This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

New Year’s resolutions are all around us right now. Articles on the internet talk about how they fail. Television commercials are all about weight loss and fitness. I usually pay very little attention to resolutions, but this year, I decided to bring about change. In my case, though, I’m not moving forward. I’m moving backward.

For several years, I worked as a weight loss consultant for three different weight loss companies. I’d lost a substantial amount of weight myself and the step into mentorship seemed a natural one. I actually kept the weight off for over ten years, which meant that I was a “success” – but all successes can be reversed. In my case, I became too successful.

Everything in my life became about my body. I weighed myself over 25 times a day. If I sneezed, I weighed myself to see if that little explosion caused a loss. I kept a constant magnetic food diary on my fridge and everything that went into my mouth went onto that diary. If I made a mistake, it was devastating to me. My shame was exposed on the refrigerator. I worked out every day of the week, doing advanced step-aerobics and body-building. My platform in step-aerobics teetered high on two risers, putting my knees at dangerous angles, but I didn’t care.

Everything else fell to the wayside. My writing. My family. My daughter, who was in afternoon kindergarten, would come with me to the gym in the morning, sit in the daycare and cry, then come home with me to have lunch. She’d help me apply my makeup, standing next to me like a surgeon’s assistant, handing me the next tube or brush or powder. Then I’d walk her to school and she’d cry while watching me drive away. I saw my boys at breakfast. They were asleep by the time I got home. I worked seven days a week.

Monitoring. Checking. Weighing. Measuring. At work, we had to weigh in once a month in front of everyone, and if we hit five pounds over our goal, we had one month to lose it or lose our jobs. I lived in constant fear of the work scale. Even when I sunk to almost twenty pounds below my goal weight. Even then, my mother, an incredibly tiny person who spent her life shopping in the girl’s department (not juniors – the GIRL’S) told me I was still fat and needed to lose more, so I dropped an additional fifteen. I simply stopped eating. I ramped the workout schedule. I fainted.

I was so sick, and I didn’t even know it. I thought I was healthy. I thought I was beautiful. I thought I was a role model.

And then I broke.

Fast forward to now. I never returned to the gym or to formal dieting, afraid I’d hurt myself again. I threw myself into an intellectual life, ignoring the physical. Writing and my business keep me always busy. As the pounds came back on, I told myself I couldn’t go to the gym – there was no time. And there really wasn’t. After my bout with breast cancer two years ago, the oral chemo I’m on for five years exacerbated my Oral Allergy Syndrome, making it impossible for me to eat raw fruits, raw vegetables, seeds, or nuts. I go into anaphylactic shock. I now have an epi pen in my purse and on every floor of my house.

But through it all, you know what I missed? The movement. The weight lifting. The feeling strong. I loved aerobics, but the weight training had a whole different impact. Once, before I went off the deep end, I was working the circuit in the weight room and two men came up to watch me. I ignored them and just kept on lifting. Eventually, one guy looked at the other and said, “I guess women just aren’t delicate anymore, huh?”

Bear in mind that at this point in my life, I was quiet. I didn’t speak back, I didn’t speak out. I was pretty darn submissive. But I carefully lowered my weights (don’t clang!), turned to the men and said loudly and clearly, “Fuck you.” With those weights in my hands, I was strong.

So as 2020 approached, I sat and gave myself a talking to. I’ve been very focused on what I can’t eat – not what I can. I can eat cooked vegetables and cooked fruits. A new gym opened up in town that is open and staffed 24/7. I could go work out after midnight, when I was done with work for the day, instead of sitting in my recliner and watching television. I wouldn’t lose sleep –  I’m awake at that time anyway.

It’s been years – since the early nineties – since the eating disorder. I am now no longer just a strong woman when I am lifting weights. I am a strong woman. Period. My life used to be all physical. Then it switched to all intellectual. Now – I believe I can do both. I can be strong in mind and body.

I can do this.

So I joined the gym and started attending this past Saturday. I’ve been there every day this week. And my moment of happiness?

Sitting down at the first weight machine. Grasping the handles. Lifting. The weights were set lighter than years ago, but I could do it. And it was still there, the lyricism of muscle, the contraction, the release, the rhythm. Breathe out while lifting, breathe in while releasing.

The strength. And yes, the delicacy of a body with muscles and tendons and sinews all working together. Like a clock. Like a machine. But with heart.  There is poetry in words. But there is poetry in the body too.

I could have cried with the sheer joy of it.

I can do this. Watch me.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

And Happy New Year!

When my daughter Olivia came home for her first Christmas break from college, it absolutely stunned me that she returned without her three best friends since her very young childhood:

Maxie: a beanie baby-sized blue and white bear or dog, depending on who you talked to, representing some drug (apparently a giveaway from a pharmaceutical company), picked up at a rummage sale by Olivia’s grandmother when Olivia was about a year old. I honestly don’t remember why Maxie was named Maxie.

Norman: a kangaroo with a pouch, but a male name. During my first residency at the Vermont College of Fine Arts, where I earned my MFA, they held a fundraising auction of items donated by faculty and students. Olivia was born in October of 2000, and I left for my first residency in December of 2001, so Olivia was only 14 months old and I was full of grief and guilt over being so far away from her for 15 days. I missed her first steps, and by the time I came home, she was running. When the kangaroo came up for auction, my hand shot up so fast, I don’t think anyone dared bid against me. I named him Norman because that’s what he looked like, despite the joey-less pouch, and he sat on my bed in my dorm room for the rest of the residency and rode with his head sticking out of my backpack when I flew home.

