Category: General

It’s the during-the-day before an evening when I’m reading and Q&Aing at an event, and those are always days full of jitters.

I teach, coach, guide, and advocate for writers. But a huge part of my job is building up a writer’s confidence when their confidence collapses. And because I do this, many people seem to believe that I have confidence that can’t even be broken by kryptonite.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Twenty-five years of teaching, and a lifetime of writing has taught me that writers are this confounding conundrum of amazing Ego (I’ve written something important! I’m going to change the world!) and an absolutely crippling lack of self-confidence (Whatever made me think I can write? I can’t write. No one thinks I can write. I suck.). Writers can zing between these extremes at a rate beyond the speed of light. I’ve seen it happen in the course of the same sentence: “I’ve written something really important, but really, I only write for myself, because nothing I have to say is worth reading.”

And the thing is, I can say these sentences too. “My twelfth book is being released at the end of the year and my 13^th book is being released at the beginning of next year and here’s a rejection from Rinkydink Magazine and ohmygod, my entire career is just a fluke.”

I’m not kidding.

So now we zoom in on today. The event is just under 9 hours away. And I’m already a big ol’ blob of nervous sweat. I’m the featured author for the Pendleton Center For The Arts First Draft Series. I’m going to read for about a half hour, from If You Tame Me and No Matter Which Way You Look, There Is More To See. Then a Q & A, and then there’s an open mic.

I was originally supposed to do this last July, live and in person, in Pendleton, Oregon. I’ve been to Pendleton before, in 2016, when I was asked to visit the Eastern Oregon Correctional Institute, a men’s prison which also happens to be the home of the last clock-making school in the US. The director of the prison asked if I would come and share my novel, The Home For Wayward Clocks, with the men in this school. It was an event that changed my life, my vision of what prison is, my perception of who resides inside. So I was delighted to come back to Pendleton, to serve in a different way. And, upon reading the website for the Pendleton Center For The Arts, I saw Ursula Le Guin presented there. I was going to get to stand where Ursula did, read my work where Ursula read hers. I was thrilled outta my mind!

There’s a reason why my dog is named Ursula.

And then, of course, COVID. My trip was canceled.

Now, nine months later, it’s moving ahead. Not live, but on Zoom. I won’t stand where Ursula did. But I’m still a part of what she was a part of.

Last night, I was talking with someone who is familiar with the Pendleton Center For The Arts, and who is attending. She told me about someone else who will be there, someone who is an artist and has exhibits in museums around the world.

And I felt a twinge of the crippling end of the conundrum I spoke about earlier.

At the top of the Center’s website is a place you can click to see, as they say, “the list of esteemed writers who have headlined this series since 2013.”

Esteemed! And I lost my legs.

Then I looked through the list. And began to whisper, “Why, why, why am I doing this? Why did they invite me?”

Writers. Confounding conundrum. Big Ego. Crippling lack of self-confidence.

Including me. Even after a lifetime.

About an hour ago, I pulled out what I’m going to read tonight. And I read it. And frankly, I loved it. Loved it.

That’s when I really heard my lament, the words I chose to use, that had my answer within it. “Why did they invite me?”

They. Invited. Me.

Ursula Le Guin said, “Belief is the wound that knowledge heals.”

I believed. I hurt. I know.

And I will take the stage tonight in a Zoom way, with the stage being my office and my audience being a screen full of faces in boxes, and I will have the time of my life.

I hope Ursula watches from above.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

If you wish to attend tonight, here is the Zoom information. The event will be followed by an open mic, which you do have to sign up for. The event begins at 7:00 p.m. Pacific time, 9:00 p.m. Central time, or 10:00 p.m. Eastern time.

Join Zoom Meeting
https://us02web.zoom.us/j/4648101155?pwd=SjVvaFk1SjVDNzVCZzB1THdMRUM4UT09

Meeting ID: 464 810 1155
Passcode: PCA

 

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

Since the onset of COVID, which meant a sharp decrease in seeing my granddaughter, Maya Mae, I’ve been meeting her almost every night on Zoom. I read a chapter from a book, and lately, she’s been reading a book to me as well. We often chat about her day, about what she’s up to, where her interests are going. I’ve watched her ride around the house on her hoverboard, make great creations with her Light Bright and a variety of different tiles and bricks, and I’ve said hello to all manner of stuffed animals. While it’s nowhere near the same as seeing her, it’s been wonderful.

Recently, she shared her new collection of coins. They were just your everyday coins, but to Maya, they were magical, with their dates and ridged or smooth edges, the variety of heads on the front, the silver, the bronze. And of course, they rattled when she shook them. It sparked a memory for me, and so I went digging.

In the back of a dresser drawer, there was a sandwich baggie of coins that I’ve had since childhood. There was a 1925 silver dollar, that I’m told I was given by my maternal grandmother on the day of my birth. 1925 was the year my mother was born. The silver dollar was indeed all silver. It was kept in a special plastic pouch to keep it from tarnishing. The silver gave it a solid weight and, as a child, when I held it in my small palm, I was amazed at how much space it took up. I was also amazed that something that was a “dollar” could be worth more than a dollar.

