, yesterday I invited someone to participate, a woman who taught a class on herbs that my brother attended in a park last summer. He came home absolutely lit up about this woman and her knowledge and her ideas. Now I need someone with that type of knowledge, and (through the magic of the Internet) tracked her down.

If this all works out the way I hope, it will be a splendid example of someone putting their passion into the world and letting it find its way. She did one job (teach that class) extremely well and it opened the door to other opportunities.

Don't you just love it when that happens?

Man on the Street

Went to see Last Chance Harvey last night. Pretty good escapism: tender, sad, funny by turn. Whoever did Dustin Hoffman's makeup should get 50 lashes with a wet noodle, though. His eyebrows were so heavily penciled or dyed they were all I could see in the early going.

Shortly after Harvey and Kate connect, he walks her to writing class. Coming out of the train station onto the street, he puts his hand on her back to guide her as he steps to the side nearest the street.

Thought and thought about how to describe my reaction to that tiny detail. Considered saying my stomach clenched, but the movement was more in my chest. Could say my heart skipped a beat, but it was more than that—kind of like a giant hand gripped my insides for a split second and let go. It physically hurt for that moment.

Can't tell you how hard I've fought letting a man take care of me in any meaningful way since the divorce, but I'm still charmed by one who gracefully puts himself between me and the cars on the street. Done right, it's an intimate dance step that tells me far more than words ever could.

I've had my share of romance (actually, my share and someone else's), but it's been 2 years since I've been on a date. When Harvey touched Kate's back, I felt it like pain in a phantom limb.

I don't know who or when or how in the world it will happen, but listen up, Universe: I want a man to protect me from puddles again before I die. Or get too old to walk down the street.

Lit up

For the last three days, I have been obsessed with reading screenplays. Obsessed. (Thursday I was shocked to realize I hadn't brushed my teeth or changed my clothes since Monday. Yes, I have been a bit down. Thanks for noticing.)

A friend and I have argued story by email and phone until he's probably ready to block my number and email. This has caught my imagination like nothing has in a long time, and (no surprise), it showed up at precisely the right time.

I've got a project cooking, a possibility that makes my heart soar. Can't say much right now, but if you've got a spare candle, fire it up for me, would you? I could use the Light in all ways.

Do I smell Meaty Bone?

Flying Cars

Not quite what my third-grade Weekly Reader predicted, but it's getting closer.

Buttoned Up

Books saved my life as a child. They showed me a world of possibility and made me believe I could find it. To me, a Writer is a magical being, one who spins worlds from her imagination, sees beyond facts to meaning, grasps essence and translates.

A current editing project tarnishes that image. I see folks claiming degrees in Creative Writing or MFAs who cannot construct a decent sentence, let alone write an article that instructs or informs. Instead of the great calling I've always imagined it to be, writing starts to look like something anyone with access to a piece of paper and a pencil could claim. A "poet" who read aloud definitions from a dictionary sort of sealed the deal for me. These words called to her, you see. The beauty of her attention elevated their definitions to poetry.

Really?

So I've been wondering why I spend my life pursuing an ideal that may not exist outside my imagination. The waste book that so captivated me also haunted me. Why am I digging for stories? Shouldn't I be digging latrines?

Then I went to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

In less than three hours, that movie restored my faith. It is the work of many people doing many tasks (computer programming and makeup and photography), but they were all engaged in telling a story that illustrates what it means to live with intention. The writer wove a bizarre premise into a tale of human needs and emotions that refocused things for me.

(And can I just say that when Queenie reacts to the news that Benjamin met his father with an outraged, "The hell he is!" I laughed. When she yells, "Not after all this time," she is speaking for me, saying what I cannot.)

Everyone experiences events. Some describe them well. A precious few spin stories that illuminate. There is magic in that.

Quick Hello

Big day here. Working on a video script. Trying to jam everything in before I go spend the night with a friend. Her husband's out of town and we're having a pajama party. First a movie and then games in front of the fire. If she's up for it, we're talking Twister. If not, I'm going to beat her skinny butt at Scrabble. (She'd wipe the floor with me, but I'm catching her at a weak moment.)