Teddy: a homemade teddy bear with a cliché name, purchased during my second residency in Vermont.

These three have accompanied Olivia from her bedroom in our first house to this one, from sleepover to sleepover, to Oregon and Myrtle Beach, on college tours, and back. Wherever she goes, they go.

And she came home without them. They’re on her bed in her dorm room.

“Mom,” she said, when I expressed surprise at their absence, “do you want me to go back to get them?”

I’m not sure why I was so stricken. Maybe it’s just another sign of her growing up. Maybe it’s because I feel like she always has a source of comfort when they’re around, even if I’m not.

Maybe it’s because, at 59 years old, my own special stuffed animal, Rontu, is still in my closet. I’ve never grown up enough to leave him behind.

I was either seven or eight when I met Rontu. My mother took me to the S&H Green Stamp store to make some purchases, and while I waited for her, I wandered to the storefront window. On a rocking chair was a black and white stuffed dog with a big nose and floppy legs and jingle bells in his ears. I climbed into the window, sat in the chair, rocked, and listened to his bells ring. And fell in love.

I told my mother I wanted this dog. She said she didn’t have enough stamps. So I said I’d ask for him for Christmas. On Christmas Day, as soon as I picked up the box, I heard the jingle bells. No present was ever opened faster.

I named him Rontu, after the Aleut dog in my favorite book at that time, The Island Of The Blue Dolphins, by Scott O’Dell. Karana, the main character, nurses Rontu back to health after she shoots him in the chest with an arrow. She says that Rontu, in her language, means Fox Eyes. Well, my Rontu didn’t have fox eyes. He had cloth black and white eyes and jingle bells in his ears. And I loved him to distraction. It didn’t matter the time of day or night, he was there for me. When I cried, it was into his ears. When I was happy, I shook him and he sang with jingles. For the longest time, I played out an imaginary story in my head where scientists blended my ovarian eggs with a black and white dog’s sperm and Rontu was the result. He was my baby. I know, that’s weird. But my imagination has always been just slightly off the tracks. Ronto was way more than my baby. He was my partner, my security blanket, my forever companion.

He came with me to college. He sat on my bed during my first marriage. He was nearby on a chair for my second marriage. And now he resides in my closet, where I see him every day when I get dressed and I smile at him.

He’s fragile. Hardly any fur left. But he still jingles.

This week, I had the stomach flu. And it was a horrible version of it. During the worst of it, when Michael moved downstairs so I would have instant access to the bathroom and I was wracked with unstoppable nausea and body aches that wouldn’t let me straighten my body out, I got out Rontu and curled my body around him. My cats were annoying nursemaids, insisting on getting in my face or laying directly on a sore joint. Not so Rontu. He lay quietly pressed into my belly and I felt better. If I shifted even a little bit, he still jingled.

Sometimes, you can reunite with pure childhood happiness even in the middle of a bout of the stomach flu.

I hope, when Olivia returns to college, she swoops down on her three best friends and lets them know how she missed them. I hope they are, to her, what Rontu is to me.

Everyone needs a Rontu.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

And Merry Christmas!

Now I know I could have said Merry Everything, or Merry all the different practices in the world, but I’m not. To me, Merry Christmas covers it all, not just Christians (and in fact, I get quite perturbed when I hear a Christian retort, “Say Merry Christmas! You liberals aren’t taking that from us!”, because there’s nothing to take). Any story with Santa Claus ends with him saying “Merry Christmas!” The classic Dickens tale A Christmas Carol isn’t about Christianity.

Christmas is giving. I find that to be the simplest definition.

BUT…that’s not what this blog is about. This is about my moment of happiness this week.

On Christmas day, after everyone who was going home went home, and Olivia was in her room, and Michael was cleaning up the demolished kitchen, I mentioned to him that I didn’t understand why I kept seeing Facebook posts about the movie Die Hard. “Why is everyone discussing watching Die Hard?” I asked. “What the heck?” Now I will admit I’ve never seen the movie. It’s not the sort of film I enjoy.

Michael explained to me that many people consider it a Christmas movie. When I asked why, because I understood it to be an action movie, he said, “Because it takes place at Christmas.”

So I pondered that for a bit. Is that all it takes to be a Christmas movie?

When I think back to all the movies and TV specials I watched as a kid and even now that I associate with Christmas, I came up with the following list:

A Christmas Story

A Charlie Brown Christmas

Frosty The Snowman

Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer (only the original please)

A Year Without A Santa Claus

The Night The Animals Talked

Santa Claus is Coming To Town

A Christmas Carol (I have particular fondness for the musical version)

How The Grinch Stole Christmas (animated)

The Little Drummer Boy

And of course, of COURSE, The Homecoming, the made-for-TV movie that resulted in the TV series, The Waltons.

