Author: Kathie

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I’m one of those people who likes things organized. If I wasn’t a hyper-organized person, I doubt that I could do all the things I do. Everything, from my daily schedule to how my clothes are hung in the closet to how I keep my computer files, is neat and tidy.

It used to be that my house was neat and tidy too. Eons ago, before I owned a business and before I even started teaching, I cleaned my house according to the day of the week. I lived in a one-story ranch house then, with a mostly completed basement. On Mondays, I dusted and vacuumed the living room and all of the bedrooms. Tuesday, I cleaned the bathroom. Wednesday, I dusted and washed the floor in the basement and cleaned the kinda/sorta bathroom down there. Thursday, I cleaned the kitchen. And Friday, I dusted and vacuumed the bedrooms and living room again.

My house was spotless. My neat freakiness extended to my kids. Their toys in their bedrooms were neatly kept on shelves, where they could reach them easily – which also meant they could put them away easily. The rule was that when you were finished with a toy, you put it back, and then selected another.

My cleaning schedule was combined with going to the gym, which I’ve talked about before, and my writing, which, when the kids were little, was done late at night. They went to bed at eight o’clock. I was in my office immediately and working til midnight.

Being neat and orderly makes me feel neat and orderly.

So as the additions to life came in, turning my neat and orderly to chaos, I was hard-pressed to roll with it. There was a divorce. Then a remarriage. I began to teach. There was a baby, 13 years after the prior baby, so I suddenly had a 16-year old, 14-year old, 13-year old and a newborn. I went to grad school, so I could expand my teaching from community and continuing education classes to credited college classes, but then I eschewed that and went into business for myself. I’ve had to let some of my rules and routines go and learn to embrace surprises and accept that not everything can be controlled by a schedule and routine.

For the most part, I’ve thrived. But my house, and my feelings about my house, have suffered.

When we first moved into our live-where-you-work condo 17 years ago, I hired a housecleaner. For several years, I maintained this, and it was wonderful – my house was clean, and I didn’t have to worry about finding the time. But over the years, things changed. My original cleaners, who I loved, went in different directions. One had a military husband, and she moved with him when he was transferred. Another decided to go into being a tattoo artist and body piercer (she pierced my left ear with the permanent cartilage earing). And one developed cancer and had to leave to deal with her health. The other cleaners I found were pricier, and they didn’t do nearly as thorough a job as my originals did. So I fired them.

Every now and then, I began to declare a weekend as a cleaning weekend. Michael, Olivia and I would scrub the house top to bottom. But the weekends began getting further and further apart and my “help” grew grumpier and grumpier.

As this happened, I found myself liking my house less and less and less. This made me really sad. We built this place and the developer kept all of the interiors of the individual condos blank so we could all develop our own style. Everything here has my touch on it, except the tile in the en suite bedroom. Michael chose that while I was out of town. He was terrified.

But I no longer felt comfortable in my home. In fact, it was making me miserable.

I kept reading articles about how you should just clean one room a day. While this seemed doable, I really wasn’t impressed. It would mean that, every day, I’d be getting out the duster, the vacuum cleaner, the broom, the mop, and cleaning supplies, and then putting them back. We have concrete floors, and we have area rugs, so it’s necessary in each room to both vacuum and mop. This didn’t feel very time-constructive to me.

So I stewed.

Last weekend, when I looked up from reading a manuscript to see a ball of cat hair as big as my cat blowing across my floor when the furnace turned on, I had it. I had to find a way.

The one-room a day was a good idea, but I modified it. I decided to do one cleaning activity per floor level a day. On Sunday, I put my plan into motion. I dusted the third floor, which is my office and bedroom. On Monday, I vacuumed and mopped the third floor. Tuesday, I cleaned the bathroom. My plan was on Wednesday to start the second floor, dusting on Wednesday, vacuuming and mopping on Thursday, cleaning the kitchen on Friday, and cleaning the bathroom on Saturday. But Michael, who was home for a snow day on Tuesday, got into the spirit, and in a burst of energy, he cleaned the second floor.

So by Wednesday, I had a clean house. And each day, as I sat down to write or to read manuscripts or to meet with clients or teach a class, I breathed deeper. I wasn’t surrounded by a mess. So I wasn’t a mess myself.

I know there’s all the placards and signs and cross stitch art out there, proclaiming things like, “A cluttered house is a cluttered mind,” and “Dust is a protective coating for fine furniture,” and “Both of us can’t look good at the same time, it’s me or the house,” and “A bright person can always think of something better to do than housework. ” The argument of to clean or not to clean has always been a big source of anger and frustration in the world.

But I realized this week that my environment was making me very unhappy. And this was something I could actually do something about. And so I did. Believe it or not, there is empowerment in cleaning your house and making it look the way you planned it to look.

Whew.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

For those who are interested, this is a feature article that was done on my home several years ago.  Some of the rooms have been changed since (in particular Olivia’s room, Michael’s offce which no longer exists, and the deck), but you can get a general idea of what my house is like:

https://archive.jsonline.com/features/home/artwork-inspires-waukesha-condo-b99273705z1-262003221.html

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news. And welcome to 2024!

The Moment, either in its original format of Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, or its current format as This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, has sometimes been a difficult thing to write. I’ve been working on the Moment since the beginning of 2017, which makes it 7 years old now. When it’s difficult, it’s usually because I get up on a Thursday morning that I’m due to write it and post it by 3:00 p.m. and realize that there isn’t any Moment that sticks out. These usually occur during rough weeks and I really have to dig to come up with a memory of a single moment that made me smile.

This week, though, it’s the complete opposite. I’m struggling with coming up with a Moment, not because it was a rough week, but because it was a week of contentment. It was one smooth day after day of “Aaaaaaah.”