Tucked in the plastic pouch was a 1964 quarter, which I’m assuming was given to me on my fourth birthday. 1964 was the last year that quarters were made with silver.

Rattling with these in the sandwich baggie was a Bicentennial half-dollar, and I remember well tucking this coin away. My father was recovering from his first heart surgery that July 4^th, and I remember sitting with him and watching the regatta of tall ships on television. I also had several coins that my father brought back from WWII, coins from different countries. One of my favorites was a penny that, unlike our penny, was a large coin, as large as the 1925 silver dollar. It amazed me that our penny was so small, and this penny was so huge.

So I pulled these coins out of the hidden recesses of my dresser drawer, where they languished. They hadn’t been part of a small girl’s admiration for many years. It was time to change that.

When I was on retreat last week, I visited a Goodwill in La Crosse, one I’d been to before, and absolutely the best Goodwill I’ve ever been to. I scoured the shelves of odds and ends until I found the perfect container for the coins. It was a pink pleather jewelry box, small, with a snap closure keeping everything inside safe. It was lined with pastel pink crushed velvet and the insert that was meant to hold rings easily lifted away, giving a nice space for the coins to rest. I pictured Maya holding it by the strap and shaking it gently, listening to that glorious rattle. The little box made the trip home with me.

Sunday was Easter, and because I now had my second vaccine, I had Maya come over, even though I wasn’t yet past the 2-week waiting period. It was worth the risk to give her her Easter presents in person. After she exclaimed over the fuzzy stuffed cow, the book of 5-minute Pepa Pig stories, a make-your-own unicorn terrarium (Grandpa picked that one out!), a chocolate bunny, a chocolate bunny lollipop, a bag of jelly beans (which Maya told me she doesn’t like, but since they were Starburst jelly beans, she would give them a chance) and a bag of peppermint patties, I called her over to me and showed her the little pink jewelry box.

“I know you’ve gotten interested in coins,” I said. “This is a special present, which you have to keep very safe. Look inside.”

She unsnapped it and I lifted out the coins, one by one, and showed them to her.

“Remember my telling you that my grandmother gave me a 1925 silver dollar when I was born?” I asked.

She nodded.

“This is it.” We took it out of the pouch and I laid it on her palm.

“Oooh,” she said. “It’s heavy!”

Our heads bent over her hand, we marveled at how much space it took up on her palm.

“It’s from 1925,” I said. “Do you know what year it is now?”

She thought for a moment, and then said, “2021.”

“Right!” I said. “That means that in four years, this coin will be 100 years old.”

Her eyes got as big and round as the silver dollar. “Really?” she whispered. “Wow!”

I showed her all the others, and then explained again that these were special coins and she had to take special care to make sure they remained safe. “Especially that silver dollar,” I said. “My grandmother gave it to me. And now I’m giving it to you.”

The hug was the best part. I felt a bit misty as Maya walked out the door, carrying the coins I’d held onto for so long, and carrying the coin that was a part of me for my entire life. Now it was a part of hers.

The next day, on Zoom, Maya took me into her bedroom and showed me the pink box. She took out all the coins and displayed them to me again. She held the silver dollar on her palm. Screen to screen, we bent our heads over it. After she carefully put it back into the pouch, she held up the foreign penny. “Look at how big this penny is!” she said. “So much bigger than ours! Isn’t it huge?”

In her voice, I heard my voice echo. I see my wonder in hers. I see me in her, young all over again, life just starting out.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Since starting this blog back in 2017, I guess it could be categorized as an “I’m happy to be alive” sort of thing. But I never expected my moment of happiness to actually be an “I nearly died and I’m so glad I didn’t” moment.

Last Friday, I left home for the first time since COVID hit. I don’t really count trips to the grocery store and to pick up take-out. I mean leave, as in climb in the car and go somewhere and stay awhile. In this case, it was for a week-long retreat in Onalaska, Wisconsin. As I wrote last week, I take retreats to get a break from the many roles that I play. It’s a chance for me to fully immerse myself in my own writing, to be alone in the quiet, to do things because I want to do them, not because they’re my responsibility. I learned over this past year that it’s just not possible to do this at home. I live in a live-where-you-work condo, and so AllWriters’ is on the first floor, at its own address, and I live above it, on the second and third floors. Consequently, I am never away from work. Taking a “retreat” at home, it’s all too easy to answer the phones, answer emails, check out possibilities for the studio, still let it eke into my everyday existence. And so I go away.

I’ve been to this little cottage before. It’s all in one room, the only doors leading to outside and to the small bathroom. A few feet away from my front door is Lake Onalaska, an expressive lake that changes every single day. I knew there were going to be differences with this retreat, with COVID still around. I wouldn’t be going out to eat. I wouldn’t be sitting in a coffee shop every day, casually sipping my drink of choice and reading a book of my choice. I wouldn’t be wandering the streets, window-shopping and going into stores that attracted my attention. But I still wanted to go.

And what I learned was that I really need to pay attention to my own gut instincts.

When I arrived in the early evening on Friday, I opened the door, heaved a big breath, and  instantly thought I smelled gas. But then I made excuses – it was probably just mustiness. The owners had been in the cottage before I got here, restocking it and leaving me the keys. They would have noticed the gas smell. So I went around and opened all the windows, despite the 40-degree temps outside. The place aired out quickly, and by the time I went to sleep that night, I didn’t smell anything.

