Monday, December 28, 2009

The Isle of Rhodes

This is the boat. Sorry, the ship. The Vision of the Seas holds 2,000 passengers and 765 staff.



As a first-time cruiser I had two main concerns. My biggest fear was that I would arrive at a port, fall in love with it, and want to spend days, not just hours there. Having always traveled independently before, if I wanted to stay somewhere an extra day or two, I could make that happen. Although I enjoyed each of our stops, there was nowhere I felt heart-broken to leave after one day, with the notable exception of Lisbon, which I'll get to in a few posts. So worry number one was unnecessary (as so many worries are.)

My second fear was that I would feel crowded, like a sheep being herded from place to place. For this reason I resisted the "excursions" run by Royal Caribbean, thinking I would prefer to explore most places on my own without a big crowd and a bossy tour guide. Julie and I set off for Rhodes on our own, unencumbered by an annoying tour. The first thing we saw were these Medieval walls. I was instantly charmed.



This is an eight-foot tall poinsettia bush that blew our minds.



This is a pretty building and ruin. I'm sure a tour guide would have been able to tell us its significance.



Though we had a lovely day, at the end of it, I understood the wisdom of the organized tour. When I travel independently, I do research before leaving home, and have a guidebook with me to help me navigate a new place. For this trip, I hadn't done that. So Julie and I wandered around, not really knowing what we were looking at. We spent two hours looking at shards of pottery in the archeology museum before finding the amazing sculptures on the second floor. We got lost in some sketchy very-off-the-beaten-track alleys. For the rest of the trip, we signed up for tours. Sometimes a girl has to admit when she's wrong.

Monday, December 21, 2009

The Adventure Begins

Here is the first of a few posts about my recent two-week trip to the Mediterranean.

One of my favorite parts of any journey is the time after I walk out my door before I arrive at my destination. Filled with euphoria at having completed packing (my least favorite part of travel) I love that in-between time when I can anticipate the adventure ahead, read, listen to music, sleep.

On this trip, I took the train to the airport alone, wiled away a few hours there, met up with my cousin, aunt and uncle, boarded our flight, watched part of the new Harry Potter movie, read my Rick Steves Athens guidebook, slept for five hours. When I awoke, I slid open my plastic shutter and saw the run rising over Europe:



A little while later, we flew over the Alps, which may be the best thing I've ever seen from a plane window:



(Though flying out of Mexico City at night is also damn impressive.)

When our flight lands in Athens, the first thing I see is an Ikea. Our waiting driver chariots us off to our hotel where we have an early dinner and drop into bed by eight pm.

I wake up at 11 pm, and think it’s time to get up for the day. Eventually I drift off again, and fortunately when I wake up, my lack of sleep has not dampened my enthusiasm for Athens. Neither does the pouring rain, our difficulty finding a cab, or our driver taking us to the wrong place. I am under Athens’ spell.

Julie and I find a sweet café on a cobblestone street, get croissants and Cokes and huddle at a table under a large umbrella, watching Athenians pouring off the metro, wearing their Sunday Best. When the rain stops we decide to forgo the museum and go straight to the Acropolis, which graces the top of the nearby hill. We wander awhile, taking a circuitous route through the neighborhood, hitting a dead end, and doubling back before making our way up the hill, discovering ruined theaters, and spectacular city views.

At the top of the hill, I stand in awe of the Parthenon as people have for 2500 years. Even with the scaffolding, patches of new marble and crowds, it is magical.



After a lunch of Greek salad and chicken souvlaki, we walk toward the Olympic Stadium, which has held sporting events for 2,500 years and is built entirely of white marble. The Athens Classic Marathon was that day, run along the route taken by the messenger who ran from the town of Marathon to Athens to announce the Greek victory over the Persians at the Battle of Marathon in 490 B.C. (the origin of modern marathons.) Julie and I arrive just in time to see this guy finishing the race, having run in a Spartan costume complete with helmet, sword and shield.



Our perfect Athenian day ends with wandering through the city center, over to the ancient agora, or marketplace, and dinner of mezzes--like tapas, but Greek food. The next day we boarded our ship, and I left Athens reluctantly, wishing I'd had just one or two more days to explore.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Momentum

As I’ve observed the momentum (or lack thereof) in my life over the past few weeks, I’ve decided that lack of momentum is why Monday is so hard, and why the first few days after vacation are brutal. Because by Wednesday, or a few days after your return, you’re like, “oh yeah, this is what my week is like,” and you’re just doing it—you have momentum. Working on the book is like that too. I can take one day off a week without breaking stride, but if I take two days off, the first day back is difficult, and if I take two months off, as I just did—yikes.