More soon. Hope all is well in all your worlds.

Mobilizing Positive Energy

After my early morning worry-fest (see previous post), I drew Motherpeace tarot cards and checked their meaning. Each related in some way to worry and fear. The Five of Discs knocked me over:

The Five of Discs is a picture of tension held in the body, the kind of tightness that comes with worry. Probably the mind is focused on survival issues of some kind—money, housing, jobs.... It helps to keep the energy moving—maybe do something physical to keep from sinking into a dark state of consciousness (or unconsciousness).

...Better to mobilize energy toward positive goals. While the hands are busy, perhaps the mind can use the Discs in the background as centering devices for focusing calm, magical intentions toward the future.

Mom called to ask if I had any blankets or coats I could spare. The young people of a local church are camping out in the church parking lot until they receive a certain number of blankets and coats to share with local homeless shelters. Together, we filled my sister's Escape with blankets and coats and toilet paper and soap (always useful at shelters) and drove to the church. The people we met there are walking the talk.

Burly men in insulated coveralls met us at the curb to help unload the car. Half a dozen teenagers stood watch over a bonfire in the center of the encampment. More were stacking and storing the coats and blankets in the back of a panel truck.

One of the men noticed a baby blanket Mom was donating, one she quilted on her new machine. He suggested we go see what was going on inside and guided us into the church and into an enormous room where a dozen older women sat at long tables sewing together lengths of fabric and batting. One lovely silver haired lady was using scraps of newspaper to protect her sewing machine needle as she stitched together 10-foot strips of heavy batting. "I'm 80 years old," she told me, "but I can still help." All around the room, teenagers were sorting and counting and stacking blankets and fabric and batting.

Somehow our conversation uncovered the fact that the church provides dinner once a month at a homeless shelter. The women of the church bake desserts and a committee goes to the shelter to cook meatloaf and mashed potatoes and green beans and salad. They serve over 800 meals each time and can always use extra hands. Apparently, they got the message about mobilizing energy toward positive goals.

So did I. Peeling potatoes for 800 should keep my hands plenty busy, don't you think?

Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

Editing an article early this morning, I learned that the "value" of antiques dropped in 2007 for the first time in decades. The market is flooded by people downsizing and selling to generate cash flow. Some guy at Christie's says prices are down 70%.

The stock prices of only two companies on the Dow increased over 2008: McDonalds and Wal-Mart.

In November 2008, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt announced a temporary freeze on acquisition of new trade division titles. They've been publishing since 1832.

For two months now, every Saturday morning a woman sits on the grass in front of the local Chili's with puppies in her lap and a cardboard sign offering them for sale. She looks like an apple seller from the 1930s.

Economists may call this a recession, but it's pretty darn depressing.

Waiting for my Meaty Bone

When my kids were little, I read an article about creating a ritual for little hurts, specific comforts not related to food. The writer suggested anything would do, even a drink of water, that the undivided attention is what actually comforts the child. So I held and rocked the kids...sang to them...counted to three and yelled OWIEEE! with them. And always, when they got past the worst of the crying, I offered them a drink of water. Eventually, they equated a drink of water with love and concern. Katie once got hurt at her dad's house and came home indignant at her step mother. "She didn't care at all, Mom. I even had to get my own drink of water!"


My little doggie was very easy to house train. When she went outside as a puppy, I praised her and petted her and made a fuss when she did her business. As soon as we got back in the house, I gave her a small treat. She's 7 years old now, but that's still our routine. Once in a while I forget, and she sits in front of the treat jar, waiting patiently for her Meaty Bone.


A couple weeks ago, I landed a big writing assignment, one that meant I wouldn't have to worry about money for the rest of the year. I danced and sang when I got the email; had two glasses of pinot grigio that night. The first official document arrived: a non-disclosure agreement. Several more documents arrived, each from a different location and with a different corporate name. Some of those names were registered outside the country. The company did not have a corporate web site. Google turned up some pretty unsavory accusations.