Christmas was Christmas, of course.  But the day after Christmas, I shipped my husband off to Omaha to visit with his family, who he hadn’t seen since before the pandemic. He didn’t return until New Year’s Day. My youngest daughter, the only one of four children who can still be considered “living at home”, spent most of her time at work or in her apartment at school. Because she’s in graduate school now and not in the dorm, she didn’t have to move out for winter break. She’s living in an apartment complex built on the university’s property for retired nuns, single parent moms, and graduate students. They don’t make these three groups leave during school breaks, so she popped in and out of my home, but mostly stayed in her apartment. She even had her own Christmas tree this year – pink, of course, and decorated with Squishmallows.

I stayed at home. The plan was that this would give me time to fully focus on the next draft of my newest novel, allowing me to write without distraction. In truth, it ended up being so much more.

It was QUIET. It was like going to the Oregon coast on one of my retreats, but staying within the walls of my home.

And magically, it became the home of my dreams, while I lived the life of my dreams.

I slept until I woke up. I went to bed when I was sleepy. In bed, I read until my eyes were caving in and then I fell asleep effortlessly.

I had breakfast, lunch and dinner every day at my kitchen island, not at my computer. And I read there too, novels, books of my own choosing.

I practiced the piano every day. I played Animal Crossing on my Nintendo Switch every day. I watched a few favorite television shows every day. I took a long, hot shower every day.

And further…

My dishwasher was unloaded every morning and dishes accumulated during the day went right into the newly empty dishwasher, not left to pile in the sink. No one “forgot” to load it or start it, because I was the one doing it.

Every morning, there was freshly made coffee waiting for me, because I took care of setting up the coffeemaker every night before bed.

The garbage wasn’t overflowing because I took it down to the complex’s dumpster before it became overflowing.

The counters were clean and free of clutter. There were no piles of things in the hallways. The pillows were in place on the couch and the loveseat.

I went to the grocery store, bought what I wanted to have for meals, and prepared them when I was hungry.

The dog and two cats, of course, were still home, and I took care of them.

And of course, I wrote. All afternoon, into the evening, and late at night. I finished the next draft of my new novel, and on New Year’s Day, the last day of this respite, I started the next draft, which I believe will be the last. My confidence in this book soared with this ability to work on it every day, in a continuous streak that allowed me to see all of it, beginning, middle, end, with a minimum of time between writing sessions.

Was I lonely? No.

Was I bored? Absolutely not.

In terms of household chores, I was actually doing more than normal, as no one else was around to do them. But that was the thing…they were done. There was no putting it off. There were no half-attempts. There were no groans and complaints while doing them.

I like things neat. I like things organized. I like to know where something is when I need to look for it.

Honestly, I was so content. Content is absolutely the word for it. And it was different than going to Oregon. This was a whole new level of contentment, because I was home. I didn’t have to travel, spending most of the day in the air, followed by a three-hour drive, to get to this contentment. I just walked down the stairs every morning and poured myself a cup of coffee that was ready for me.

So why was this so difficult to write about? Because I didn’t want it to seem like I didn’t miss my family, my students, my clients, my job.

Do I love my husband and my kids? Oh, absolutely.

I didn’t want it to seem like I didn’t miss my students, my clients, my work.

Do I love my students and my clients? Do I love what I do? Oh, without a doubt.

But sometimes you just need that Moment of Quiet. That Moment of Self. When everything you do in a day (or a week, as this was) is something you want to do right then. And when everything you do in a day (or a week) just fills you with comfort. Contentment.

This is why I go to Oregon, by myself, at least once a year.

And this last week, I found it without ever leaving my home.

Aaaaaaaaaaah.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Well, Christmas, of course. It was a very nice Christmas, with most of my kids here, and my granddaughter here. We had the usual flinging of Christmas wrapping paper toward the honorary holder of the garbage bag, we had the usual reactions to presents, we had an hors d’oeuvres bar for lunch, which included such delicacies as pizza rolls, mozzarella sticks, and onion rings, we played Animal Crossing on the Nintendo Switch. All was merry and bright.

Around it, though, we planned several events that didn’t quite make it without a hitch.

I have always loved seeing Christmas lights. When Olivia was born, we started a tradition of going to the drive-thru Christmas light display held at a local hotel. My big kids were with their father on Christmas Eve, and this little event helped take the sting off of my kids’ absence. Plus, it gave a new tradition for my new husband, new baby, and me. We’ve gone every year (the “baby” is 23 years old now) and so this was planned as usual.

But I also added a trip to see the light display at the Milwaukee County Zoo. We went last year, and it was wonderful. My middle son, Andy, who is a zoo fanatic, also loves Christmas lights. So on the 22^nd, we planned our return trip.

What we didn’t plan was my getting sick again on the 21^st, this time with the Norovirus. My poor stomach was not enthused in any way about going to see the lights and the animals. Then my son was suddenly scheduled to work. And it poured that evening. Not snow. Rain.

And so that trip was scratched. But we’re planning on trying again this Saturday.

Also planned was a trip on the 23^rd to Lake Geneva, to board a two-level cruise boat and see the Christmas lights all around Lake Geneva. Besides the lights, we would also see Santa, and so we brought along Grandgirl Maya Mae. In the morning, I considered backing out, as I was still recovering from the Norovirus, but in the end, I decided to go. The five of us, Michael, me, Andy, Olivia, and Maya, piled into my car.

On the way there, as I watched sudden moist clouds hit my windshield, I said, “Is that fog?” In the next minute, that was answered as we drove into fog as thick as peanut butter, as Yukon Cornelius says on the classic Christmas show, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The rest of the drive was white knuckles for me, as I could barely see the dividing lines on the road. I drove right past the gathering place for the cruise, got us lost in the middle of nowhere where we couldn’t even see the intersections. Finally, through the miracle of GPS, we found our way back, parked the car, rode a shuttle bus to the dock, and then proceeded to have the most amazing time. The lights, with an eerie glow, thanks to the fog, were beautiful. When Santa, on the shore, called out the names of good boys and girls from his list, Maya Mae was the first child he listed.