Over Saturday and Sunday, I thought I smelled whiffs of gas, especially as I passed through the kitchen area on the way to the bathroom. There was a gas stove. I don’t use a gas stove, but I thought it was probably normal to get brief sniffs of gas from one.

Then I began to get headaches. Allergies, I thought. I felt queasy from time to time. Eating too many prepared foods, I thought. I noticed my skin was pinker than normal, and I wondered if I’d somehow gotten sun on the way to the cottage, despite not being in the convertible, or if the owners possibly used bleach in their sheets. I’m allergic to bleach.

But then Monday morning. I’d had an odd night, in and out of bizarre dreams, not quite able to wake myself up. Then I did suddenly come awake at 10:15 a.m., with a horrendous headache, fully nauseated, and the smell of gas all around me. I got out bed and had to hold onto the walls as I went from window to window, throwing them open. I had very little muscle coordination. And all I kept thinking was, I’m dying. I’m dying.

I threw open the front door and stood in the fresh air, not caring that I was naked, not caring that it was freezing. I breathed. I tried to get my brain to work. I got to my cell phone and texted the owners. I didn’t think to call 911. My brain was stuttering.

I managed to get pajama pants and a t-shirt on before the owners arrived and called someone to come turn the gas off. I just kept breathing.

It wasn’t until later in the afternoon that the enormity of what happened, of what could have happened, hit me. The cottage was aired out. The leak was to the stove and the gas was shut off. I got in my car and drove to an independent bookstore, Pearl Street Books, in La Crosse, one that had me visit twice for an event and signing. With COVID shattering so many small businesses, I wanted to stop in, to share my encouragement and support, to buy some books. I told the woman behind the counter who I was and she immediately ran about, finding the books of mine they had for sale, having me sign them, taking a photo of me which went up on their Facebook page. I bought every Ramona/Beezus/Henry book by Beverly Cleary they had. Three days before Beverly Cleary’s passing last week, I was reading a book over Zoom to my granddaughter, and a character in that book mentioned Ramona and I lit up. “I need to read you the Ramona books!” I said. And then Cleary died, and I thought, I have to read her even more now. She has to stay alive.

I stood there in that bookstore. Bookshelves with ladders went up to the ceiling. Old hardwood floors that gave that special creak. Writers everywhere, including me. Including me! I turned to my left and my eyes fell on a shelf that held two novels written by one of my students.

And I was suddenly saturated with the realization that I was alive, the gift of being alive, the wonder of waking up as my breath was being taken from me. Everywhere around me in that bookstore in that moment was my life…writing, writers, students, books, bookstores, family, passion, compassion, and on and on.

I was never so happy to be breathing in my entire life. Not when I made it home after the assault that started this blog. Not when I woke up after the breast cancer had been removed from my body. Never so much as at this moment.

I have never been so happy to be here. In this body, in this brain, in this life. I am so grateful.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Last night, when I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep for frustration. I hadn’t been able to figure out what I was going to write about for this week’s Moment. There are weeks when the whole world seems so dark, I struggle coming up with a Moment. But this week wasn’t dark. My every thought was toward going away on a retreat, leaving on Friday, having an entire week to write and to sleep and to stare at a lake and literally do whatever I want whenever I want, and not do it at home. At times, I felt giddy, other times, worried. It’s been an entire year since I’ve been away from home. COVID grounded me. And now…and now…I am going to step out.

This morning, I woke up with the same frustration. I began to peg through my schedule, figuring in everything that is supposed to happen between now and tomorrow at 1:00 p.m., adding in a surprise vet visit for my dog who was suddenly limping, and wondering how I was going to get it all done…when I realized.

My Moment of Happiness this week is that I am feeling anticipation. I’m excited! I’m looking forward! I’m going on a road trip in a new car and I’m going to be all by myself in a little one-room cottage that faces a lake and OHMYGOD, I’M GETTING THE HELL OUT OF DODGE!

It’s been a year. I think it would be wrong to say it was a totally awful year, as there were some really nice moments and events. But…it’s been a year.

Since I started my studio, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, I’ve made it a point to get away, by myself, for at least two weeks every year. I typically go to the Oregon coast (I’ll be there in July!), which is pretty much as far away as I can get without leaving the country. Few more steps and I’d be riding a whale to Japan. The retreat has become so important to me, because when I’m there, I feel like I sink most deeply into who I am. I step away from my roles as wife, mother, grandmother, instructor, editor, coach, business owner, even, really, my role as woman. I become just…a writer. Me. I’ve deliberately left the studio phone as a landline so that I can’t take a cell with me – the studio stays home. For those two weeks, I sleep when I’m tired, I eat when I’m hungry, I read what I want to, and…I write. I also paint, but the painting is for pure enjoyment, not for the outside world.

In the last year, I couldn’t do that. I tried to take breaks from my home, but it just doesn’t work that way.