I needed a break from the book. I gave the manuscript to three astute readers, and wanted to hear their comments before I made any further changes. But beyond that, my mind and spirit needed to recover from the insane push to complete the manuscript, and to rest up for what I hope is the final push to actually finish the book. So I spent a month doing other things, then two weeks traveling in the Mediterranean, then a few days recovering from my trip, then enjoying Thanksgiving. They were beautiful, glorious months. But by last Saturday, Carl wanted answers. Trapped in a car with him driving home from North Jersey, he asked the dreaded question: “Why aren’t you working on the book?”

I’d been asking myself the same thing. I knew it was time to get back to work, but I couldn’t make myself do it. Partly I felt scared—of finishing the book, of what comes next—but mostly I think it was a complete lack of momentum—having been away from it for so long, I had no idea where or how to start.

Since reading the Twilight Saga, though perhaps justifiable as research, and certainly enjoyable, wasn’t going to finish the book, I had to try something else. So the next day, I used two of my best tricks: first, I left the house, with the computer—something about being in public forces me to work in a way being at home just doesn’t; second I completed the tiniest possible step I could imagine—I made a to-do list for the book. It’s not magic, I didn’t fall right back into writing, but I had taken that crucial first step, which in my experience, is often the hardest one to take.

While I had the computer out and caffeine coursing through my veins, I wrote a little about my trip, which helped to stretch out my writing muscles, prepare them for working out again. The next morning, I went back to the Corner Bakery, determined to have a work session. I sat down, looked at my to-do list, and picked one thing—addressing one of my reader’s comments. I created a new document, a “working” manuscript, and began editing with Chapter One.

Before I knew it I had edited three chapters, and felt better than I had in weeks. The rest of the week passed in a series of happy and productive work sessions, ticking off my reader’s concerns/questions one little thing at a time. With the momentum back, the working isn’t necessarily easy, but it’s happening. Perhaps now that I’ve written one blog post, I can get together the thoughts about my trip that have been rattling around my brain.

What are your tricks for starting something daunting?

Monday, November 2, 2009

A Face Only a Mother Could Love?

Somebody actually told me that Nalu has a face only a mother could love. I, of course, know this to be untrue, but take a look for yourself. Have you ever seen a cuter ladybug? The pictures start on Halloween and journey back in time to Nalu's first trip to Beak and Skiff, apple orchard extraordinaire in Central New York, her peeking over Aunt Nell's boots back in May, her first trip to the beach in April, and her first day with us, on April 12. For anyone who's considering getting a puppy, it is just as much work as everyone says, but it is also endless joy. The smiles on our faces are no coincidence--it's hard not to smile when I look at her. Try it, I dare you.









I'm off to Europe for two weeks on Friday, but will be back with lots of material after November 20. Bon voyage to me!

Friday, October 30, 2009

Step by Step

Four summers ago, on an afternoon when I was supposed to be studying for the bar exam, I sat down at my computer with an irresistible urge to write a story. I felt overwhelmed, because I knew that I wanted to write a novel, and it felt like an impossibly large task. But I heard the thought “The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step,” and I took a deep breath and started writing.

Four years and a million pages later, I’m glad I didn’t know what writing the novel would require of me, because if I had known, I might not have started. This experience, and others, have taught me that taking the smallest possible step is often the best way for me to proceed, especially if I’m feeling paralyzed. It’s a trick, because often if I take even a tiny step, I build a little momentum, and can then take the next one and the next.

My most recent application of this trick is to my computer angst. The thought of anything technology-related overwhelms me, and my computer issues have recently become urgent and unmanageable. Most pressing at the moment is how unbearably slow my laptop has become, and when I tried to resolve this on my own, I made it worse, then avoided it for three weeks.

But yesterday when I inadvertently parked right by the Mac store I took it as a sign, walked in and made an appointment at the Genius Bar for today, figuring that might give me the push I needed. I hate the Mac store—all sleek, modern, and white with its tantalizing products, and its child employees who want to know things like “What kind of Mac do you have?” and “Which operating system?” I arrived late for my appointment, with a headache, and a teen with Frank Sinatra eyes and a fake Phillies tattoo on his forearm ran some tests, told me my hard drive wasn’t failing, scolded me for not having backed up sooner, and gave me a long list of things to do to resolve the problems. I left muttering to myself something about “kids today.”

After some coffee and some deep breathing, I’ve gained some perspective, and am proud of having taken the first step, which is often the hardest. In this case, I feared what might be asked of me, what it would cost, the stress and difficulty that could ensue, and also, admitting I’m not good at something (the horror!) But as with most things, the reality is better than the horrific possibilities my imagination creates. After thinking about what Old Blue Eyes said, my first step is to buy an external hard drive. That seems manageable. Then I’ll need to backup whatever I want to save from this one laptop. I can handle that. And after accomplishing those things, I’ll need to archive and reinstall the operating system, which sounds scary, but has written instructions, which I can generally follow. Three pretty small steps. I can do that. After I do, I can reevaluate what else, if anything, technological I need to do. Maybe nothing. And if I need to, I can always swallow my pride, go back to the Mac store, and try to resist my impulse to buy yet another overpriced Mac product that I won’t know how to use.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

The Flyin' Narberthian

Trapped inside my house for three days, snow piling up to the windows, I’ve been dreaming of spring, bringing to mind baseball and my dad, two things inextricably linked in my mind.