She’s been very good.

But then we all noticed the boat wasn’t moving. The captain came over the intercom and said, “Well, we should be back to the dock by now, but we can’t find the dock. We’ll play some more Christmas music while we attempt to find our way.”

Olivia, being Olivia, immediately cried out, “We’re lost at sea!”

Um, no.

Eventually, we found our way back to land. But the ride home was also white-knuckled, and I got us lost again.

On Christmas Eve, Michael, Olivia, and I went on our traditional trip to the light show behind the local hotel. We were joined by Andy. The lights seemed brighter than ever this year, and the trip was delightful.

On Christmas Day, in the evening, Michael, Andy, Olivia and I planned to go to a new Christmas light show in the area, called Enchant Christmas Milwaukee. This time, as we ventured out, it was not only foggy, but pouring again. On the freeway, I managed by following the car in front of me, and we somehow found our way via the GPS. But when we got there – and “there” was a huge place, we could see lights everywhere – there were no guides leading cars to parking spaces. I’d paid for parking, so I wasn’t too worried…until I saw that the signs that were set up as guideposts had fallen over flat on the road, and turned so that the arrows went every which way. Twice, I circled around and never found where I was supposed to park. With the last trip, I found myself on the exit. So that’s what I did.

Tally: 4 trips. The zoo, the lake cruise, the Christmas Eve light show at the local hotel, and Enchant Christmas.

Final result: 2 trips, the zoo and Enchant Christmas, never happened. One while it was literally right in front of us. 2 trips taken were wonderful.

So which of these were my Moment?

None of them. My Moment happened on the shuttle bus to the lake cruise.

Since the beginning of the pandemic, I’ve met Grandgirl Maya Mae on Zoom every night at 8:30. We read a book together. We’ve gone through quite a few, and I love these moments with her. But recently, I noticed she seemed distracted during the visits. She usually was watching television while I read, and when I was done, she often didn’t seem to know what I’d been reading, and sometimes, she didn’t even notice that I stopped.

So I suggested that maybe she didn’t want to do the nightly visits anymore. Or at least, not so often.

She agreed.

One of the hardest lessons in being a parent is learning to let go. Realizing that while your children are still a huge part of your life, you are no longer a huge part of theirs. And that’s just the way of things.

So apparently, I now have to learn that this is true of grandchildren too.

Typically, when I see Grandgirl Maya Mae, she gravitates to her aunt, Olivia, and the two of them have a wonderful relationship. So I expected, on this Christmas boat trip, that she would be glued to Olivia’s side.

When I unstuck my fingers from the steering wheel of my car, I led my family over to the shuttle bus and I was the first to climb on. I chose a seat, and across the aisle from me, Olivia slid into a seat as well. Then came Grandgirl Maya Mae. She looked at the two of us…and then she turned to me.

“Can I sit with you, Grandma?” she asked.

I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

After she sat down, I hugged her and said, “I am so happy to see you, Maya Mae! I’ve missed you!”

“I’ve missed you too,” she said.

Moment made. I experienced a whole different kind of Christmas lights.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Happy holidays. Joyous days. Peaceful nights.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Yesterday, when I walked into the AllWriters’ classroom to lead the Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop, I was greeted by 10 merry-making women, a table loaded with food of all kinds, and the makings for a happy afternoon, which would lead into a happy holiday season.

The Wednesday Afternoon group has always been the personification of why I teach. I don’t know why it works out to be that way – I teach a lot of classes, meet with lots of students, and coach many, many writers individually. Since starting AllWriters’ 19 years ago, I’ve maintained a steady schedule of 85 hours of teaching per week. I am thoroughly enchanted (and exhausted) by all of my students and clients, who share a deep passion of writing with me. No matter who walks in the AllWriters’ door, either the on-site door or through the miracle of the internet, I know I will always have something in common with that person. And it makes for really tremendous relationships.

But the Wednesday Afternoon group…maybe it’s special because it was the very first class I ever taught. 29 years ago, I walked into what was then the Friday afternoon SeniorScribes, a class held by Waukesha Park & Recreation that was specifically for people 55 and up. I was asked to teach because their previous instructor suddenly left. I’d never taught before, never considered teaching, didn’t think I wanted to. I was planning on saying no, but my then-husband, who always had dollar signs in his eyes, insisted I take the job. I said, “Okay, I’ll do it. But if I’m ever teaching more than I’m writing, I’ll quit.”

(Hint: I don’t write for 85 hours a week.)

At the time, I was 35 years old, and I fretted over teaching “Seniors”. “They’re probably all writing about their grandkids and their latest operations,” I moaned. But while I moaned, I was also absolutely terrified to walk into my first classroom. What did I have of any worth to say to these wanna-be writers? While I was well-known as a short story writer, I didn’t have a book out yet, and I was walking a path of terror that I would ultimately be a failure. Teaching offered me yet another way to fail, and I really didn’t want to do it.

In that first class of seniors, filled with people I expected to write about their grandkids and operations, I listened as a man read a poem about a bracelet on his wife’s wrist that was so sensual, it made me sweat. Someone else read a piece about growing marijuana in his back yard.

Boy, did I ever have a lot to learn.

But as it turned out, so did they…from me. By the end of that first session, several students achieved their first publications. This had never happened in this class before I got there.

And by the end of my first year of teaching and as my new reputation spread, I’d had more offers from continuing education departments of several colleges and universities, as well as online for Writers’ Digest and other online schools. I went from not teaching at all, not even thinking about teaching, to 65 hours a week and traveling everywhere.