A few years ago, I won a week-long retreat through a contest with a Wisconsin writing organization. I was delighted, but I knew one week wouldn’t be enough. I decided to forego Oregon and combine that week with an additional one in a lakeside cottage somewhere. The won retreat was in the middle of Amish country, and I knew I would miss being by water. So I found this little cottage on Lake Onalaska, near La Crosse (one of my favorite Wisconsin towns). My week there was idyllic. And so, even though I know I’m going to Oregon in July, I decided I would take a week’s retreat back to that cottage. When I booked it, I didn’t know the vaccine was going to be spreading almost as fast as COVID did. I reasoned that, even going during the time of COVID, I am basically trading one set of four walls for another set, but this new set looks out on a lake and is, above all, quiet, tidy, lovely.

And now I’m less than 24 hours away from being there.

My adrenalin is up, not from fear, but from anticipation. Everything in me is leaning forward, ready for the starter’s pistol: Get ready…get set…GO! RELAX! WRITE! BE!

The news has basically been good lately. We’re still hearing COVID numbers, but we’re hearing the vaccine numbers too. People are cheering for themselves and for others who find themselves at the business end of a needle. You can feel the uplift. Under their masks, people are smiling. I read an article in the New York Times the other day, about the things people are saying they’re going to do first when they’re two weeks past the second injection. Number one on the list was hug grandchildren, and I immediately burst into tears.

I’ve already told Grandbaby Maya Mae that, two weeks after my second shot, I’m going to hug the stuffing out of her. And we’re going to the movies.

The second thing: have everyone over for dinner.

The third will happen two weeks after my oldest daughter gets her second shot: Going to Louisiana and seeing her for the first time since the August before COVID. Hugging the stuffing out of her too. Seeing firsthand what her new life looks like.

But first…sort of as a pre-first thing, I’m stepping back into myself. I’m leaving home and hunkering down in a beautiful spot and I’m going to do what I do best. Write. Then write some more.

Welcome back, anticipation. Welcome back, excitement.

I’ve missed you.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I think, whether we’re willing to admit it or not, we all have emotional connections with inanimate objects. Sometimes, we’re made to feel shame about this – “It’s just a material thing!” – but ultimately, I think it’s a human thing. Or, maybe it’s something that makes us human.

The objects that I actually talk to, connect with, claim as family…are my cars. Queen’s song “I’m In Love With My Car” was written for me, I think.

From the very first car I owned to now, everyone has been given a name. Everyone has a personality. My first car was a 1969 Chrysler Newport 4-door sedan that I bought from my father for a dollar in 1980. His name was Tank. He is featured very strongly in my novel, In Grace’s Time, that car such a presence that he became a silent character. When the publisher asked me for ideas for the cover, I said, “It has to have a tan 1969 Chrysler Newport, four-door sedan.” I sent a photo. And so the car is immortalized on the cover.

Since then, there’s been a Dodge Neon, a Chrysler LeBaron, a Ford Windstar (the only vehicle I’ve ever owned that I hated and did not cry when I traded it in), a Nissan Frontier Crewcab Pick-up, a Chrysler Sebring, a Chrysler 300C Hemi, and a Chrysler 200 convertible. Neon (not the most imaginative name, but pronounced with about five E’s), LeB, Windy, Fronty, SeB, Hemi, and Semi.

Last July, I tried and failed to replace Hemi and Semi with a new car, a Beemer convertible. Even before I drove it off the lot, I knew I hated it. How? I didn’t know its name. It was a gorgeous car, but it was so full of technological bibbledy-bobs that I couldn’t even take joy in driving because I was constantly trying to figure out why the car was blipping at me. I returned it in 24 hours and got both my cars back.

But Hemi. Hemi was a 2006. A few years ago, he ran over a deer that was hit by a car three in front of us. He survived, but he was never quite the same. Different things began to go wrong, including his headlights and his interior lights suddenly shutting off with no warning and not coming back on until I could stop the car, shut it down, wait a while, and then restart. Three mechanics couldn’t figure it out. I began to feel unsafe in the car that I called my bodyguard.

Hemi’s incredible engine growled at everyone. He was my get-the-hell-out-of-my-way car. His memory seats moved back so I could get out comfortably, and when I got back in, he restored me to prime driving position. Heated seats, amazing sound system. When I was dealing with cancer, I often slipped out of bed in the middle of the night, unable to sleep. I got into Hemi and just drove. I always said he took care of me. My bodyguard.

And now I felt unsafe.

Still stinging from my failure this past July, I began tentatively looking for a new car. At the same dealer where I bought my last several cars, I found a 2018 Chrysler 300S. Low miles. Clean Carfax. A deep, deep burgundy – not show-offy bright red, but classy, strong, assertive. Panoramic sunroof. Lots of bells and whistles…but no memory seats. No Hemi engine. I asked to see it anyway.

In my head, a name popped in. Barry. For berry red, but also because if this car could talk, he would have the deep resonating voice of Barry White.

As I drove to the dealer, I said over and over to Hemi, “You’ve been so great. I can’t believe I’m feeling grateful for a car, but I am. Thank you.” I heard about a million voices mocking me and saying, “It’s just a car! It’s a material thing! That’s all it is!”

No. My cars wrap me in comfort. In strength. When I’m feeling scared or lonely or worthless, I drive. And every car I’ve had, except for the stupid minivan, lifted me up. Whether it’s the power of the engine and the car around me, or the music coming from the speakers, or the car doing my every bidding, turn here, stop there, speed up, slow down…I come back into myself and return home feeling better.