Ever since it came out in VHS (whenever that was) and now in DVD, I have watched The Homecoming on Christmas Eve. My brother calls John Boy John Boob. My ex-husband teased me and the show mercilessly whenever I watched it. And Michael, my current husband, holds his tongue until the Walton family is sitting around the radio, listening to Fibber McGee and Molly. Michael sputters that the particular episode they’re listening to was actually aired in 1940-something, not when this particular TV movie takes place. But I watch it avidly, settling in whatever couch or recliner or chair I have at the time, and I turn out all the lights and I refuse to talk to anyone. My shoulders relax, I take a deep breath, and I sink into that world. Either out loud or in my head, I recite each and every line.

The movie takes place on Christmas Eve in the Great Depression, and John, the father, is late getting home from his job far away, where he stays during the week to provide a paycheck for his family. There is a bus crash and Olivia, the mother, is sure John was on it. Eventually, Olivia sends out her oldest, John Boy, to look for him. Before then, she asks John Boy what he’s hiding in his mattress, and it turns out that it’s a tablet, where he’s been writing. He says,

“Things stay in my mind, Mama. I can’t forget anything. And it all gets bottled up in here, and sometimes I feel like a crazy man. I… I can’t rest or sleep or anything till I just rush off up here and write it down in that tablet. Sometimes I think I really am crazy. If things had been different, Mama…I could have done something with my life. What I would have liked, Mama…was to have tried to be a writer.”

Olivia reassures him that he can, of course he can.

And every year, I sucked those words in, those words I didn’t hear from my own family, though I did hear it from the most wonderful line-up of teachers. I listened to them and I listened to Olivia and I listen to her still and I believed her.

And then…I believed in me.

Best Christmas gift ever. Year after year after year.

I won’t watch Die Hard, just because it takes place at Christmas time. Just give me The Homecoming. I accept its gift.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Just wanted to show everyone that the new lion is in and he’s wonderful. Also, if you go to my personal Facebook page, https://www.facebook.com/kathie.giorgio.5

I am having a contest to name the lion. Winner gets their choice of one of my books, signed and delivered. If more than one person chooses the same name, then those people will be put into a drawing.

Isn’t he perfect?

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

Here we have the continuing story of the Literary Lion – this one is called The New Literary Lion.

Well, we’re almost exactly a month beyond the theft of our Little Free Library books and my own Little Literary Lion (see November 21 This Week’s Moment). Despite a huge wave of community compassion, with Facebook posts being shared over and over, people looking for the lion as they drove throughout Waukesha (and by one particular address), looking on CraigsList, Facebook Marketplace, and other for-sale sites, articles in the local newspapers, and on and on…Little Literary has not come home. I can’t tell you how I’ve been moved and heart-warmed by the support over what some might consider silly. But after my blog on what that little statue, and the two before him, meant to me, that he’s way more than a concrete lion, people just HELPED. It wasn’t isolated to Waukesha – thoughts of love and encouragement came from around the United States and around the world.

Sadly, I kept an eye out for another Literary Lion. There were so many things that he had to be. Heavy, for one. In good shape, of course. Not overly scary – so many children visited Little Literary. So the new lion had to have a sweet face. He had to look intelligent. Thoughtful. Literary, donchaknow. He had to look at home in front of a typewriter, if there was a typewriter for him.

I saw a lion listed on Facebook Marketplace that really pulled at my heartstrings. He was called “vintage”. He was so vintage, his front paws had worn away. I wanted to give him a safe home where he could continue to disintegrate in peace. But, I reminded myself, that’s not the purpose of the Literary Lion.

Then I saw another one that I just fell in love with. A lying-down lion. He was relaxed, laid back, his tail curled neatly to his side. Thoughtful face. But…he was two and a half hours away, in a town called Elwood in Illinois. With my schedule, I just couldn’t figure out how I could spare five hours in driving, and who knows how much time actually picking up the lion. I asked the seller if he could be shipped. It would be really expensive, he told me. And he was afraid the lion would break. I put a notice up on Facebook, looking for someone who lived close to the lion, who could pick him up and meet me halfway. But there were no takers. Reluctantly, I looked away. But every time I did a search on the Marketplace, both for my own Little Literary, in case the thieves put him up for sale, and for a new lion, I saw that thoughtful face and I hovered there for a bit.

Then not one, but two lions came up for sale nearby. I had some trepidation – what would I do with two? And they were roaring, which I was afraid would make them scary. But I contacted the seller and off we went, me, Michael, and my son Andy. When we pulled up, the woman came out, looked at Hemi, my car, and said, “You’re planning on taking them home in that?”

She neglected to tell me that when she purchased the lions, they were delivered in a truck and put in place with a crane. They weighed 500 pounds. EACH. They would have broken my car’s suspension.

We went home lion-less.

When I posted about this latest fiasco on Facebook two nights ago, a student asked me about the one I loved in Illinois. I explained that he was still available, but just too far away. I posted his picture, sighed, and went downstairs to teach my class.

When I came back up, I found a message from my friend Stephanie. Stephanie used to be one of the hosts of an NPR radio interview show about books, and she interviewed me many times. We always had so much fun, and our interviews could have gone on for hours. She moved away to St. Louis, my birthplace, a few years ago. “Surprise!” she messaged me. “The little lion from Elwood, IL will be picked up tomorrow by me as I’m on my way to Chicago.” Her husband, she explained, would continue up to Wisconsin and pass the lion off to me.