Growing up, my dad played baseball from sunup to sundown every day of the summer at the Narberth playground just down the road from where I now live. He went on to play at Bonner in high school, then St. Joe’s in college, where he held the record for stolen bases until just a few years ago, even appearing in Sports Illustrated for this feat. Baseball was his life.

He got married at twenty-two and had four kids in short order, and though he stopped playing baseball the love affair continued through coaching Little League, following his Phils, naming one son after Richie Allen, and taking my brothers and I to games whenever possible, where we sat in the bleachers at the very top of The Vet. When in eighth grade my St. Bernadette’s varsity softball team lost our coach, my dad volunteered for the job. He said he knew coaching girls would be different when we insisted on voting whether or not to get hats for the team, and decided not to because they messed up our hair.

Despite playing hatless, under my dad’s leadership and the magic arm of our pitcher Katie Weinrich, we had a storybook season, winning our division, making it all the way to the Philadelphia Archdiocesan Championship game. The chicken pox had kept me at home for the playoffs, but I returned for the final game, still pock-covered, but no longer contagious, knowing that my team needed me.

In the last inning, we trailed by one run, with two outs and the bases loaded when I came up to bat. The pitch flew at me, and I smacked it right on the sweet spot of the bat, that solid contact that you know is a good hit as it happens. But my dream of winning the game for my team shattered as I looked up to see the shortstop snag it out of the air, ending the game. I burst into tears, as a 13-year-old girl will, and threw my helmet, as anyone in my family will, but my dad hugged me and said, “That was a great hit. You did everything you could. I’m proud of you.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but that season would be the pinnacle of my sporting career. And though it didn’t have the heroic Hollywood ending I wanted, it had something better--the opportunity to learn that my dad was proud of me and loved me whether I won or not.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Two Julies and Julias

I saw the movie Julie and Julia last night, with my mom. It was a good movie, I enjoyed it, so why, when I got home, did I burst into tears? Well, it’s been a tough week for a few reasons, but mostly it was the green-eyed monster. Why were things so easy for that bitch Julie Powell? In the movie, which is based on a true story, she starts a blog, with an admittedly great idea—-in one year, she would make all the recipes in Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking and write about it. I haven’t read her blog, so I don’t know, but let’s say that it’s smart and funny and well-written. Fine. But then, with apparently no effort at marketing or self-promotion, within MONTHS she becomes the number three blog on salon.com? And then reporters start calling her, she gets a front page article written about her in the New York Times Food Section, and then hundreds of agents and publishers call her asking her to write a book? While her fairy tale story unfolded all I could think was “Fuck you Julie Powell.”

Interestingly, I did not resent Julia Child’s success. The movie showed her early years, when she learned how to cook French food, then stumbled into a cookbook project which consumed eight years of her life, which was then rejected by publishers before finding a home at Knopf, and going on to worldwide acclaim.

Going in, I knew that both Julie and Julia had happy endings of tremendous success, so why did I feel happy for Julia and resentful of Julie? I, like each of them, embarked on a quixotic, uncertain quest. Like Julie with her blog and Julia with her cookbook, I couldn’t say why I had to write the novel, I just knew that I did. Maybe I resented Julie because her success seemed to happen so quickly and easily, with so little effort on her part. Sure, she cooked a lot and wrote a daily blog, but I’ve been working my tail off on this novel for two and a half years and no one is banging on my door to publish it. Where is my happy ending?

As I sat in my kitchen, crying, I realized that I also have a Julia--Julia Cameron. So I took out one of her books and flipped at random. In the section about artistic integrity she writes that artists have an inner meter that tells us if our work is good or not, and that we need to listen to that voice within, and not the marketplace. This thought comforted me. What matters most is that I created something of worth, in my own estimation, and I have. Maybe that’s my happy ending. Or if not an ending, it is at least something that should make me happy.

I’m sorry, Julie Powell, I’m sure you’re a lovely person who worked very hard for your success. I will try to be happy for you, to believe that whatever is best for me and my work is what will happen, and to remember that I can choose to be happy, right here, right now, with or without a published book.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

I Wrote A Book

Back in June, I set a goal for myself: by mid-September I wanted to have a complete manuscript of the book. At that point I had 300 pages of material, I had a beginning, and parts of a middle, but the work had large gaps and no ending—it was not a book. I created an ambitious work schedule for the summer and adhered pretty closely to it, and after giving myself an extension to October 1st, am amazed to say I achieved my goal—I wrote a book.