And Hemi was the king of them all. But even cars and kings get old.

I test-drove Barry and I brought him home. By the time I was done with the paperwork, Hemi was no longer in the parking lot. “Hello, Barry,” I said as we left the dealership. “I think you’re going to be my new best friend.” But I wept all the way home.

There are new bells and whistles to learn. There are some losses – no memory seats, no CD player. Our relationship was unsteady until today.

I was driving home from a doctor’s appointment. My heated seat was on, my interior temperature set at 78 degrees. There was music – I found a portable CD player developed just for cars. It plugs into the speakers, and while I can’t control the music from the screen or the steering wheel, it will do.

And then I heard a blip.

I looked around, wondering what went off. And then I saw, on the car’s screen (which I’m still adjusting to – I’ve never had a car with a screen before) – a weather warning. My car was informing me that my county was under a high wind warning.

Barry was telling me the weather. And keeping me safe.

I laughed out loud and then I patted the dashboard. “Thank you, Barry,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

Feeling safe. Feeling cared for. Even when it comes from a car – an inanimate object – it’s oh so welcome.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

If you live, like I do, in a place that has all four seasons, you know how the weather can start to affect your emotions. Each season has a moment that grabs my heart and lifts it. In fall, there’s always that day when I realize all the colors on the trees are changing and my lush green landscape has turned to reds and golds and oranges – sunset and sunrise all day in the trees. In winter, even though I hate snow, there is still that moment of the first snow, especially when it happens at night, especially as it glows in the moonlight. In summer, there’s the heat that falls around my shoulders like a blanket and follows me inside and I look up to the sky as blue as what you think of when you think of sky, and there’s the sun, and everything is logy and lazy.

And then there’s spring, after a long, cold, snowy winter. This year, there’s the spring after the second winter of COVID. Cabin fever on steroids. The black and white photograph season that feels never-ending.

This spring.

Early this week, we were gifted our very first warm temperatures of the season. We zoomed up to the fifties. I opened every window in the condo, and both deck doors. I breathed in, and I think my walls did too, and the cats fell over each other, trying to get to the third floor deck door. It was lovely, and I couldn’t believe it was only March.

I had to bring my convertible, a 2013 Chrysler 200 named Semi, to have his emissions tested for my license plate renewal. I usually dread having to do this, because I don’t drive that car in winter. I avoid road salt and snow and slush. With my license plate renewal always due in March, it’s like playing weather roulette to see how I can get the car to an emission station without suffering any underbody splatter.

But this year…warm temperatures!

I don’t think the car was backed fully out of the garage before I hit the button that lowers the roof. I also hit the button that turns on my heated seat – how wonderful to be toasty as the still chilly wind rushed around me. The place I go to for emissions is located outside the city limits, so as I hit the highway, I also hit the gas pedal and yet another button…on the CD player.

Oh, glory!

I sang. I danced in my seat. I revved the engine and I laughed out loud. Spring!

Semi passed his test and I drove happily back home. As I got near the city, stoplights popped up like daffodils, and I didn’t even care when one turned red. It meant that much longer before I was home and the car was back in his garage and I was back behind my desk. At one red light, I was belting out Charlie Puth’s “One Call Away”, feeling every bit like the super hero referred to in the lyric, “I’m only one call away, I’ll be there to save the day. Superman’s got nothin’ on me…” when from the next lane, another convertible-driver called out, “I’m calling! I’m calling!” I was mortified for all of two seconds, but then I joined in his laughter and I waved as he turned right and I pulled ahead.

It didn’t stop me from singing. I hit replay and started all over again. And then I came to another light, a particularly long one with turn arrows and such, just as it changed to red. What luck! More time!  While I sang and swayed, I noticed the music suddenly got richer.

Because the guy in the car next to me, with his windows rolled down, started harmonizing.

And we sang. I turned toward him and our voices blended like the sweet air and new heat of spring. We raised our melody and our harmony to the new sky, just as blue as we pictured it would be, in the gray days of February.

When the light changed, he dipped his head in a bow and I waved my hand queen-style.

At home again, my garage door closed, my car silent, and I was parked too, in front of my computer, the warmth and music continued all around me. I said, out loud, “I think I just had my moment.”

I was right.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

If you want to see/hear the song we were singing, here you go.

 

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

When I considered what my “moment” was this week, I knew exactly when it was that it occurred. In fact, it was an over-the-moon moment, as opposed to a gentle “aaaah” moment when the realization of happiness falls over me like the cloth of a just-right shirt. This week’s moment was like standing in the middle of a sudden downpour, and the rain is warm and invigorating.

But I was reluctant to write about it, and I took a (another) moment to examine why. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that the discomfort was because it would feel like bragging.

We all experienced a conundrum when we were in school, and we likely experience it with our children or grandchildren now. When we, or they, accomplished something, we encourage them to cheer, to relish, to enjoy. True moments of accomplishment can be rare, and we say they should be celebrated. Stand in front of a greeting card display sometime, and you will find a whole section under the heading, “Congratulations!” We were told to cheer, we cheer for our children and grandchildren. But as we get older, and we settle into our lives, sometimes cheering feels like bragging. Like we’re calling attention to ourselves. And like it’s not a good thing to do.