I was floored. And thrilled. Oh, holy cow. Or holy lion, I guess. Oh, merry Christmas!

On Wednesday, she sent me a photo of the lion riding next to her in her car. He was so heavy, he set off the seatbelt indicator. He had to be strapped in. I am getting a very safety-conscious lion.

That night, I messaged the seller, thanking him for his time and being willing to work with Stephanie to get the lion to me. His wife answered. “When I heard that your friend was bringing you the lion, I was happy because you really wanted it…I truly wanted you to have it after you tried so many ways to get him.” I sent her a link to the previous blog, so she would understand just how much this lion means to me. She said, “I love the story and, yes, you are a Literary Lion. Fierce in your conviction and love. May he be your new Literary Lion and friend.  I will miss him.”

I’ve gained a friend, and not just in lion form.

Today, I met Stephanie’s husband in the parking lot of a shopping mall, and between the two of us, we managed to get the lion from one car to the next. He is just…everything. I sang all the way home, and he rocked out in the back seat.

The next step…getting him under the Little Free Library. Am I worried he might be stolen too? Not so much now. He is way heavier than any of my previous Literary Lions, and he’s low to the ground. His long body will be all the way under the Library, and there is no way he can be tilted forward to lift up. He would have to be dragged by at least two people straight out, and then lifted, and by then, the noise would alert us. A security camera is also going in, and possibly a GPS tracker.

Trust me, I hate having to even think of these things. But I guess, in this world, in these days, I have to.

But…this world also contains people who search for missing concrete lions. Who try to find new ones. Who go out of their way to help me to bring one home, the perfect one. I am just astounded at the number of people, students, readers, friends, strangers, who rushed to reassure me that my dreams are still intact, still viable, and that in many ways, I am living them right now. I’m not just reaching for my dreams. I am holding them firmly in my hands.

I am a Literary Lion.

And if Little Literary still finds his way home? He will take a seat beside this new lion. Literary Lion #4. His name is still to be chosen – I’m kinda leaning toward Elwood. But he’s here.

Thank you to everyone who made this happen, and who created this Moment Of Happiness. Thank you especially to Stephanie Lecci. Love you lots. And thank you to Timothy and Betty, who sent this little lion on his way to me.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, happy, happy, happy, everyone.

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

This past Saturday, I was out at the mall, doing Christmas shopping, when I was unwittingly captured by one of those skincare guys. You know the ones…they’re attractive, usually bearded, young, have a lovely accent. And they always call you “miss” even if you’re a million bajillion years old. I honestly have no idea how it happened. I usually cross to the other side of the mall to avoid them, but somehow, there was suddenly this hand offering me a free sample in a shiny silver packet, and the next thing I knew, I was being led into this little store with a really comfortable chair.

I realized where I was and I thought about just saying, “No, thank you!” and escaping, but that chair looked good and I’d been shopping for a while. So I decided to take a little break, then say no, and move on.

The first thing that happened was my guy, who called me “KAH-dee”, told me I have beautiful skin for my age. He didn’t ask me my age. I didn’t tell him my age. Then he told me the only flaw he saw was I was a “bit poofy” under my eyes. I started to say that was because I rarely get more than a few hours of sleep at night, but he was off and running, snatching my glasses, and smearing some creamy stuff under my right eye. Then he took a little fan and blew it at me while telling me of the miracle of this cream. “You will feel it tightening, KAH-dee,” he said. “And you will look ten, twenty years younger.”

Oh, I felt it. The skin under my eye began to feel like it was being pulled to my ear. I don’t remember feeling like that when I was forty or fifty.

He kept showing me my reflection in the mirror, which, since he had my glasses, I couldn’t see. Finally, he plopped them on my nose, and yes, I was less “poofy”. But man, it was uncomfortable.

He began rhapsodizing about how young I would look, and how he loved my style (I was wearing old jeans and a favorite sweater) and how he loved my hair (it was time for a haircut and it was sticking out in every possible direction). He mentioned how I don’t wear make-up.

I don’t. I used to. I used to have a job where I had to slather on the make-up and look like I stepped off the cover of a magazine. I hated it. I also used to have one ginormous eating disorder from working in a field where I had to look incredible and incredible meant being about twenty pounds below my recommended weight and a teeny tiny size four.

I don’t ever want to go back to those days.

He asked me when I last did something for myself. Lost in that memory, I was tempted to say when I walked out of that old job, but I didn’t.

“Twenty minutes ago,” I said. I’d gone into a store to buy something for my sister for Christmas – mission accomplished! – and walked out with a lovely little pin that looks like a lizard. For me.  “And,” I said, “I’m heading toward another store to buy myself two or three more sweaters. I cleaned out my closet last fall and got a little too generous with the give-away pile.”

“Oh,” he said. He frowned. I’d thrown him off his script. I could well imagine the number of women who sat in this chair who honestly could not think of the last time they did something for themselves. I was lucky – it was an unusual day for me. But that lizard waved at me and called itself Newt and it reminded me I needed sweaters while in the middle of shopping for others.