Getting there was intense. Almost every day I spent hours, barely conscious of the real world, living in the fictional one I was creating. It became easy to get into the fictional world, but harder to get out, some part of me staying there, reluctant to leave until it was finished. While writing I was hardly aware of my actual surroundings and for hours after each session I still felt only partly present in the here and now. The process felt similar to a migraine episode, just thankfully without pain.

The work reached a fever pitch in September, when I realized how much was left to do to meet my goal. I worked harder, longer, flying through the many tasks on my to-do lists for each section of the novel, slogging through chapter after chapter, version after version. On September 25 disaster struck when I spilled coffee on my laptop and the “genius” at the Apple Store told me it was almost certainly dead. Per his instructions I waited 72 hours, and prayed a lot before trying to turn it back on, very grateful that I had backed up all my important work on the book. And when it miraculously turned back on, undamaged, after many prayers of thanks, I got right back to writing and editing.

By September 30 I was not satisfied with everything in the book—I don’t know that I ever will be—but I had a beginning, middle, and end, without major gaps. I had a piece of work, a book, of which I feel very proud.

I. Wrote. A. Book.

Yes, there is still editing to do. But for the first time, I feel like if I were to die today, someone else could finish the book and it would remain mine. It has an essence of its own, is no longer just living within me. I have given birth to it.

Which leaves me…tired, depleted, proud, empty. Not empty in a bad way, but as if this thing that has occupied most of my mental and psychic energy has let go of me, moved on, leaving room for something else. And now that it’s let go of me, I have a sense that I will be able to let go of it. This journey has been incredible, but it’s nearing the end, and though I don’t know what comes next, I’m almost ready to find out.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

The Open Road

My unwitting but effective strategy for warding off end of summer blues has been to spend as much time as possible in the car these last weeks. This included five hours to get to Syracuse on Wednesday, another five to Brooklyn on Saturday, two hours to get from Bay Ridge to the East Village and back on Sunday, three hours to get to Queens and back to Brooklyn yesterday, then another two to get home from there.

When at 11 pm last night we pulled up to our sweet little twin house, on our quiet street in our small town, my newly-planted hydrangea in the yard, tomatoes ripening on the vine, our own bed waiting for us inside, I had never felt happier to be home. Then I remembered that we’re off to Boston on Friday for the weekend—another ten hours of driving ahead of us.

At least Carl and I fixed the car radio, which had been cutting out unpredictably, because though this may surprise you who know us, we do eventually run out of things to say to each other. After an entire summer together and approximately 300 hours in the car, we can still kill a few hours with conversation, but even we have our limits.

So maybe the trick to being happy at home is to occasionally leave it for long enough that I miss it. We have been mostly at the shore for July and August, because we are very very lucky, and though I don’t think I’ll ever get my fill of the shore or surfing, I do start to miss my friends and family after awhile. (Especially on days when I can’t surf.)

The joys of the road included visiting Carl’s family in Syracuse and upholding our annual tradition of attending the Great New York State Fair, where we ate Gianelli sausage, drank chocolate milk, sampled the mysterious Pizze Frite, and watched our niece Alyssa jump and somersault in one of those crazy harness contraptions. Then it was off to New York City to visit Dan, admire Baby Courtney, and attend the U.S. Open, where this lifelong tennis fan was inspired by the unknown players battling for a shot at their dream and at the best players of my generation displaying grace, greatness, complete dominance. Sharing the experience with my husband, parents and little brother made it all the sweeter.

After Boston, I will settle back into our fall routine. For today, I’m grateful for a good night’s sleep, for reconnecting with some faces I hadn’t seen all summer, for walking Nalu on our regular morning route, and for the prospect of cooking in my own kitchen—the joys of home.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Top Five of Summer

1. My Little Brother’s Wedding
Allow me to set the scene—a horse farm in bucolic Pennsylvania, a white tent set up in a pasture, the historic farmhouse in the distance, nothing but fields surrounding it. Upon entering the tent you enter a world complete with bar, cocktail tables, lounge areas with real sofas, a large wooden dance floor, the tent entirely draped in espresso brown and baby blue fabric, tiki torches lighting the border, floral arrangements and hurricane lamps gracing the tables, Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceilings.

Most amazing was that the bride, along with a crack team of expert decorators, and a few friends and family members, transformed the space from empty white tent to wedding wonderland in 24 hours. Seeing that transformation and helping it to happen was one of the highlights of the weekend for me.

Other highlights: Going to the liquor store with the groom to pick out the wine and liquor, him saying to the sales woman, “Anyone drinking White Zin doesn’t know anything about wine, so just give me the cheapest one.” Driving the groom to the wedding in Grandmom’s Caddy; giving a surprise toast to the bride and groom, as the groom had done at my wedding; having the DJ (unprompted by me) dedicate a song from me to the rest of the party; dancing the night away with my niece, with the bride and groom, brothers, aunts, parents, friends, my husband, by myself.