And my one constant for my full 29 years of teaching now…the Wednesday Afternoon workshop. The class has always filled and maintained its presence. When Park & Rec let me start a Wednesday Evening Workshop for all ages, they also let me move the Friday SeniorScribes class to Wednesday afternoon. When I started AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop LLC 19 years ago this January, Wednesday SeniorScribes became the AllWriters’ Wednesday Afternoon Workshop, with no age limitation. And when the workshop grew to all women, and I absolutely loved it, it became the Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop, filled with women of all ages and backgrounds and abilities. But even with all those differences among members of the class, it has consistently held one attribute:

Heart.

The Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop embodies the AllWriters’ tenet of All Writers Are Welcome Here. The biggest goal I had for AllWriters’ when I created it was that it would be more than a school, more than a place of education and encouragement and enlightenment.

It would be a community. A home. A family.

In a wonderful moment of kismet this morning, I scrolled through Facebook memories, an every-day collection of my posts over the years I’ve been on Facebook. One showed up today, from 12 years ago, on this day in 2011:

“The Wednesday Afternoon Workshop just threw one whopper of a Christmas party in the classroom.  Complete with lights strewn across the workshop table.  And homemade rhubarb wine.  I’ve never had rhubarb wine before.  I’m going to have a lot more.  It might just solve my sleeping problem.  Rum chata was there too, and all sorts of yummy food.  Wednesday Night Workshop, you have a lot to live up to!”

As I sat at the head of the classroom table yesterday, at yet another Wednesday Afternoon Workshop Christmas party, and watched these women sharing food and experiences, and later, sharing stories and poems, I saw the AllWriters’ I envisioned 19 years ago.

Writing can be a lonely avocation. But at AllWriters’, no writer is ever alone.

Including me.

Oh, and I also have to ask that Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop: HEY! WHERE WAS THE RUM CHATA? WHERE WAS THE RHUBARB WINE?

Just kidding. Maybe.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

This past Monday, I returned to the gym for the first time in just over a month. The last part of October was spent with crazy hours as the final parts of the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books were put together, and I didn’t realize, though I wasn’t feeling well, that I was about to go into a horrible case of bronchitis that would throw my asthma out of control for the first time in over 7 years.

When you can’t breathe, exercising just isn’t possible.

But Monday night, I was back in exercise clothes, including a breast cancer warrior shirt and leggings covered with images of clocks, and I walked into Planet Fitness. I breathed a sigh of relief, and then felt grateful I could breathe a sigh of relief.

Looking at me, you would never guess that exercise ranks high on my list, and that I relish the absolute joy of movement and challenge. You also wouldn’t guess that I spent years as a weight loss counselor and once considered going on the amateur body-building circuit.

You just can’t go by how a person looks on any given day. The body holds a lot of history.

I worked for three different weight loss companies, none of which were the weight loss company I actually lost weight with, and all of whom eventually went out of business. In 1987, after a weight loss of 82 pounds, I was a size 8. By the time I left the weight loss industry, I was a size 0, which was sometimes too big for me, and I had a roaring eating disorder that claimed pretty much every moment of my life. I do not remember being in shape with any fondness, and eventually, I wasn’t in shape anymore, not because of being overweight, but because of being underweight.

For each of the three companies I worked for, there were monthly meetings of all the counselors. In the front of the room was a medical scale, with the numbers turned toward the meeting attendees. All of them. You weighed in in front of everyone, your weight was announced, and its relation to your goal weight was announced too. If you were five pounds or more over your goal weight, you had one month to lose it, or you lost your job. One woman, who’d just had a baby, had to lose 40 pounds in a month. She made it, but ended up in the hospital the next week. On weigh-in day, all of us would wait in line for the restroom. Some of us used it to lose whatever was left in our stomachs after not eating for the last 24 to 48 hours to ensure that we passed the weight test.

By the time I left, I was consistently 30 – 40 pounds below my goal weight. But I stood in line with the rest, terrified I was going to lose my job.

Exercise-wise, I spent 2 – 3 hours in the gym every day. Advanced stepaerobics was my thing, and it was a daily occurrence. My bench always had four to six risers holding it up, which of course led to the knee issues I have today. I also fell in love with weightlifting. There was something about seeing the visual proof of my strength. Even as my body lost fat and then moved on to losing muscle mass, I lifted.

At home, I had my own step bench and my own weights, for days when something happened that I couldn’t get to the gym. I weighed myself countless times a day, any time I ate, any time I used the bathroom, to make sure I hadn’t put any pounds on. My then-husband actually hid the scale from me. I’d go to the store and just buy a new one.

I wasn’t writing. I didn’t have time. I was encouraging people to lose weight, I was at the gym, I was recording everything that went into my body and came out of it. I was exhausted.

I thought I looked great. I didn’t. I thought I was healthy. I wasn’t.

But I had company. My mother lived in terror of being overweight. The day I woke up to what I was doing to myself was the day she told me that at my height, 5’2”, I was still fat at 100 pounds. I needed to weigh, she said, 85. She didn’t know that on the scale that day, I weighed in at 82.

I quit working at the weight loss company. And I got help. As I put healthy weight back on, I continued at the gym. But then I got divorced, and as a divorced woman with 3 kids, I could no longer afford the gym.

Between stress and fear, within a year, all of the original weight came back on.

A lot of time has gone by. Over the years, I’ve attempted to go back to the gym from time to time. But as soon as I found myself enjoying myself, I became afraid that the old obsessions were coming back and I would end up in trouble again. So I’d walk away. It wasn’t hard to do – since creating AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop almost 19 years ago, my schedule has been nuts. Most gyms weren’t open during the times that I could get there.