Then he said, “Well, you need to take care of yourself MORE, KAH-dee! Here is what I will do for you!” He stacked two of the skin care cream bowls beside me and told me they each cost $200, but for me, for ME, he would sell them both for just $200. “And I will do more, KAH-dee!” he said, and I wondered if he had a second job as a tv commercial announcer on all those made-for-tv products: “But wait! Order now and we will double your order!” He ran and got a slim tube of hand lotion. “I will throw this in too, KAH-dee!” He said the hand cream cost another $50. “So how will you take care of this?” he asked me.

I smiled. “I won’t,” I said.

The look on his face was positively stricken. “But, KAH-dee!” he said. “You will look so much younger!”

I stood up. “Look,” I said. “I’m not buying it because I’m happy with who I am. I’m proud of who I am. This is who I am, even my skin. Ten, twenty years? I don’t want to move backwards. I’m moving forwards.” I patted his face gently. To my surprise, he burst into the sweetest, most sincere smile. “Respect my age, respect me,” I said. “At least with me, you won’t make a sale by disparaging the results of my experience.”

And then I left. I bought three sweaters for myself.

The thing is, the lecture I gave him was one I had to listen to as well. I’ve been unhappy about turning sixty this coming summer. But my response to him was genuine and I felt it throughout every pore of my almost-sixty year old skin.

I’m happy with who I am. I’m proud of who I am. Respect my age, respect me.

I hope he learned something. I did.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Despite the news indeed, this week in our small city. On Monday, Waukesha exploded with news and nerves as not one, but two high schools were put on lockdown with gun threats. In one, a pellet gun was involved, the suspect shot by a police officer and sent to the hospital where he remains in stable condition. In the other, details are sketchy, with a suspect arrested in his house.

I live in the middle of downtown, and throughout the morning and afternoon, sirens went off and police cars whizzed by. Helicopters hovered. There were reports of swat teams and ambulances.

I no longer have anyone in the high schools, but it was still unnerving. And through it all, one question remained unasked and unanswered. I swallowed it and waited.

My daughter Olivia graduated from high school last spring. I found myself relieved that she was no longer there – she attended both high schools involved. But then I found myself feeling guilty for feeling relieved, because there were still all these other kids behind the locked doors.

I think the whole city held its collective breath that day. We didn’t begin to breathe again until lockdowns were lifted, children were released, press conferences were held, and reports that arrests were made and the only injury was to the suspect with the pellet gun. Then we all looked at each other uncertainly, not sure how this happened, not sure what would happen next, not sure what we could do to keep this from ever happening again.

And still, I didn’t hear anyone ask my question. I remained silent, unsure if I should be feeling what I was feeling.

It wasn’t until that evening, after everything was done, that I spoke to my daughter via Facebook Messenger. I caught her up on the events at the high school she attended for her freshman and sophomore years, and then at the high school she attended for her junior and senior years, where we moved her because of the extent she was bullied in the first high school.

The suspect with the pellet gun was from this first high school. A school that left us with no wonderful memories, but instead, a need to leave and find wonderful memories elsewhere.

My daughter, small on the screen in front of me, brought both hands up to her mouth. Her eyes widened. And then the first thing she said, the first thing she asked, was the question I’d been silencing.

“Mama,” she said, “what about the boy? The boy with the pellet gun. Is he okay? What was he going through that he would do such a thing? Is he getting help?”

She released the question I was scared to ask. The question that made me wonder if I was even feeling the right thing. The day had been filled with newsbreaks, showing people exclaiming, “Put him away! Lock him up! Why didn’t the police officer just blow him away?” and others saying, “I’m going to homeschool from now on,” and “It’s time for us to move away.”

To where? And how does that help anything?

I didn’t ask the question out loud, under the pressure of the overwhelming public response. I worried, with everyone, over the well-being of the students hiding in darkened classrooms, the faculty that tried to protect them, the school resource officer and police officer forced to make an awful decision. But I also worried, silently, about the boy with the pellet gun at one school, and the boy arrested from the other school, with so many details left unsaid.

And now my daughter said those words out loud. Is he okay? What was he going through that he would do such a thing?

The horror on her face reflected not just the act, but what was behind the act.

My heart burst for this girl, my girl, whose compassion knows no boundaries. Her sheer humanity makes me grow prouder each and every day.

May we all follow in her example. May there be many, many others like her in her generation.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

 

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

Today is Thanksgiving in this part of the world. It’s a moment when we’re supposed to sit back and think about what we’re grateful for. One of the things I’ve learned through doing the Moments is that we can’t reserve that for just one day. It has to be a daily, year-long, lifelong process.

I have to start this again with The Waltons, though technically, not The Waltons television show. The show was born from a made-for-TV movie, The Homecoming. The kid actors and Grandma Walton remained for the television show, but the adults, Mama and Daddy (Olivia and John Walton) and Grandpa Walton (Zebulon Walton) were played by different actors. Near the beginning of the movie, Mama, played by Patricia Neal, comes up from the cellar and says, “Who wants to see something pretty?” Of course they all do. And she shows them her blooming Christmas cactus. Everyone is delighted.

My Christmas cactus bloomed this year. It’s blooming its crazy head off in the AllWriters’ classroom. And I was delighted. It struck me that, sometimes, maybe most times, we look for big things in our moments of happiness. We look for big things to be grateful for. But those small things really are what gets us through our days. So I paid attention this week to what little things got me through, instead of watching for that one Moment Of Happiness.