Best of all was seeing my little brother so happy, and knowing that he has married the perfect woman for him, a woman who is warm, kind, funny, loyal, sweet. Nothing could be better than that.

2. My Brother-in-Law’s Wedding
The Ackermans don’t mess around when it comes to weddings. This was not just a wedding, it was a ten-day affair, complete with a visit from the California Ackermans (see below), a week at Camp, the Ackerman Compound on Lake Ontario, barbeques, brunches, a rehearsal dinner, all culminating in the wedding on July 11. The wedding ceremony and reception were beautiful, of course, but for me, the highlight was the dance floor. Not since my own wedding had I seen a dance floor jam-packed from song one until the last song of the night. And never had I seen a deejay bow to the crowd’s request for one more song at the end of the night. But Mike “the magician” Corbett, played an encore of “Big Pimpin” at the special request of the bride. If you had seen the bride, you’d know why. She was stunningly beautiful, regal, but in an accessible way, floating around the dance floor with her subjects. I was truly in awe of her, which only increased when she chose Big Pimpin to end her wedding reception.

3. The Novel
I have been working my hiney off on the novel this summer, with great result. Since July I have plowed through editing the second two-thirds of the manuscript, and am close to having a quasi-finished product, which is as scary as it is exciting. Being able to focus exclusively on the novel again for a few months has been amazingly productive and satisfying.

4. Surfing after Hurricane Bill
My surfing has really come together this summer. Not only can I stay up on the board, I can paddle for and catch waves, at least some of the time. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could go out on the day we had eight to ten foot waves during Hurricane Bill, but I did go out the day after, when they were still quite large. It was the furthest out I’d ever been, and the waves, though giant, were breaking gently, allowing me to hop on at any point, have some killer rides. It was my best day of surfing ever, yes, epic.

5. 4th of July Weekend with Sophie
Sophie, my beloved niece who lives all too far away in California, came to Narberth with her parents and her Uncle Dan for 4th of July. Our little town prides itself on its 4th of July celebration, complete with a fair and a kick ass fireworks display. We hosted a barbeque, watched the fireworks from my Grandmom’s yard, and capped off the fun by a visit to Ocean City. Sophie makes everything fun. My favorite quote of the day was my friend Melissa saying, “Jewel, I knew you were obsessed with Sophie, and now I know why.”

What’s your top five of summer?

Monday, July 20, 2009

Vocation All I Never Wanted

One of my greatest fears growing up was that I would get The Call. In Catholic school we learned about three vocations: The Call to religious life, (priest if you’re a boy, nun if you’re a girl), the married vocation, and the dreaded single vocation. Fr. Wright told us if you got The Call and didn’t follow it, you would never be happy. I remember praying, “Please let me get the married vocation. Please!”

Thankfully, God answered that prayer. But though I escaped the call to the nunnery, my path has had its own difficulties, which I was feeling last week. My writing group had critiqued my work again, and once again I felt discouraged and overwhelmed, like I would never finish the book, like it’s a fool’s errand, like maybe it’s all been a big waste of time and I should grow up and go back to my real career.

The morning after my critique, as I drove to Syracuse to spend a week with family and celebrate my brother-in-law’s wedding, tears streamed down my face, grief and discouragement merged into one big ball of yuck. Somewhere past Allentown I had calmed down enough to strategize. What could I tell people about the book? How could I explain that though I was struggling, I was still committed to it?

By the time I crossed the border into New York, I’d come up with an analogy. If writing a novel is a marathon, I’m on mile 16 or 17—-more than halfway there, but with the end nowhere in sight. I will finish, but I can’t think about the end, just have to put one foot in front of the other. Pretty good, though it still left unanswered why I had started running, and why if it’s so hard, I persist.

But the marathon sound bite was more than enough information for most people, so it wasn’t until the wedding reception, sitting next to Fr. Pat, who asked some probing questions about my protagonist and my process that it hit me—the novel is my Call. That’s why I do it. That’s why I persist. Because Fr. Wright was right—-when I ignored the Call I wasn’t happy. Something was missing, was off. And like any other vocation, it has its challenges. So even though sometimes I want to give up, to say forget it, to do something else entirely, I know I am called to do this, so I keep going.

As for the married vocation, congratulations to Ted and Moriah, who followed their call and tied the knot last weekend. I hope your marriage is like your wedding—full of family, friends, love, laughter and lots of dancing.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Life Goes On

Life goes on, dear readers. It must. Although part of me feels like life should stop, at least for awhile, it’s good that it doesn’t. It’s good to have to put on a party dress, go to a wedding, focus on something else for awhile. I still miss Grandmom every day. I still have moments that steal my breath, like when I came across her name in the contacts list of my phone. I know I’ll keep having moments like that, I know they will hurt. I also know some things I can do to help. Here is a partial list:

Working on the novel. After a two week hiatus from the novel, I returned to it. Reading about the De-da character in my book, who is mostly based on my Grandmom, is difficult. De-de is very ill in the book and Laura has to say goodbye to him and that all hit a little too close to home these past few weeks. So I moved on to other parts of the book, and happily worked on them, feeling the satisfaction I always get from writing.