In January of 2020, right before the pandemic hit, a new gym, Planet Fitness, opened in Waukesha that was 24 hours, 7 days a week. They said they were a “no judgement zone”, that everyone was welcome. I tried it out and felt at home. I could work out late at night, often not showing up there until eleven o’clock or midnight. There were a few of us nightowls there, and I felt able to do what I was doing without eyes on me. I started on the treadmill, and eventually, walked over to my old friends, the weight machines.

And they showed me that I was still strong. Not just still strong, but stronger than ever. I was able to be aware. I knew my limitations. My self-talk was different than it was back then, full of encouragement rather than insults and recriminations.

And there’s just something about the movement. Feeling muscles pull and lift, feeling the joints cooperate, following a rhythm.

Then, of course, the pandemic hit and the gym shut down. I bought my own treadmill and free weights, and they were okay, though not the same. When the gym finally reopened, it wasn’t 24/7, and I couldn’t go. I went to a second gym and took swimming lessons, and then joined a third gym that had a pool and I enjoyed that for a while…and then that gym shut down.

I returned to the original gym, the one that promised me no judgement, and the one where I rediscovered my strength. They’d returned to 24/7, and I walked back in and felt welcomed.

And now, back again, after being sick for a month. My first day back, I only did the treadmill. But last night, I returned to the weight machines. I saw my strength. I admired it. And I went home, not feeling like I should have done more, but like I’d done just enough. Just enough.

I am just fine, as I am.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

This morning, I was a guest speaker for a class of 9^th graders in an online school. The class was working on writing nonfiction, and the teacher asked me to come in for them, and for a group of 7^th graders I’m meeting in February, share one of my nonfiction pieces, and talk about how I came to write them, and about my process. I love doing this sort of thing, and so I sat down at my desk and got onto Zoom with a sense of great anticipation.

The teacher and I met earlier and talked about what pieces I should share. We chose one of my recent blogs for the 9^th graders, on the subject of my attending my 45^th high school class reunion. For the 7^th graders, we chose a flash memoir that is going to appear in the magazine Months To Years in the near future, on an interaction I had in Oregon with a woman whose son had recently died.

If you would like to revisit the blog on the 45^th reunion, you can find it here: https://www.kathiegiorgio.org/9-28-23/

After being introduced to the class, I talked a little bit about how This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News came to be and why it continues today, well after the year-long life I planned for it to have. I read the piece in four chunks, and while I read it out loud, the students followed along and highlighted different parts that they particularly noticed and they wrote comments in the chat.

Watching these kids, seeing them highlight my words where they felt my emotion, where they felt moved, where they noted how I accomplished something with a phrase or a fragment…ohmygosh, what a gift. But even more, seeing them connect to this piece about my experiences 45 years ago…

One of the biggest challenges about writing is that writers don’t often actually see the impact of our own work. We know what we want our stories and essays and poems to do, but people read in the privacy of their own homes, and unless the reader reaches out to us, we don’t know if we succeeded.

I got to watch the connection today. I got to see the impact. I got to see the success.

And the teacher! She called me a “force”.

A force!

But there was more.

As we talked, the kids told me about the books they’re reading. As each title was mentioned and talked about with enthusiasm, I realized what they were.

Banned books. This online 9^th grade class was reading banned books.

The Absolutely True Diary Of A Part-Time Indian. Sherman Alexie.

To Kill A Mockingbird. Harper Lee.

Glass Castle. Jeanette Walls.

And so many more.

I’ve written in this blog before about how my own books have been removed from the shelves of my own high school’s library, despite the fact that I am included in the “Wall of Stars” showcasing successful alumni. I abhor book-banning, and now, banning has taken on a personal meaning. But here’s the thing.

The group I presented to? They’re part of the same district where I was banned.

Guess what? I’m still here.

And guess what? Kids are still reading.

Some of my moments feel very much like whispers. Some feel like the finale of the 4^th of July fireworks. This was a finale. Filled with the colors of intelligence, open-mindedness, the freedom to read, and the freedom to think.

When it was all over, I said goodbye and moved ahead into my usual schedule. But then I received an email from the teacher, thanking me. At the bottom of the email was an image, taken of one of the comments from the students after I’d left the online room.

“I’m glad Kathie came in and read some of her writing with all of us. Her writing style and feelings throughout all of her experiences in some of her writing was really thought through and just overall a great experience to hear/read some of her writing. Her writing was relatable and truthful, sometimes a little raw that is awesome to read sometimes since it’s real life and it’s sometimes like that for some people.”

There it was.  That great big bright sonic boom that indicates the end of the fireworks.

When I met with one of my clients immediately after this appearance, I told him that my faith in humanity was restored. Well, no. That’s really overstating it, especially on a day when there is still an unholy war going on, when there was yet another school shooting, when some in our country are considering re-electing a man who should be in prison, when the Covid rate is soaring again, when this, when that, when every other thing. But while my faith in humanity wasn’t restored, I did feel a sudden infusion of hope.

In a world where the rising generation is able to read, able to open their minds to all ideas, able to feel compassion and empathy for everyone, able to grow and learn the way everyone should have the freedom to do so…there is hope.

Hope always rises.

And I’m not the only teacher who is a force.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

A couple years ago, when I bought my new car, I was really disappointed to see that it didn’t have a CD player. I played CDs constantly in the car – the car is really about the only time I listen to music, and my kids will tell you that I get “stuck” on CDs, playing the same one over and over and over again, and also likely hitting replay on certain special songs. With the purchase of this car, I suddenly had no place to put my music. My daughter Olivia encouraged me to subscribe to Spotify, and so I have, though it irks me to no end that I have to pay monthly to listen to music that I already own.

But this week, Spotify made me laugh. They put out a “your year in music” compilation, telling me what groups I listened to the most, what songs I played the most, what months I listened to the most music, what my longest streak of listening was (167 minutes!). There was even a recorded message from the group Coldplay, which was my most listened-to group, thanking me for being in the top 2% of their fans. The song I listened to most was “Clocks”, by Coldplay. I played it 64 times.