I decided to take a wait-and-see approach. I need the money. All marketing is a shading of the truth. Who made me the arbiter of truth and goodness? I told myself lots of things as I waited for the actual assignments to arrive.

When the details showed up, it was as bad as I feared: possibly illegal, certainly unethical. I dithered. I argued with myself. I imagined being called to give a deposition. I imagined the people who might be misled by what I wrote. I imagined living with my conscience.

Bright and early the next morning, I emailed the managing editor to explain that I could not accept the assignment. Judging from his terse but polite response, I'm not the first writer to walk away after the details were revealed.

Throughout that morning and afternoon, I obsessively checked my email as I worked on a series of short projects. Write a paragraph, check email. Write another paragraph, back to email.

After a couple hours, it hit me that I was waiting for my Meaty Bone. I was a very good girl. I did the right thing and now expected wonderful news to arrive or a great assignment to turn up in my treat jar/inbox. When I realized what was going on, I laughed myself silly.

The Universe did not deliver a treat for my trick. Hell, I even had to get my own damn drink of water.

Dying for a Bathroom

Yesterday I interviewed a CA architect for a magazine article. In 1972, Coop taught a class on Environmental Awareness as his senior project, and it's been his passion throughout his career. We talked about his philosophy and the innovations he uses. It was all fascinating, but his final words may be the most interesting. I asked how his career has compared to what he imagined back when he was convincing the dean that environmental awareness did indeed impact architecture, back when he was first exploring the interrelatedness of building construction and the supply and demand of energy. It hasn't been what he thought. Still so little has changed and so few people care. "I thought more would happen," he said. "I thought more people would wake up."

Coop told me of M. King Hubbert, who, in 1956, calculated that the U.S. would pass peak oil production in the early 1970s. Hubbert later calculated that the world would pass peak production in 2004. According to the Coop, world production declined for the first time ever in 2006. Like the easy credit that got us in so much trouble, we're spending energy capital as though the supply will last forever, as though tomorrow will never come and we will never, finally, be forced to pay for the hamburger of today.

I mentioned my fascination with The Big Necessity: The Unmentionable World of Human Waste and Why It Matters, and told him a little about the book. We talked about biogas digesters, which use feces to produce gas for household use. He raved over how such a thing could be used and then sighed. "If I tried to get a building permit for something like that, I don't know who the county would call first: the mental hospital or the sheriff."

Having never lived without access to a clean, working bathroom, I consider it a basic necessity. I had no idea that 2.6 BILLION people live without access to even a bucket for a toilet. I had no sense—not an inkling—that sanitation is an enormous political issue or that human waste is being used as fertilizer in the U.S. and there's good reason to believe people are being poisoned by it.

One of today's tasks is to write the article for which I interviewed Coop. It's going to be quite a challenge to fit all the important things he said into the space available. We've got to wake up. We've got to pay for the hamburger.

People are dying for bathrooms.

Playing for Time

My friend is quite possibly the best maker of New Year's resolutions on the planet. She is serious, y'all. She writes down her resolutions and she makes them happen. In previous years she has resolved to learn screenwriting then gotten herself accepted to the New School at the Actor's Studio; resolved to concentrate on her art and gotten gallery showings across the U.S., including NY; resolved to be healthy and survived several years beyond the predictions of even her most optimistic doctors.

22 resolutions and counting this year. One of them is to play more, so yesterday we played pick-up sticks.

No need to check the archives. Yes, she was sent home from the hospital to hospice care earlier this week. Yes, she is terribly ill. (She's 6 ft. tall and barely weighs 100 pounds, even in several layers of sweat clothes and sweaters.) Hugging her still feels like embracing a bag of dry leaves.

None of that will change if she lies around crying. Instead, we played and laughed and cheered one another's daring moves...with pick-up sticks. Her set is a gorgeous collection of birch and cherry and mahogany and walnut sticks. The darker the wood, the more points you get for collecting the stick. I love that detail. Reaching for the dark, we found the Light, all afternoon.