Looking at art. Carl and I went to the Philadelphia Museum of Art where I was delighted to discover an entire wing I never remember exploring before. It was Disney-esque in its recreation of a medieval French monastery, an Indian temple, a Japanese tea house, transporting us to different times and places.

Booking travel plans. My aunt, uncle, and cousin invited me to join them on a Mediterranean cruise, and after some hesitation and guilt about taking a fabulous vacation without Carl, my loving and generous husband gave me the cruise as a birthday gift. I felt that elation I get from the possibility of new places, of adventure.

Surfing. I went surfing last weekend, which helps for the reasons it always helps—keeps me in the moment, gets me out of my head, into my body, into nature. And last weekend I had one of those magical surfing moments when I saw dolphins playing nearby as I sat on my board. Dolphins are one of the things that make me know that God is with me.

Writing. I have some new writing projects, an article idea I’m developing and trying to sell, some job opportunities I’m pursuing, all of which helps.

Unpacking Grandmom’s things. I found at least temporary homes for all of Grandmom’s things in my house. The more I use them, the less it stings to see them. Someday I know it will make me happy to see them, even if I’m not quite there yet.

Exercising. Most helpful is the hip-hop dance class I’ve started attending at the gym, which is great fun.

Seeing Grandmom. For a year now I’ve been driving Grandmom’s 1996 Cadillac Catera. It was one of the most extravagant things she ever bought for herself, and she was so pleased to give it to me. I’ve always felt close to her riding in it, and now that she’s gone, sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I can almost see her sitting shotgun, journeying with me, just as she always did, as she always will.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Things Left Behind

Last Thursday I went to Grandmom's house for the first time since she died. It was difficult to walk into her house knowing she wouldn’t be there, that she would never be there again. But being there helped me to realize that she’s really gone, because there is no way I would be rifling through her dresser or her closet if she were alive. Even still I felt a little weird about it.

But I am grateful that I could bring some of her things home with me—a Waterford crystal vase, a gravy boat and butter dish, some baking tins, cloth napkins, pretty kitchen towels. It felt appropriate to fill in the gaps in my kitchen with things from Grandmom’s, first because she would never want anything to go to waste, and second, because we shared a love of cooking and entertaining. I think wherever she is, she’s tickled that I have her rolling pin, muffin tins, apron and gravy ladle. Best of all I found a cookbook that was obviously well-used and loved, published in the year after she was married. I like to imagine her as a young bride, trying new recipes, learning to cook as I have, from a book.

It stung a little to find so many gifts I'd given her. The cross I had brought back from El Salvador hung right over her kitchen sink, the napkin holder from Mexico sat on the table. I was glad to see evidence of how much I loved her in her house, pleased to see that she cherished my gifts, but also saddened. I didn't want to take them, because they belong with her, but since they can't be with Grandmom, I packed them up and found places for them in my house, along with the shamrock plant I had brought her for St. Patrick’s Day this year.

The hardest moment was finding the birthday card she had already bought for me. Of course she would have bought my card a month in advance. She hadn’t signed it yet, but she was never one for writing long messages, rather selected a card to speak for her. It's yellow with white flowers and glittery touches. In the center of the front is a picture of a yellow rose, and the message: “For a wonderful granddaughter: watching you grow has been like watching a flower blossom. With every year, you’ve changed in so many beautiful ways.” The inside continues, “This just comes to let you know that one of the best things in life is and always will be having a granddaughter like you to be grateful for, to be proud of, to love.”

Bitter bittersweet, these posthumous love messages.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Post Mortem*

After writing my last post I went back to the hospital. There was just nowhere else for me to be. So I sat with Grandmom, my mom, her brother Mart, his wife Marian and their cousin Dottie. We stroked Grandmom’s hair, we held her hands, kissed her face. We talked to her, we reminisced, we ate chicken salad and chocolate cake. At 7:00, I put Jeopardy on the TV, for Grandmom, even though none of us was watching it. Around 8:30, my mom and I left. Grandmom’s vitals hadn’t changed much in the hours we had been there. We knew the end was near, but no one knew when it would happen. She died within minutes of us leaving.

A song just came on my ipod with the lyrics, “When your mind’s made up, there’s no point trying to change it.” I’m smiling because this describes Grandmom perfectly, even in dying. She decided she was ready to die, and she did. Amazing, the will she had. This, too, I’ve inherited from her.