At AllWriters’, whenever a student has a publication acceptance, we “woohoo” it. On social media and in the classes themselves, we cheer. I tell my students this is important, because the accomplishments in writing and in the publishing industry are so hard to accomplish and happen with way less frequency than rejection. Man, celebrate! Cheer! Revel!

Some of my students make sure I know about the opportunity to cheer – they email me, tag me on Facebook, jump up and down right in front of me. Others kind of sidle in sideways, lower their heads, and whisper, “I have something you can woohoo about…” The point being that, even if a person looks away and says, “Oh, shucks,” when a cheer goes up, you can bet they’re glowing inside.

And I am all about making my students glow inside. So why did I hesitate to share my own glow?

Probably because I saw a writer once on Facebook, a fairly well-known writer, say, “Why is it that some writers feel the need to cheer about their publications? It’s just what we do.”

I’ve met this writer. And I’ve seen the position of his head, which is normally tilted back so he can look down his nose. And because I cheer for my students and I also cheer for myself, I shrunk a bit that day. And I think of it whenever I have something to announce.

However, there is something else I noticed about that particular down-the-nose looking writer. His posts are mostly complaints about the publishing industry, complaints about editors, complaints about other writers. Even though he’s had some significant accomplishments. So no wonder he doesn’t celebrate. He can’t even feel the joy of what he does, what he’s done, and who he is.

I can.

So I’m throwing my discomfort to the side. And I’m reveling. Here is my moment of happiness, which occurred over a 48-hour period.

• My next poetry chapbook, Olivia In Five, Seven, Five; Autism In Haiku, has been accepted by Finishing Line Press! It will be my 13^th book overall, my 4^th poetry book. And this book, as you can probably tell by the title, is so very near and dear to my heart. YES!
• A few hours after this acceptance, I heard from a literary magazine called Months To Years. They focus on pieces about death and dying. I’d sent them an essay, and the editor emailed to tell me they loved it, but their spring issue was full, would I be okay with waiting until the summer issue? Hmmmmm…SURE!
• And then a few hours after that, the editor from Cutthroat Literary Press emailed, asking me if the story I submitted to them, Even The Air, was still available for publication in their upcoming anthology called Corona Chronicles. It is indeed, since I only submitted it to them. So it will be coming out too. AND this is the first story/chapter from my current novel-in-progress to be accepted as a story. Before I’ve even finished the book. YES!
• A little after that, an email came from a woman in Tampa. Seems she read If You Tame Me and loved it so much, she approached an AARP representative there and they formed a book club and are going to discuss it. Would I consider Zooming in to the discussion? YES!

So in a 48-hour period, I had acceptances in poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. Acceptances for a book, an anthology, and a magazine. And an invitation to a book club that was discussing one of my books.

WOOHOO! This kind of thing doesn’t happen very often. Acceptances happen, but to have them all fall, bing, bing, bing, and soak me in that rainstorm I mentioned at the beginning…oh, that’s rare.

In this field, and in any career involving the arts, the slaps on the back are few and far between. Even rarer are the slaps we give to our own backs. For what we’ve done. For what we’re doing. For who we are.

I’m slapping! I’m slapping!

And I’m not going to shrink at all. I don’t want my students to shrink. Neither will I.

WOOHOO!

Please celebrate something you did today. Please acknowledge it. And then go to bed smiling.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Last week, I worked with a client whose scene in a novel just felt heartwarming and dead on, and just so basic and familiar with memory, it could have been a photograph. It’s a fantasy novel, and his main character, a young girl, puts on a dress for the first time ever. Her life and her personality haven’t been such that she would ever wear a dress, and in this scene, she has no choice. It is the only thing clean to wear.

After the dress is pulled over her head and settled on her body, the girl looks down at the fabric flowing loose from her waist to, if I remember right, her knees. She looks for a bit longer, then, in a barely there, oh so subtle moment, her hips swivel. Swish, swish. And the dress swirls in that wonderful way fabric does with this gentle and feminine movement.

Swish, swish.

Anyone who has a girl, anyone who knows a girl, anyone who is a girl, knows this moment and this movement. It doesn’t matter if she never wanted to wear a dress or if she’s always wanted to wear a dress, there is just that breath of a moment. Swish, swish.

I praised my student for getting it exactly right.

I thought of my own daughters, Katie and Olivia, 13 years apart and total opposites in personality and passions. Katie teaches math at the University of Louisiana – Lafayette.  I used to buy her used math textbooks when she was a child and that was how she kept herself busy. She had a calendar where each month showed a fractal, and when she moved into her own apartment in Florida to get her Masters in math, I carefully took all those pictures out of the calendar and formed them on the wall behind her bed, so she could have a fractal headboard. Olivia, in the meanwhile, cries her way through math. She was required to take a math class and now a statistics class in college and she hates both of them. But give her the opportunity to create art, or write, or play one of her four instruments, and she’s happy. Katie played the flute, but I don’t think she’s picked it up since graduating high school. Katie danced – ballet, tap, jazz – and would dance still, if given the opportunity and if COVID would ever go away. Olivia danced for a bit, because her big sister did, but then gave it up.