Next week when she's stronger, we're going to thrown down with Twister. For today, it's more Earl Grey with honey, more macaroons with chocolate, and Scrabble. Playing games in the middle of all this may seem like fiddling while Rome burns, but she believes joy multiplies her moments and she needs every one. She's got 21 more resolutions to keep this year.

Merde!

Something rough appeared on the edge of one of my lower front teeth yesterday. Wearing my 200x reading glasses and using a 5x magnifying mirror, I can see what appears to be roughly half the size of a grain of salt—Morton's finest, not good Kosher. There is no pain. I was at the dentist only a month or so ago and had full x-rays. There's nothing wrong with my tooth. The end of my tongue is raw from worrying this tiny imperfection.

According to The Big Necessity: The Unmentionable World of Human Waste and Why It Matters, 2.6 billion people lack sanitation in the world today, including 1.7 million in the U.S. (Lacking sanitation is defined as no outhouse, bucket, or box.) The number of children killed by diarrhea exceeds that number killed in armed conflict since WWII, 90% of them by fecal contamination of food or water. Cholera and typhoid (diseases caused by contaminated water) kill enough children every four hours to fill two jumbo jets.

My closest friend here in MO went to the hospital in terrible pain late Sunday. After a thorough exam including CT scans, the doctors gave her morphine and sent her home to hospice care. She turned 54 in December.

Perhaps I should get my tongue off my tooth and my head out of my ass about using the "right" pictures in Katie's cookbook. Maybe, just maybe, I could get a freakin' grip.

Holistic healers have had my friend on an extremely restrictive diet for several years—no caffeine, no sugar, no white flour, no chocolate. I'm on my way over there this morning, taking the Earl Grey tea and chocolate dipped macaroons she requested. We're going to read poetry aloud and watch movies on DVD, including her beloved Enchanted April.

Oh, shit.

Recipe for Love

Blend equal parts joy and pain; fold in a pinch of courage. Pour into an open heart. Store at room temperature.

We had a new salad several times when the kids were here for Christmas. It has a garlicy, lemony, peppery dressing that Katie especially likes, and she can make it in her new Magic Bullet. Total bonus, because she loves that Magic Bullet. The day after she got home, she asked me to email the recipe. Even bought red wine vinegar for it, which means my little Food Network junkie now has five kinds of vinegar in her pantry.

The salad was such a hit that I decided to add it to Katie's cookbook/scrapbook. Picking a picture for the page cracked my heart open another smidgeon.

My first thought was to use a picture of Katie and Craig wearing hideous Christmas sweaters and horrible hats they bought at Goodwill as a joke. So far, I haven't included any pictures of Craig, but he's seeming more and more like part of the family. As I considered the pros and cons—the only real con being how hard it would be for her to throw away the page if they break up—I realized the question was moot.

We first made the salad for our dinner with N, the night Katie met her birth grandparents. The loving thing to do is use a picture from that night. The cookbook is meant to be a record of her life. N and her family are now part of that life, and they belong in its pages.

Some tiny, ugly part of me says no, shrieks orders to build a barb-wire fence around what's precious, stack bricks and stones to defend "my" territory. The cookbook is ours, mine and Katie's. I don't have to let anyone else in.

Except I do. Wanting the best for my daughter means opening the doors of my heart to all who love her, all she loves. Including pictures of her dad's family in the original pages wasn't easy, either, but it was right. So is this.

(sigh)

Most things get easier with practice. I sure hope this open-hearted thing is one of them.

You're a Poet BECAUSE You Know It

When the reading started, I was pinned to my seat by the ordinariness of most of the poetry. One after the other, readers introduced themselves by saying something like, "I've been a poet for 12 years" or "Poetry has always been with me." Many had never read in public before, but they all had sheaves—filing cabinets, in one case—of poetry.