And absolutely none of it was a surprise to me.

I have always loved music, and as the years went by, music and writing became very intimately intwined. I don’t listen to music while I write, but I listen to it immediately before I write, and the songs are carefully chosen…and sometimes, the songs choose me.

Soon after being married for the first time, I began having children, and I had three in four years. This rocked my world in every way, but in particular, in writing. My daytimes were immersed in motherhood. But at 8:00, when the kids were in bed, I went down to my basement office and I tried to recapture who I was as a writer. It was hard – there were all these lists in my head over what I still had to do that day, in order to be the best possible mother I could be. But then I heard, for the first time, the song “Music of the Night” from Webber’s Phantom of the Opera. And these lines leaped out at me:

Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world

Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before

Let your soul take you where you long to be

Only then can you belong to me

And to me, this meant my mind was to go into the world of what I was writing, I had to leave behind my daytime life and go where I most wanted to be, and only then could I belong to my very own self.

Playing this song became a nightly ritual, and it helped me separate my mom-self from my writer-self and fall back into my story that much more quickly.

Years later, when I began to write my first novel, The Home For Wayward Clocks, I was in my (ick) minivan when a song came on the radio. It immediately grabbed me and I had to pull over to the side of the road to listen, and then to wait for the DJ to tell me what it was.

“Clocks” by Coldplay.

For the next three years, I played it every time I sat down to work on that book.

And so it became a ritual. With almost every one of my books (collections are excluded because I wrote those stories, poems, and essays individually, and then melded them into a book), there was a song. Readers and students have asked me over the years what they are. Here’s the list, and if applicable, the lines that grabbed me and pushed me forward.

• Writing in general: “Music of the Night”, lines above.
• The Home For Wayward Clocks: “Clocks” by Coldplay
• Enlarged Hearts: “Robot Boy” by Linkin Park, “Hold on, the weight of the world will give you the strength to go.”
• Learning To Tell (A Life)Time: “Sweetness Follows” by REM, “But sweetness follows.”
• Rise From The River: “The Scientist” by Coldplay, “I was just guessing at numbers and figures, pulling the puzzles apart. Questions of science, science and progress, could not speak as loud as my heart.”
• In Grace’s Time: “One More Night” by Phil Collins.
• If You Tame Me: “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac, “Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life?”
• All Told: Because there were many stories going on inside of All Told, there were several songs that I switched between. “Warning Sign” by Coldplay, “A Thousand Years” by Christi Perri, and “Against All Odds” by Phil Collins. The final chapter in that book required its own song, “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane and sung by the incomparable Grace Slick. The lines, “When logic and proportion Have fallen sloppy dead,” were exactly what was going on in that chapter.
• Hope Always Rises: “Shallow” by Lady Gaga. “I’m off the deep end, watch as I dive in, I’ll never meet the ground.”
• Don’t Let Me Keep You: the current book in progress, due out on October 3, 2024. “When I’m With You” by Sheriff. The whole damn song.

And every one of these songs was on my most played list for 2023. Why? Because when I’m in my car, going somewhere away from my desk, doing something away from my desk, I play this playlist to remind me, as I did so many years ago in a basement office, of who I am.

So two things brought me my moment of happiness this week, in the middle of listening to Spotify tell me what my most played songs were. First, when it comes to being a music-listener, they identified me as a “Vampire.” A vampire? But they went on to define this as, “When it comes to your listening, you like to embrace a little…darkness. You listen to emotional atmospheric music more than most.”

That made my jaw drop for a second, but then that turned into a “Well, of course.” My music is attached to my writing. And what do I write?

But then I got into my car, no longer a minivan, to drive home from a visit to my chiropractor. I was tired, still sick with acute bronchitis, still fighting out-of-control asthma, and all I wanted to do was sleep. I started the car, and my car connected to my cell phone, which connected to Spotify, and suddenly…

“Clocks” by Coldplay.

And I belonged to myself again. Who I am.

I drove home, sat down at my desk, and wrote.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Good grief. Having to come up with a moment of happiness after a week of being really sick is a challenge. Not only a week of being sick, but a week of mishaps and mistakes by the medical industry that left me sicker instead of better, and it was during a week that I wasn’t teaching so that I could glue myself to the computer and work on the new novel. Which I still managed to do, just not as much as I planned.

Whew.

Well, actually, I can think of some things. It’s amazing how important creature comforts become during times like these. Two of my creature comforts were actually creatures! But here is a list of what helped.

• Chicken soup. Now this one is a mixed bag for me. I actually purely hate chicken soup. Once, when I was about thirteen years old, my mother, never a great cook except for potato salad and cole slaw, took it upon herself to make homemade chicken soup. The house reeked of the cooking soup all day, and unbeknownst to us, I was in the process of getting the worst case of stomach flu. As the smell (note I do not say aroma) grew more and more pervasive, I grew more and more nauseous. About the time the soup was done, so was I. From that point on, I have associated the smell of chicken soup with vomiting. When my kids were little and sick, I had the hardest time not gagging while I fed them Campbell’s Chicken With Stars soup.

But on my first real visit to see Michael when he still lived in Omaha, he introduced me to, of all things. Maruchan ramen noodle soups. You know, the cheap ones in the cellophane package that you can pick up at the store for like ten for a dollar. The chicken noodle soup was amazing (so is the chili flavor!). And so that’s what I had (the chicken noodle, not the chili) at the height of illness this week. It felt so good on my throat and it cleared up my sinuses for a few minutes…and I know it’s probably the only chicken soup that isn’t all that healthy. But it was oh so good.