And as for dresses, Katie wanted to wear them all the time. All the time, every season, every day. Olivia could only wear dresses in warm weather when she could go bare-legged, because she hated the tights required in winter, so as a result, she preferred leggings and t-shirts or sweaters.

But both of them, when they pulled a dress over their heads, would stand for a moment, look at the fabric, and swivel. Swish, swish.

Whether the dresses were for fun, for school, for dances, for dates, a choice of their own or a requirement from Mom…swish, swish.

And I remember swishing too.

The day I talked to my student about his scene, Olivia messaged me on Facebook. She told me she had a sudden craving for a long-sleeved dress. “I only have one,” she said, “and it’s ¾ sleeve.” I hesitated to mention that she didn’t wear dresses, so instead, I said, “It’s winter, and you don’t like tights.”

“Oh, I can wear tights now.”

I’ve been amazed at what she’s learning in college. Tolerance for tights measures right up there.

Wanting to avoid the malls and the stores, due to COVID, of course, I suggested we go to Goodwill. I also had an ulterior plan – if we bought a dress and she never wore it, it wouldn’t cost a fortune. Olivia also has one stunning dress from there that we purchased when she started high school and needed a black dress for orchestra. It has an odd puffy hemline and zippers and buckles and Livvy wears it with fishnets and combat boots. She looks like a heavy metal violinist. Somehow, she could handle the strings-between-the-toes of fishnets, but not the leg-hugging tights. When we got the dress home and looked it up, we discovered it was actually the work of a very exclusive designer. Livvy wore it for her graduation photos. So maybe we would strike gold again.

We did, or at least, I did, but not with a designer. I sat on the bench of the dressing room while she tugged on the dresses. My job was to put the dresses back on their hangers after she pulled them off and tossed them over her head at me. And with every dress, every single one, whether she liked it or not, she would stop after pulling it on, look at the skirt, and then ever so slowly and subtly, swivel her hips.

Swish, swish. Swish, swish. Swish, swish.

I think she tried on 10 dresses, and I watched, mesmerized. Every image of both of my girls, every dress from toddler to adult, every moment watching the girls grow up, floated before my eyes. Then and now.

And I saw myself too.

Swish, swish.

What a lovely afternoon. Oh, and we bought five of the dresses, I think.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

We hear and say a lot about the little things. Little things mean a lot. Little things make a difference. It’s the little things in life. Little steps. We’re even told to not sweat over the small stuff.

2020 was all about the big things. 2021 hasn’t been much different yet. We aren’t just sniffling, we’re dealing with a pandemic. We’re seeing unprecedented numbers in illness, in hospitalizations, in deaths. We just had a huge election and a huge response to that election. We’ve had huge crimes against humanity in the last year. We’ve even had big weather. For heaven’s sake, Texas. Everything is bigger in Texas.

So…the little things. Small stuff.

On Tuesday, I was in a hurry when I ran out my front door. My car, in an attempt to get it out of the never-ending snow (big weather!), was parked across the street in the parking garage. As I turned to trot down the sidewalk, I caught sight of a small face looking at me out of a snowdrift.

No, not a child’s face. A small face, a photograph. I wondered if it was a driver’s license and so I pulled it out. It was a work ID badge, and a very, very nice work ID badge. Encased in a tough plastic holder, bearing a bar code, and a name. Zack. Who, according to this ID, worked in the physical therapy department of a senior living community in a nearby town. The ID told me he worked there since 2018. It didn’t tell me his last name. There was a belt clip, and even one of those stretchy retractable cord things that allowed you, or Zack, actually, to pull the ID from his person, beep it through a reader, then let it snap back against him. A neat way to prevent loss.

That didn’t work.

I was running late for an appointment. I knew Zack didn’t live nearby – I know all of my neighbors in my condo group. It wasn’t a matter of just dropping it off in a mailbox. So I tucked it in my pocket and ran for my car. As I drove toward my appointment, I called information and was connected to the senior living community.

After I explained to the receptionist what I found, I said, “I’d like to get this back to Zack. I’m sure these cost a pretty penny – you have great IDs!”

She laughed and said, “How nice of you! Do you think you could get a padded envelope, to protect it, and then mail it to us?” She then recited the address. I was so flabbergasted, and trying to concentrate on my driving on slippery roads, so I said, “Okay, but…can’t you…but…okay.” And I hung up. Afterward, I really wished I’d said, “Can’t you just call down to your physical therapy department and ask for Zack? Or patch me through?” But I didn’t.

I stewed over this through my appointment and on the drive home. I mean, really. It’s an ID. No big deal. Yeah, he’d have to shell out some bucks to replace it, most likely. But really. Have me mail it? I knew I couldn’t go there and drop it off – COVID kept visitors from coming in.

I should just throw it away and forget about it, I decided.

But I didn’t. I brought it in with me. And I posted about it on Facebook. This created a long list of suggestions. Put it back outside, in case Zack comes back to look for it. Hang it from a tree or a fence. I explained I live in the city, there are no trees, there is no fence, so then I was told to build a fence (all in fun – not serious). Put it in a plain envelope, slap a couple stamps on it, send it off. Call the senior community back and ask them to send me a postage-paid envelope.