The best of the lot was the elderly gentleman who had been reading and rereading his own poetry to himself. At the lectern, he peered over his reading glasses and apologized in advance for any mistakes. He is dyslexic and struggles with every word. Struggles to write it. Struggles to read it. "Words were never my friends," he said, "until I met poetry."

When the dyslexic poet returned to his seat, his wife stood to embrace him. For a few seconds, nothing existed in that room but a silver haired man and woman sharing victory over an old obstacle. Her eyes filled with tears. He brushed them away, touching her face with a tenderness you rarely see in real life. Even after they sat down, they held hands in a firm, I-am-connected-to-you way. He rested his left arm on the back of the seat next to him and revealed the brown buttons on the sleeve of his gray tweed sport coat. The leather was almost worn away on one button.

None of these people will ever be published. Few of them will make even one dollar from their writing. They write for the joy of it. They read because they can. They listen because they understand what it means to have an audience.

They have met poetry and made words their friends.

On New Year's Day, I went with friends to an open mike poetry event at a local writer's place.

An old mansion's living and dining rooms are the main salon for these events. On the living room side, nearest the lectern, the seating is gray folding chairs with silver and maroon upholstered seats. Further back, the metal chairs have no padding. In the last two rows, the chairs are while plastic lawn chairs. On the dining room side, odd bits of furniture—mismatched chairs and sofas and ottomans—host odd groupings of the faithful. At the back of the room, two small tables hold crackers and cheese, bagels, plastic trays of veggies and dip, olives, soda, water, gallon jugs of red and white wine.

A toddler runs loose among the crowd, scrambling up the wooden steps to the second floor, playing with the guitar case of the folk singer who wrapped up the afternoon program, squealing when he finds stray pretzels on the floor.

A petite red haired woman flits about, apparently unaware that three full inches of her ample midriff are spilling over the waistband of her gauzy black broomstick skirt, clearly visible beneath the edge of her too-small black velvet blouse. Her 14-year-old son tunes a guitar in the corner. An elderly gentleman sits in the middle of the room, reading a short poem aloud to himself, over and over. He stumbles over every line, different words tripping him each time through.

A middle-aged black woman holds the hand of a beautiful pre-teen girl. It's hard to tell who is supporting whom. They sit next to a tough looking young man with the most delicate hands and beautiful nails I've ever seen on a man.

The moderator calls the group to order and everyone except the toddler turns their attention to the readers, willing each to make it through.

Odyssey of Time and Space

2009 sounds so strange.

In 1962, our third-grade Weekly Readers described life in the year 2000: flying cars and wrist radios and food capsules, the Jetsons come to life. We calculated how old we'd be on that far off New Year and laughed at the ridiculous idea we'd ever be that old. The year 2000 stretched our imaginations to the limit.

I am now nine years older than I would never be. My son graduated from high school in 2000. My daughter will graduate from college in 2010, a second space odyssey.

Meal replacement bars, food supplements, processed meals now crowd store shelves. iPhones left wrist radios in the dust. Alas, cars still roll down highways but "experts" still report flying vehicles hovering around the corner.

It would be hard to get used to writing 2009, but I almost never write checks any more and autofill takes care of dates on letters and such. The 24-hour news cycle replaced weekly any thing, including Readers. We have ventured off the edge of the map. "Beyond here, there be dragons."

The Great Beyond lacks guideposts but it's got plenty of possibility. And who knows, maybe even flying cars.

Never Enough Time

Twice since Katie and Craig have been home for Christmas, I have dreamed stopwatches. The other day, huge red digital numbers flashed against a black background, ticking down the seconds. Early this morning, a black second hand clicked off against a white clock face.

The kids are heading back to their home today, back to Minnesota. I've just pulled the last load of their laundry from the dryer, checked the house for stray bits and pieces that haven't made it into their luggage yet. In the still-dark morning, with the Christmas lights glowing, it's strangely peaceful and pleasant.