1. The Christmas Cactus.

Michael bought this little Christmas cactus for me two years ago, when I was fresh off of radiation therapy and still reeling from the breast cancer diagnosis. I waited in the car to pick him up from the grocery store where he was working. When he came out, he said, “I got you something.” And then he pulled out the Christmas cactus, handed it to me, and said, “Who wants to see something pretty?”

Seeing that little cactus bloom this week reminded me of my favorite show. But it also reminded me of a kindness from someone who really knows me and understands what makes me happy.

2. A song that lifts me up.

I love music and I always have. I sing with the best of them in my car. But from time to time, a new song comes on that just makes me want to close my eyes and listen. Dangerous when you’re driving, let me tell you. But this week, I bought the new Coldplay CD, called Everyday Life. I stuck it in my car and the first song came on and I was just…gone. I kept my hands on the steering wheel and my eyes open, but all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sink into it. There were no voices, but there was a violin that sang. I played it six times before I returned home – I didn’t play the rest of the CD until later. And when I sat down at my desk, I looked it up on YouTube and I played it again. And you know what? While I was with the song, that violin immediately connected me to my daughter, Olivia. I pictured her playing it. And I rejoiced.

The song is called Sunrise. You can hear it here. Be in a place where you can safely shut your eyes. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H97NQznnvZo

3. Writing that takes me away.

Note that I didn’t say a book, though it was a book that did this. But good writing, whether it’s in a poem, an essay, a short story, a novel, a memoir, can make me just melt. Sometimes, I have to stop reading for a minute, stare into space, and think or say out loud, “Wow.” Absolute admiration. And an admiration that makes me want to do my very best when I sit down to work on my own stuff.

The book that did it to me this time: The Confession Club, by Elizabeth Berg. Thank God I was on break when I began to read it. I was able to just live that book for the couple days it took me to read it. I. Loved. It. I don’t know how many times I Wowed.

4. The pristine thoughts from a child.

I brought my granddaughter, Grandbaby Maya Mae, to see Frozen II. She’d been waiting to see it for so long – she is a true Frozen fan. After the movie, we had lunch at McDonalds, and out of nowhere, Maya suddenly told me she didn’t understand a part of the movie. She didn’t understand why Anna, one of the characters, didn’t fight (at first). I explained that Anna always had help around her before – her sister, Elsa, her friend, Christoff, and a goofy snowman named Olaf. But now she was alone and she had to learn that she could do it, she could be strong and she could be smart. Maya considered this, then said, “I knowed I am strong.” She bent her arms to show me her muscles. “I knowed I am smart.” She tapped her head.

She is. She knows it. Despite being into princesses, which is frowned upon by some these days. But this is a child who knows what she likes and who knows who she is. She’s writing stories. She makes amazing things out of mosaic tiles. She’s quiet and introverted out in public and she’s okay with that. And she loves princesses, dammit.

I knowed she is strong. I knowed she is smart. And I am so happy she knowed it too.

5. Nights without sleep when the morning didn’t matter.

Being on break this week, I’ve been able to sleep as long as I want to. And, I can tell you, my morning hasn’t hit before 12:30 all week. But bear in mind my day doesn’t usually end until two or three in the morning either.

Two nights this week, I couldn’t fall asleep. So I went downstairs, put on the fireplace, wrapped up in a blanket, and read. First, I read the Elizabeth Berg book I already mentioned, and then I started in on Andre Dubus’ III book, Gone So Long. And in the middle of it, I looked around my quiet home, the firelight flickering, a single lamp shining on my pages, all alone in my living room, and it was quiet outside too, and I felt at peace. I felt of a piece.

That doesn’t happen often. But I’m so grateful when it does.

So. This week’s moment of happiness despite the news? That there were so many moments that lift me up, keep me going, and that I am finally, finally aware of.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It’s really amazing how many times I can tie something back to my favorite television show, The Waltons. This, then, is the story of Little Literary Lion.

I was around 23 years old when I first saw the episode of The Waltons called The Book. At this point, the show was off the air, but was run in syndication on the Family Channel. I was hugely pregnant with my first child, and I was struggling to figure out what being a writer meant, now that I graduated with my degree and I was on my own and, amazingly, publishers were not breaking down my door to offer me a contract. In this episode, John Boy is discouraged when he’s raked over the coals in his first serious creative writing workshop in college. John Boy’s mother, Olivia, picks up on his discouragement. There is a new business in town called Majestic Press. She brings John Boy’s selection of short stories to the publisher, and lo and behold, they accept them. Unfortunately, and too late, they find out that this is a vanity press, or a self-publisher. In the end, all they have is a box of 50 books and a bill for fifty dollars.

Before they know this, a professor stops John Boy on campus, and says, “Mr. Walton, you’re getting to be a regular literary lion!” And later, Olivia says to her husband, “Imagine! Our son, a literary lion!”

At 23, and for all my life, I wanted to be a literary lion too. That phrase stuck with me.

In Manhattan, outside of the New York Public Library at Fifth Avenue and 42^nd Street, there are two very well-known statues of lions, also known as Literary Lions. Since the 1930’s, they’ve been named Patience and Fortitude.