I had some happy events over the weekend, beautiful distractions from grief. I had a house full of some of my favorite people on Saturday, who showed up with food and flowers and love and children and even a tiny Corgi puppy to play with Nalu. Then yesterday, we had a wedding shower for my brother’s fiancée, Karen. Helping to plan for that, prepare, shop, set up, host, participate, and clean up were all good things to do this week. I wore Grandmom’s pearls, the ones she told me she wanted me to have during our last talk, and I touched them a lot. When the bride opened a gift from Grandmom, I wanted to scream and cry, but I didn’t. I sneaked a look at the card, just to see if it was her handwriting—it was—but I swallowed my grief. Instead I focused on making the bride feel special, loved, and welcomed to our family, because that’s what Grandmom would want.

Tomorrow is the funeral. I’m looking forward to the gathering of family and friends, the shared memories of this amazing woman. My in-laws are coming tonight, and I am grateful for that, another happy distraction. Every day, hundreds of times, I’m grateful for Nalu, my joyful little puppy. I’m grateful for my large and supportive family, and especially for my cousin Julie, who has always been more like a sister. I’m grateful for my Grandmom Owsik, who is not only still living and healthy, but an almost daily part of my life, living as she does just down the street from me. I’m grateful for upcoming weddings and births, for friends and their babies, for the many emails, messages, prayers and phone calls.

I understand now the usefulness of outward symbols of mourning, like wearing black for a year. I wish I had a sign that told people, “I’m a little fragile right now, not quite myself.” Since I don’t, I improvised, spending four hours and a king’s ransom at the beauty salon on Friday to make myself blonde. It was something kind to do for myself, and also a way to manifest physically how different I feel inwardly. And like acting your way into better thinking, I find that I can look my way into better feeling. I may not feel light-hearted and summery, but looking it brings me closer.

*Dark humor is part of the Irish heritage handed down to me from Grandmom.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Grandmom

My Grandmom is lying in a hospital bed, 10 miles from here, dying.

I hate typing that sentence. I hate that it’s true. Even today, all evidence to the contrary I hope it’s not. She’s fought off so many previous illnesses, isn’t it possible she could pull out of this? Possible perhaps, but unlikely.

Last Friday, when it seemed like just another hospital stay, I visited with her. We had an hour of girl talk. I showed her pictures of Nalu, and all the babies in my life, and we chatted about the weddings coming up this summer and the showers, and all the other news I had for her. She looked great, had plenty of energy, seemed optimistic. Right before I left she took out her dentures and I had a sense of foreboding. Her face collapsed in that hollow old person way. She looked vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before and I didn’t like. But I shook it off as a momentary thing. She was ill, but this wasn’t it.

Unfortunately things took a bad turn over the weekend. Her breathing got increasingly difficult, and she said she was ready to go home. Not to her condo in Media, but to God. When my dad broke this news to me on Monday, over a bad cell phone connection, I was shocked. “No, I just saw Grandmom,” I said. “She was fine. She was planning on coming to the wedding shower on Sunday, to the shore this summer, to Richie’s wedding in August.” I thought it must be some terrible mistake. But slowly the news penetrated. When my mom said that if I wanted to say goodbye to Grandmom I should go the next day, I knew this time was different. No one had ever said that before.

I cried and cried. Nalu did her best to cheer me up, acting goofy and mischievous, but even as she leapt and spun, fighting with her stuffed monkey, the tears streamed down my face. I was not ready to lose Grandmom. I didn’t care that she’s 92 and that she’s ill and that I’ve had her for 33 beautiful years, I still was not ready.

And how could I say goodbye? What could I possibly say? I was really scared. Right until I walked into the hospital room to find my Grandmom alone. And then it was just me and Grandmom, just as we’d always been. I told her everything that was in my heart—that I didn’t want her to die, but that I understood that it might be her time; that at least I knew she’d be with my Grandpop, with her sisters and her beloved nieces who had left us too soon. I held her hand, and she held mine, transmitting warmth and strength to me right through her skin, a love transfusion.

I told her I was grateful to have inherited her Irish charm, and her stubbornness. I recalled for her that she had taught me the word stubborn when I was girl, having called me it when I was misbehaving. Though I understood that she was frustrated, I still had to ask, “What does stubborn mean?” We laughed at the memory and she told me, “Some stubbornness is good. It will help you in life—help you to make the right choices and stick with them.”

I thanked her for writing down her recipes for me, for teaching me how to make her classic Sunday roast beef dinner complete with homemade gravy. I thanked her for her mother’s serving platter that she gifted to me, and the teapot that her mother-in-law had given her when she’d gotten married. I told her how I cherished the memories of when we were two single girls together, sharing rooms in Ocean City and in Ireland. I told her how I treasured our times together in Media, going to mass and coffee with her and her girlfriends. I thanked her for being a great example to me of how to be a feisty lady and a kind lady and a compassionate lady.

And after I told her everything I had to say and listened to everything she had to say, we just sat together, holding hands. A few times I looked up at the TV, which was on without sound, and saw professional wrestling, which just adding to the surreal feeling. Grandmom is dying and WWE is on TV.