We had the best time last night, the only evening we've had for just the three of us. We had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. They taught me to play Guitar Hero. We taught Craig to play Yahtzee. The iPod pumped music into the house. I danced around, singing and embarrassing Katie to death. It was all so good.

They'll be up any minute and soon after, they'll pull out the drive and head back to their own lives. I'll cry for a while and then settle into gratitude again. I am truly so grateful for the time we've had, the way we are together.

Katie and Craig wanted to see "Marley and Me" while they are here. At dinner on Sunday night, N mentioned she had read the book and was looking forward to the movie. Yesterday I suggested we invite N and her family to join us at the movie.

Katie finds being the center of everyone's attention exhausting. Her first two encounters with N were five- and six-hour marathons of questions and stories—understandable attempts to compress 21 lost years into the time available. She is very happy for the opportunities and enjoys the time, but it wears her out. I thought it would be a good idea for them to do something normal together—something not centered on Katie—so they can start building a relationship built on common interests and shared activity.

I am not, however, generous enough to sacrifice much of our precious time together, which led to the movie idea. When I casually mentioned inviting N, Katie kind of brushed it off. An hour or so later, she brought it up and said maybe it would be a good idea. She made the call. N eagerly accepted, and we all agreed to meet at a theater half-way between our homes.

Katie and N sat next to each other and shared Kleenex at the end. Afterward, we had something to talk about other than Katie, which she appreciated.

A baby step, to be sure, but still a step toward a new normal for us all.

A Bite of the Family Tree

Katie and Craig and I had dinner at Ns last night. It was absolutely lovely.

Craig and I dropped Katie off at 4:30 and went off to run some errands and give Ns parents some privacy for meeting her. We walked into the house an hour or so later, and I felt as though we had known these people for years. Ns mother and father hugged me like an old friend as we introduced ourselves. Her husband welcomed us with open arms.

After dinner, we sat around the table and told stories for almost six hours. Her family told stories of Ns love for animals, her need to plan, her love for music, and I recognized pieces of my daughter. We told stories of Katie's life, which they drank in like hot chocolate on a snow day.

We parted the same way we started—with hugs and tears. It was as easy as meeting new friends. It was also unbearably difficult.

Ns teeth are the same size and shape as Katie's. Those small white squares were the only thing in the room for a moment as I recognized another link between my daughter and the woman who gave her life. The lovely china cabinet, the sparkling red crystal, the Christmas china, the people—colors and shapes swirled and disappeared. For a split second, only those teeth remained: N's and Katie's. They hung in the air like the grins of Cheshire cats singing "Na, na, na boo boo." Before my eyelashes separated from a hard blink, the room righted itself and Katie continued her story about losing a hamster in our house.

I can only imagine that stories of Katie's childhood are the grins of Cheshire cats for N. She wants to hear, she wants to know our daughter, but the childhood she missed lingers in the air after the words fade.

My guess is that we both wish our stories were different. If I were the Great Editor in the Sky, my daughter, this particular being of the human nature, would have been born to me and no one with prior claims would enter our lives, now or ever. I'm pretty sure N would request a complete rewrite on the chapter involving Katie's birth.

Neither of us have that sort of editorial power, so we're reconciling ourselves to the story as written. That means short, square teeth will catch me off guard and stories of Katie's childhood will pierce N's heart, and we will gather our strength and our courage and move forward into this unknown world, guided by our common intention to live out a happy ending for our daughter.

There is no other real choice.

Good News/Bad News

Katie and Craig are on their way here, even as I type. She's tired and a bit sore from all the retching, but doing well. I am so thankful. More soon.

Good News/Bad News

It's been a good news/bad news kind of day. The good news is that Katie and her boyfriend handled a difficult situation well, that Craig is a kind and responsible young man, that Katie did not have to stay in the hospital. The bad news is that instead of driving here today, Katie spent most of the day in the emergency room getting IV fluids and drugs to help balance her blood sugar during a terrible bout with a stomach bug. The flu is no fun for anyone. For a Type I diabetic, it can be quite dangerous.