While the Facebook reaction was growing, I met with a client, and during that meeting, the studio phone rang. When I could, I checked my voicemail.

“Hi, Kathie, my name is Zack. I think you have something of mine! Give me a call back, please, and thank you so much!”

I stared at my phone and laughed. Then I called him back and we arranged to have him pick up his badge. Apparently, he’d been picking up a package from near here and the ID must have fallen out of his pocket. I asked him how he got a hold of me.

“My friend Danielle – she called me and said you found my ID and were looking for me.”

So…someone not from the senior community. I went back and looked over the comments on my Facebook page. No Danielle. But someone somewhere saw it or heard about it and knew Zack and got him to me.

Six degrees of separation.

Small things.

When Zack came to pick up the ID, we both wore masks, but I could see that his face was the one that looked out at me from the snowbank. “Thank you so much,” he said. “This would have set me back a bit.”

“I figured,” I said. “It’s a nice ID badge.”

“I don’t have any cash on me, or I’d give you a reward,” he said.

I laughed. I mean, really. I wanted to get him the ID to save him money, not cost him money. “Don’t even think it,” I said. “I’m glad to help.”

“Well, I’ll pay the kindness forward then,” he said.

Perfect.

A little thing. And now he’ll do a little thing. And hopefully the chain will continue. It’s amazing how good it made me feel.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

23 or so years ago, when I divorced my first husband, I drove out of there without any idea what to do for my car. I could fill it with gas, and I could take it through a car wash. That was about it. I didn’t know how to fill my tires or change one. I didn’t know how to check the oil. I didn’t know anything.

I’ve learned a lot since. Especially since my current husband doesn’t drive. I am the car person in my family. And I kinda like it. I so wish now I’d taken auto shop classes in high school. Engines fascinate me. Cars fascinate me. But I still don’t know a whole lot.

Olivia dreamed of owning a VW Beetle since she was in late elementary school. Her room at home and at college is decorated with Beetle posters. She has a Beetle throw rug. She has Beetle t-shirts and Beetle jewelry. Her high school graduation gift was a little white VW Beetle, who she calls Snowbug.  I call it (her) Lil B. I love this little car, particularly after I did a spectacular job of showing my lack of knowledge by buying her first very used Beetle, a black one called Starlight Lashes (it had pink eyelashes). It was very, very, very used, but I thought it was fine for a first car, one for her to learn how to drive in. I don’t even remember how many miles it had, but it was well over 100,000. I called it the rollerskate. But it chugged more like a train. The darn thing broke down just sitting in the parking garage so many times, the tow driver knew me by my first name. Olivia rarely drove it, and I ditched it before she learned how to drive. Then, later, I bought her this much nicer Beetle. She learned to drive, and now she and the car move together, back and forth, to college.

Recently, Wisconsin has been hit with lots of snow and then bone-chilling cold. Lil B, out in the college’s uncovered parking lot day and night, was buried in snow. And then frozen. Solid. She got it mostly scraped off and drove it home. But the driver’s side front window was about an inch down, and it wouldn’t close or open the rest of the way. The inside of the car was covered with frost.

She drove home anyway.

I tried scraping all around the window, even getting the scraper into the indentation where the window disappears. I pounded gently. Nothing.

“I think there’s ice below the window, in the door,” I said. “I’m going to buy some de-icer.”

The next day, I trotted off to the auto parts store and acted like I knew what I was doing. Can of de-icer in hand, I had Livvy warm the car up while I was on my way home. Then I sprayed and sprayed in that little groove. We waited a few minutes.

Nothing.

I sighed and told my daughter to drive the car up into parking garage, so no more snow would get inside of it. Then I would have to drive Olivia back to school, and get her car in to the mechanic this week, because I just couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I went into the house, dejected, while she drove it up the ramp.

From the garage, she texted me. “Mama! The window went down and then it closed all the way! It worked!”

And I suddenly felt like the mechanic in the golden coveralls. I figured it out! I diagnosed the problem! I fixed it!

I very much remember the first time I checked my oil after my divorce. I was driving a cute little Dodge Neon, that I loved with all my heart. I propped the hood up, used the oil stick, checked it like a chemist at work on the cure for cancer, and then went inside and bought the oil. I bought the correct oil, after reading what kind in the manual, and then rereading it and rereading it again. I used a paper funnel and I filled my oil. I rechecked it. I rechecked it again. It was at just the right level. I cured cancer!

Well, no. But I sure felt capable there, in the gas station’s parking lot. I wanted to ask other drivers if they wanted me to check their oil, just so I could do it again.

And now, the driver’s side window of my daughter’s little VW Beetle. And you know what? I showed her how to do it too. So she can be a mechanic in golden coveralls.

There have been many challenges in my life, over what I can and cannot do. It’s amazing how something as simple as checking a car’s oil or getting a window to open and close can lift the spirits and the confidence.

But I didn’t stay Supermechanic for long. When my daughter drove back to school that day, I texted her and asked if the car did okay on the drive.

“It did just fine, Mama,” she said.

“Your mother is brilliant,” I answered.

“Oh? What did you do?”

Sigh.

Well, I still have the golden coveralls in my closet.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.