I wanted to be a literary lion. I wanted to have patience and fortitude. These are so necessary to be a writer.

And so, this led to me always wanting to live in a place with a lion out front. A regal lion. A literary lion.

LITERARY LION #1

When we moved to our current location, I despaired of ever having a literary lion. Instead of living in a place steeped with history and classic architecture, we chose to move into a brand new, industrial style, modern live-where-you-work condo. AllWriters’ is on the first floor, and we live on the second and third floors. But on a shopping trip to Sam’s Club, I came across a large fiberglass and resin sitting lion. He looked…very literary. So I brought him home and sat him in a little cutaway by our front door. He lasted about a year. I drove home one day and saw all these black pieces on the road. I wondered what it was. Then I saw that Literary Lion was missing. Someone attempted to steal him, but then must have grown tired of lugging him and dropped him, where he shattered. A part of me shattered too.

LITERARY LION #2

But I wasn’t ready to give up. Sam’s Club still had one left, on clearance since he was last summer’s stock, and I brought him home. He actually lasted a few years. Then I found him sitting in the middle of North Avenue, just waiting to be hit by a bus. Again, abandoned by a thief, but at least this time, not dropped, but left for certain death. I brought him home and moved him into the classroom, where he sits to this day. I vowed to buy a concrete Literary Lion, who would be too heavy for a thief to take.

LITERARY LION #3

On June 15, 2011, I drove to O’Hare Airport, to pick up my daughter who was flying home from grad school in Florida. My middle son came with me. On the way home, we stopped at Garden Star Garden & Art Gallery in Kenosha. I passed this business many times and I always admired the amazing array of concrete statues on display. This time, I stopped, on a lion hunt.

And I found him. Little Literary Lion. He was smaller than #1 and #2, but he had an intelligent and benign face. He wanted a conversation, not a kill. And he was heavy as hell. My son and daughter both struggled to carry him and put him in his place. At that time, it was at the base of my hibiscus tree, in a pot outside the studio. During the summer, Little Literary sat in a jungle of potted flowers. And in the winters…well, he put up with the snow.

In April of 2014, I added a Little Free Library to the front of the studio. Little Literary took up his post under it. I often heard people talking to him as they looked through the books. Children in particular took delight in the little lion. Students spoke to him. He became a guidepost – “You’ll know you’re at AllWriters’ when you see the concrete lion sitting under the Little Free Library.” I gave him a pat on the head every time I filled the library with more books.

AND NOW…

Last week, someone took Little Literary Lion. He’s gone. Whoever took him had to work as a team with someone. All I know is he’s missing. Someone also stole almost all the books in the Little Free Library. And this is about so much more than a missing garden statue.

I want to be a literary lion. I want to have patience and fortitude. And I want to believe in the common goodness of people.

This year, I turned 59. Obviously, in 2020, I’ll be 60. One of my favorite books is Elizabeth Berg’s The Pull Of The Moon. In it, a newly-turned 50-year old woman enters a time of personal grief. I read the book when I was 36, and I grieved for her. Then I read it again when I turned 50, and I grieved with her. There is a line in the book that says, “The season of losses is upon me.” She was talking about her daughter going off to college. The loss of many things for her physically as her body changed with age. My youngest daughter just went to college and my oldest daughter just moved away to Louisiana to teach at a college, both within a couple weeks of the other. My body has now dealt with cancer.

With turning 59, I’ve ached with these losses, but my aches are particularly sharp around dreams. There are things I want to achieve that I haven’t, and I know the likelihood decreases every year. Having a book made into a movie. Being on the New York Times Bestseller List. Having Oprah on my speeddial.

And, you know, being a literary lion. Despite 10 books published, the 11^th book accepted this week, and who knows how many stories and poems in magazines and anthologies… “Ms. Giorgio, you are becoming a regular literary lion!” has not happened to me.

It’s been hard to think about.

And so the disappearance of Little Literary Lion is like a metaphor to me. My literary lion has disappeared. Just like the dream.

Add to this the feeling that the world has spun into such a negative cycle, I can barely breathe. I struggle daily to find the good. Just in the last week, there’s been the impeachment hearings, a video of a koala screaming in pain while being burned by out-of-control fires in Australia, a video of a tiger being so abused in performance in a circus that she had a seizure and was then dragged by the tail and had a bucket of water thrown on her before being beaten. In front of an audience that did nothing. There’s been more school shootings and attacks.

And the books from my Little Free Library, meant to provide entertainment and solace to those who love to read, were stolen, along with my Little Literary Lion.

In this world, not even a little literary lion was safe.

So things turned pretty black for a bit. Yes, I am going to turn this into a moment of happiness.

On the AllWriters’ Facebook business page, on Thursdays, I leave a tip for writers. This week’s tip was how to make yourself pay attention to the positives, like acceptances, and turn away from the negatives, like rejections.

Last night, I stood by my front door and looked at the empty space where Little Literary Lion used to be. My heart ached. And then I said, despite the clichés, “Healer, heal thyself. Practice what you preach.”

Two people stole Little Literary Lion. Too many people to count are trying to find him for me. The community has shared my posts, the local Waukesha Patch did an article, and I am receiving emails and phone calls of support, along with photos of a variety of concrete lions to see if they’re mine. People have shared tales of stolen gargoyles and angels, all of which were way more than gargoyles and angels.