• Root beer floats. I was about three or four days into this episode when I suddenly began to crave a root beer float. Not a shake, not ice cream…a float. We went to Culvers and I had to take Michael because my voice wasn’t working. I’ve had several floats this week, and with my latest visit to the doctor, I came home to find Michael had stocked the fridge with vanilla ice cream and root beer. I’m all set for recovery.
• Sleep has never ever felt so good. It became a challenge to fall asleep between coughing fits, because once I was asleep, it seemed I could stay that way. But add to this sleep that I was covered to the nose with two blankets, but also had a fan blowing…heaven. When I woke in a fever sweat, I had the fan. When I had the chills, I was buried. And every now and then, I was joined by a little gray cat named Muse who perched on my shoulder and purred. Creature #1.
• Watching reruns of the old television game show, Match Game. Michael discovered on the Freevee channel that there were several old TV game shows from our childhood being replayed. One was the classic Match Game, with Gene Rayburn, Richard Dawson, Brett Somers, Charles Nelson Reilly, and more. This was the game that introduced my young teenage self to the power of innuendo. And one week in 1973, the show featured Michael Learned and a young Richard Thomas from The Waltons. It’s hard to laugh and cough at the same time, but I was happy to do so.
• Well, books are always a creature comfort, aren’t they. I ripped through Elizabeth Berg’s Earth’s The Right Place For Love like a mad woman, bringing it with me to every trip to the doctor.
• Oh, my dog, Ursula. Creature comfort #2. Typically, if I sit down next to Ursula on the loveseat that serves as her bed, she flips onto her back, bares her teeth in a smile, and waits for a tummy rub. But on these mornings, she sat up, tucked herself under my arm, and leaned into me, tucking her head on my chest. What a hug. When I sat at my desk, she was beside me, with her concrete head on my knee. Now that I have a nebulizer for breathing treatments, she’s caught between running up to save me from the machine and tearing from the room in fear. She’s been choosing tearing from the room, but she always comes back to make sure I’m okay.

And through it all, I’m healing and I’m going to be okay. The hardest part was that my regular doctor, who has known me for over two decades, was out of town and I had to face off with new young doctors who seem to mostly think that the only illnesses in this world are Covid, RSV, and the flu. They would tick off each one, nope, nope, nope, declare me fine, just a little cold, and send me home, despite the fact that I was wheezing loud enough that people in the waiting room stood up and moved away from me. I kept telling them what it was, bronchitis that then throws my asthma out of control, but they didn’t listen. Luckily, my doctor came back into town yesterday, saw what was happening, and called me in, even though he had to stay after hours to fit me into his schedule. He listened, kept saying, “Yep, there it is, yep, there it is,” and set me up with a predisone burst, a breathing treatment, and antibiotics. He even got me an at-home nebulizer, which I’ve never had before, so I can have the breathing treatments throughout the holiday weekend and terrify my dog.

I have never been more grateful for a doctor who listens. And who realizes that at the age of 63, I am the one who is the most knowledgeable about my body.

All is well here. Have a great Thanksgiving, everyone. Be grateful for life and breath, and for all the people who love you.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Anyone who has read my books and stories knows that, usually, somewhere within the piece, Starbucks will appear. So will the grande cinnamon dolce latte, with only two pumps of cinnamon dolce, either iced or extra hot, depending on the season. That is my drink of choice.

Now before you yell that I don’t support the small business, I definitely do. I am one. And I frequent many independently owned coffee shops. My favorite is Espresso 101, right near my little house on the Oregon coast. It has a fabulous French toast latte. But Starbucks holds a place in my heart, for reasons that became apparent again this week, and I’ll show you why.

First, many years ago, when I was working on The Home For Wayward Clocks, I often wrote in a Starbucks because one near me had a fireplace. The baristas allowed me to come in, pull a table directly in front of the fireplace, and work. The fireplace would be on, night or day, summer or winter. Around me, the sounds of the coffee shop bolstered me and rocked me to its rhythm, but my eyes were locked on the screen. The baristas would quietly come by from time to time with a new drink for me…and not charge me.

By the time that book was published and released, I’d switched to another Starbucks, closer to my home, that had a drive-thru. Sometimes I sat inside, other times I whipped through the drive-thru and carried my drink home. But one day, after the book was published, I drove up to the drive-thru window and the barista leaned out. “Kathie,” he whispered, “there’s someone in the café reading your book!” Ohmygod. I got my drink, then parked my car and went inside. I sat where I could see the reader, and I watched her facial expressions and how quickly she turned the pages or hovered over one. When she prepared to leave, she picked up the book, hugged it to her chest, then put it in her backpack.

I was ecstatic.

In 2017, I was being treated for breast cancer. The baristas knew, because the day I was diagnosed, I went through the drive-thru. Tears were still streaming down my face. From that point on, everyone in that café was part of my support system. One barista, who realized she’d gone as long as I had without a mammogram, went in for hers and discovered she had breast cancer too. We went through it together.

But on the day of my partial mastectomy, after I came home from the hospital, I asked my son if he could go get me my favorite drink. I wasn’t allowed to drive right away and I was still too groggy from the anesthetic. My son drove up to the drive-thru and ordered an extra hot grande cinnamon dolce latte with just two pumps of cinnamon dolce. No one replied through the speaker for a minute, but then the barista said, “Is this for Kathie?”

“Yes,” my son answered. “She’s my mom.”

My son drove to the pick-up window, where several baristas were waiting. They wanted to know how I was. My latte was free. And when I held it after my son delivered it to me, I read all of the encouraging and supportive messages they’d written on my cup.

Amazing.

So this week. I’ve been fighting a cold for a while and, this week, it got worse. I coughed my voice away. When I pulled into the Starbucks drive-thru yesterday afternoon, I sounded like a frog with laryngitis. I croaked with a whisper. I was worried they wouldn’t be able to hear me over the speaker, and so I leaned out of my car as far as I could and did my best to whisper loudly.