Katie and Craig monitored her blood sugar throughout the night and called the clinic when things started getting out of hand. Following the nurse's advice, Craig drove her to the hospital early this morning and stayed with her as she was rehydrated and monitored. When she was finally released, he drove her home and took care of her.

We don't yet know if they'll be able to come tomorrow. If not, I'll drive up to Minneapolis to be with her. In the end, only the good news is of any lasting consequence: We will have many more Christmases together.

The View from Under the Jeep

Yesterday was one of those days when the weather doesn't know whether. At various times, we had rain, snow, sleet, and freezing rain.

The day started with a conversation about the turtle and the fence post—whether things that happen are messages from God. A friend interpreted an event as God saying, "I want you to believe I have heard your prayers." I wasn't sure.

Mom and I both needed to run some errands, so we braved it together. Our second stop was Bed Bath & Beyond for a Magic Bullet, a blender sort of thing Katie wants. As I was paying, a woman produced a $5 coupon and offered it to me, then exclaimed, "Oh! Wait! I have a better one. Here's one for 20% off!" The unexpected kindness brought tears to my eyes.

We moved on to Costco, where I dropped Mom off at the door and went to park the Jeep. A spot near the front door was open, but I let an older gentleman take it and ended up parked at the back of the lot, next to a traffic island surrounded by snow banks. When I went back to get the car later, the precipitation had turned to a hard rain. I slipped on the snow bank, fell like a sack of wet cement, and ended up UNDER the Jeep. When I crawled out and up, I slid back again, over and over. Eventually, I laid under the Jeep in a puddle of freezing water and laughed til I could barely breathe. Finally, I managed to pull myself up the icy lump and scramble to my feet. Miraculously, nothing was damaged but my dignity. (I've got some mighty impressive bruises, though.)

Next, I dropped Mom off in front of the grocery store. Unbelievably, the first thing I saw when I got in the door was the elderly gentleman from the Costco parking lot. He recognized me, said hello, leaned heavily on his cane and walked away.

When we got home, it took 30 minutes to carry in all the groceries and packages. Wet and cold, I sat down near the fireplace to check email. The first one was a contract request for a terrific freelance writing assignment, one I'd almost given up on.

The question is whether events are signs from God or simply natural events we interpret as signs. Turns out, it's not an either/or question. The answer is Yes. Whether we recognize it or not, all creation is God saying, "I want you to believe I hear your prayers."

Merry Christmas to all.

Turning Toward the LIght

The longest night of the year has come and gone. Now the nights are getting shorter and the days longer. Incrementally, it's true, but steadily.

As always, I wrote my deepest fear on a piece of paper, burned it and blew it into the sky last night. Given all that's happened lately, you might think my deepest fear is that I will lose my place in my children's lives or that my parents will die. It is not. My deepest fear is much broader: it is that I will let fear stop me from living as I should.

Although I'm doing much better in recent days, my fear of losing the kids' love and loyalty tempts me to be selfish, to close my heart and mind. Giving into that temptation would hurt my children and, ultimately, me.

Fear for my parents tempts me to ignore realities, to pretend everything is the same as it's always been and that it always will be. Doing that cheats me of the chance to help them in all possible ways through this transition.

In these terrible economic times, I am afraid I won't be able to continue making a living as a writer. I work longer and longer hours at paying jobs and spend less and less time on my personal writing, reasoning that I can't afford to waste time and no one is publishing right now, anyway. It's certainly true that publishing is in a dire state, but it's not impossible unless I make it so by giving up on myself.

So I wrote my fear of fear in permanent marker and set it ablaze in a 9-inch metal pie pan. The letters were still visible after the paper burned, but the force of my breath scattered them, leaving no permanent mark on the starry sky over Independence, Missouri.

Afterward, I lit candles and watched their flames flicker. No cursing the darkness this year. I'm going to light the candles and get to work, with an open heart, an open mind, and love. Always with love.

My Solstice prayer for you all:

May only good come to you.
May only good come from you.
May you live in the Light of Love.