Which means there are still more good people in this world than bad. I lifted my eyes from the dark shadow beneath my Little Free Library and I looked at the light.

As for me? Did you see that one line in the middle of this? My eleventh book was accepted this week.

MY ELEVENTH BOOK WAS ACCEPTED THIS WEEK!!!!!! Its title is No Matter Which Way You Look, There Is More To See.  It’s a full-length collection of poetry.

I’ve had patience. I’ve had fortitude. I still do. And I AM a literary lion. Despite no movie. Despite not being on the New York Times Bestseller List. Despite Oprah not having a clue who I am.

Let me tell you, she should.

And who knows? Maybe Little Literary will still find his way home. To those who are helping, I can’t thank you enough.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

If you follow my Facebook page, you might think you know what my Moment is this week. Yes, I found out If You Tame Me won second place in the Women’s Fiction division of the Pencraft literary awards. Yes, I found out that two of my students received awards too. Yes, one of my students signed a book contract this week. Yes, yes, yes!

Yay!

But my Moment happened just about a half hour ago. When I walked out of the dentist’s office.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am terrified of two things. Terrified. Not scared. Not freaked out. TERRIFIED. Those fears would be birds and the dentist.

I’m not sure where the bird fear comes from. But I know what caused the dentist fear. I really don’t know anyone who enjoys the dentist, though my husband has fallen asleep in the dentist chair. But he’s narcoleptic, so that doesn’t count. For me, there was trauma after trauma in that chair, to the point where I can’t stand sitting in any chair that is remotely similar.

When I was a kid, ether was still being used. I was ethered a lot – my baby teeth’s roots did not dissolve, and so as the adult teeth sprouted behind the babies, I was hauled off to the dentist, who strapped a foul-smelling rubber mask over my face and pulled out the teeth. I also endured five eye surgeries, and until the fourth surgery, ether was the anesthetic of choice. I have ether nightmares to this day. It had a smell similar to gasoline. It caused me to see and feel as if I was spinning down inside a huge black tornado. There was a sound of funhouse laughter – awful, maniacal laughter. I could also hear breaththrough bits of the dentist and hygienist talking, and I’d hear screaming – me. I also heard the crack as a tooth or teeth were pulled from my mouth. When I woke, I was dizzy and nauseous, often throwing up out the car window on the way home.

Terrifying.

Add to that my being immune to novocaine.  And no one believing me. When there was a cavity, I’d be given shot after shot after shot, until the dentist would say I was faking it and he’d go ahead with it. Sometimes my wrists were tied down to the arms of the chair. By the time I was a teen, I stopped screaming. I knew it was useless. But I couldn’t stop the tears.

All of which leads to my beyond-terror of the dentist, despite knowing that dentistry has improved by leaps and bounds.

Today, I had to have a cleaning and have two fillings done. I’d cracked a tooth about a month ago, which led to going to the dentist, which led to the cracked tooth being filled, plus the one behind it, and then the discovery of the two cavities on the other side of my mouth. I had a cleaning a year ago, and the hygienist who did it was fully pregnant with twins, and she was also in love with Wally Lamb. She had the gentlest touch – I told her what a good mother she was going to be and we discussed books. The cleaning was a breeze. But, as I found today, she decided to stay home with her babies. Today, I had…Attila the Hun.

Any time I said, “Ow,” she dug in more, and when I said ow again, she said, “Okay,” poked somewhere else and then returned to the scene of the crime. I could taste the blood in my mouth. At one point, where she was particularly harsh, I said, “Ow, ow, OW!” and she said, “Okay, okay, okay,” and then said she was going to tell the dentist because there must be a problem there. Like she was punishing me. I gathered my wits and said, “The tooth didn’t hurt. You are sticking that thing into the same place in my gums and digging for gold.” She smirked. When she was done, she approached me (and my bleeding mouth) with floss. And I found the voice I never had as a child, where I felt like I had to open my mouth to whoever asked me to and do what I was told.

“No,” I said, and removed my bib. “No flossing. You’ve already poked between my teeth with your spear. That’s enough. No more.”

She didn’t say anything. She stopped. Wow.

The fillings weren’t fun, but they were better than the cleaning. At one point, during the first injection (I received 3 of whatever they give me now, to make sure I get numb – and I do!), the dentist actually shook my shoulder and said, “Breathe! Breathe! You’re turning blue!” I breathed, but as I waited for the numbing to take effect, I shook and shuddered. I had student manuscript pages with me to read, but I had to set them aside, as I couldn’t make my hand steady enough to write. But the numbing worked. The procedure didn’t hurt, other than the fear hammering at me.

And then it was done. I shot out the door. I didn’t even put my coat on first. And the sky was there. And the scary birds were there, but they were singing. It was cloudy, but as far as I was concerned, there was sunshine and rainbows and eighty-degree temps and maybe even a unicorn, though I’m not a unicorn kind of person.

And there was me. And my mouth. Me and my mouth that were intact. And learned how to say no. And mean it. And be heard.

If I ever see Attila the Hun again, I will say no immediately and ask for someone else. I have no need of that kind of punishment.

Whew.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.