There was a pause, and then a voice that I recognized said, “Kathie? Is that you?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Okay. I can see you through the screen. Do you want your usual? Give me a thumb’s up if you do.”

Thumb’s up.

“Do you want it iced?”

Thumb’s down.

“Hot?”

Thumb’s up.

“Extra hot?”

Thumb’s up.

“That’ll be great on a sore throat. Would you like something else?”

Thumb’s up.

“Okay. Let’s see. What do you like? The cheese danish?” (which has also appeared in my books)

Thumb’s up.

“Come on around.”

When I got to the window, I smiled at the barista whose voice I recognized. He recognized mine even when I didn’t sound like me. Several other baristas called hello and then told me to get better. When my barista handed out my drink, he said, “I wrote a message for you on the cup.”

As I drove home, I spun the cup, trying to see the message, but I didn’t see it. I thought maybe my stuffed ears heard wrong. But when I sat down at my desk, I looked a little closer and then tugged down the brown sleeve that my barista kindly tucked on so that I wouldn’t burn myself on my extra hot drink. There, under the sleeve, was, “Feel better soon!”

You know, sometimes it’s the little things that just make you feel better. Thank you, Reese at Starbucks.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I have to admit, despite the Moments I’ve been writing, I’ve been having a difficult time. When so much of your life is focused on one thing – in my case, writing – and that one thing goes off the rails, it’s hard not to go off the rails with it.

For me, the knocks came fast and furious, like a one-two punch, and they weren’t small punches. Finding out that my books, all of my books, were banned from my local school district, including the school I graduated from, and where my name hangs on a wall featuring successful alumni, was the first punch. An uppercut, let’s say, firmly on my jaw. When I found out, I ran into my school and took a photo of the plaque with my name on it, just in case they would decide to take that down too. I still have the award, which is a pretty thing, sitting on a bookshelf in my office.

What’s so hard to accept with this (I have been banned before, but this time…), is that this is the administration that stood behind me when I was seventeen years old and a senior in that school. They had a creative writing magazine (they don’t anymore, nor a school newspaper) and they accepted a story I wrote. It was, amazingly, set in Heaven. God was a computer and Jesus was what I called a “computer mechanic” because “technician” wasn’t in general vocabulary yet. The end of days came, which was essentially the computer breaking down. The people of the earth looked up, shrugged, and then went about their lives.

Some parents found out about my story and said the school shouldn’t publish it, it was sacrilegious. The administration stood behind me and published it anyway. I felt protected, safe, lifted up…and respected.

And now…my books are banned. Hope Always Rises, which came out after the ban, never sat on a shelf in my school.

Soon after this, a list was published online, showing all of the 183,000 books that were stolen in order to train AI (artificial intelligence) programs for computers. Yes, stolen. The books were protected by copyright, but the books were taken without permission. And no compensation. I put my name in the search engine for the list, not expecting to find myself, but there I was, with my first book, The Home For Wayward Clocks.

I’ve written about this before, but it’s leading up to what happened this week, so bear with me.

I teach writers. I encourage and support them. I advocate for them. And suddenly, I found myself wondering if I should be. I wondered where the respect for writers was going, or if it even still existed at all. We’ve all seen commercials, television programs, and movies about people whose jobs were taken over by computers, and we’ve seen these people pack up their things and walk sadly away from places where they’ve worked hard, been faithful, been productive.

Suddenly, I pictured writers, pictured myself, closing my computer lid and walking away. My books were banned by a place that once supported me and had my back. And computers were writing books by stealing the words of real, hard-working writers.

It’s been difficult.

But last weekend, at the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books, I found myself surrounded with readers. They filled the hallways and the classrooms. At one point, when I stepped out of a room where I was presenting to go to another room where I was going to be on a panel, I found myself totally immersed in a crowd of people (all mostly taller than me, which isn’t hard to do), calling my name, asking questions, filling me with comments.

And, in one of my presentations, called Real Talk About The Writing Life, I heard myself saying that you have to choose to be a writer because you love it. You love words. You have passion for what you do and what you want to accomplish. And I heard myself. My voice, which started out shaky, built in power and conviction.

And respect. Respect for what writers do. Respect for what I do.

So where did that come from? Why did it come back?

The day before the festival, I received an email from a reader. Among other things, this reader said:

“I went into this book cautiously and came out in love with the characters and the story. I cried throughout most of the chapters as the story grabbed me by the throat and the heart and caused me to reflect so deeply on things and people I have lost. It caused me to look at suicide differently and that thought alone will take me some time to process. Thank you for writing this!”

Thank you for writing this. Oh, right back atcha.

And then, just a couple days later, I received another email from a different reader. And among other things, this reader said:

“First, I am a newer Christian and second, I was the wife of a man who committed suicide.   I wasn’t sure if your book would upset me by bringing back those memories but it was completely the opposite.  Your portal warmed my heart and brought peace to my remembering.  It just made sense! The way you captured the multitude of emotions and events that encompassed so many types of people – WOW!   But, oh, how you personified God!  It was perfect!  I still keep thinking of his flannel PJs. I have read books that I wanted to share with people but I have never had the overwhelming compulsion to buy your book for people in my life. Thank you for your creative genius and amazing imagination.  Truly, your book will never leave my heart!”

Trust me, this reader wasn’t the only one who cried.

This week, I gathered myself together. You know when a fighter falls into his corner and all those people work on him and lift him up and thrust him back into the ring?

I’ve been thrust back into the ring. And I’ve come out swinging.

Thank you to everyone who attended the book festival. Thank you to the mob that surrounded me. And thank you to the readers. Thank you to the readers. Thank you to the readers!

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.