I went back to see Grandmom with Carl last night, and she was in a morphine fog, still with us, but not completely, on her way out of this world. I still hate it. I still don’t want to lose her. But I know that I loved her as best I could, that she knows what she means to me, that I showed her every chance I had, and that is an amazing comfort.

I’m holding on to gratitude like it’s my life jacket. I don’t want to lose her, but how amazing that I’ve had her for 33 years, that we’ve been so close, that she’s taught me so much, that I was able to say goodbye. These are gifts and I will suck all the sweetness I can from them, to temper the bitterness.

Good night and God bless you, Grandmom.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

The Dreaded Critique

I belong to the best writing group in the world. Really. Having struggled for so long on my own, longing for helpful feedback, I know how valuable it is to have eight astute writers reading my work and giving me their thoughts. In the few short months I’ve been in the group, I’ve become a better writer, editor, and reader.

And yet, even in this group that I love and value so greatly, getting critiqued is hard. It’s like taking medicine—I know it’s good for me, but I still resist, clamp my mouth shut, feel icky while it’s being administered. The first time was scary because it was the first time. Last night was the second time, and though I was a little nervous, I knew the group, I knew the vibe would be honest but gentle, I knew the intentions were to help me, my writing, and my novel.

Even still, after listening to the group discuss my third and fourth chapters for an hour or so, I felt overwhelmed. Some thoughts I immediately recognized as true. For example, I need to weave my protagonist’s struggle into the narrative more, not take a break from that as I set the scene or introduce characters. The descriptions need some work—yes. The Spanish needs proofreading by a native speaker—yes, yes. Maybe part of why it’s overwhelming is that there is so much still to do. And if I think too much about how much work remains, it feels impossible.

So this morning I’m going back to biting off one tiny piece and working just on that. If I can figure out a small step and take it, I often trick myself into taking a few steps, sometimes surprising myself by how far I get. And if I’m taking steps, I’m less worried, more in the moment, and still moving forward.

Thank you writing group! I will let all your thoughts sit for awhile, see which stay with me, which ring true. The more confident I get as a writer, the easier it is to receive others’ thoughts without thinking I have to agree with them all. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, including me. The trick is to stay open, but also trust myself to pick out what is helpful for me and what isn’t. Easier said than done, but at this too, I’m getting better.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Surfing in 50 Degree Water

Surfing in 50 degree water is something I never thought I’d do. But after surfing all week in Rincon, I couldn’t wait for the water to warm up to go out again. Plus Carl was going. As much as my competitiveness trips me up, it also pushes me to do things I otherwise might not do. So two weeks ago, when Carl said he was going in the water, I thought, well, I’ll give it a try. With the water temp hovering around 50, amazingly, my body was nice and toasty in my wet suit, once the initial blast of cold water warmed up, but my bare hands and feet hated me. It wasn’t like when the water is cold in summer, but eventually your body adjusts. No, it was painful, painful, painful, then numb. Amazingly, I wanted to stay in the water, I wanted to surf that badly. There were waves, although I couldn’t do much with them, as my frozen feet refused to hold up my body. But still I paddled around, caught a few waves, tried to pop up, and had fun.

With a good surf report Carl and I went back to the shore this weekend, but this time I insisted we stop at the surf shop to get booties. Mr. I’m From Syracuse and Don’t Feel the Cold said he didn’t need any, but I’ve never pretended to be tough about the cold. I tried on four booties—feeling like Cinderella once I found the right neoprene slipper—and off we went into the ocean. Amazing thing, neoprene. How can I be in 50 degree water, and not be cold? I don’t know, but I fucking love it. I felt like a whole new world of surfing opened up for me this weekend, one that gives me a few more months each year in the water—months when almost no one else is around.

Each time I take my surfing to another level, I hesitate. When I first started, I knew I loved it and wanted to do it as much as possible, but buying a surf board? Really? With no evidence that I’d ever be able to ride it? But I did it. Then when summer ended, I needed a wet suit. Then when Carl started surfing a lot, and hogging my board, we had to buy a second board. Our first surfari was another level, taking lessons yet another level, and now the cold water.

Each new step required another level of commitment, and yes, faith. And I can say that I haven’t regretted any of the time, money or energy we’ve put into surfing, because I get so much more back in return. I get entire days outside, doing something I love that’s good for my mind, body and soul. I get days with the ocean all to myself. I get exhilaration, adrenaline. And I get to share it all with my husband, who loves surfing more than I’ve ever seen him love anything.

This weekend as I paddled for waves, battling the wind and the current, as I stood up for the first time on our new board (woo-hoo!), as I watched the horizon and knew when waves were going to appear, I realized that somehow over the past year I’ve transformed from poseur to surfer. I don’t feel like a fraud in a wetsuit anymore, I just feel like a surfer.

If you want more surf blogging, check out Carl’s new blog, Surf For Your Life, which is all surfing all the time. Just don’t tell me if you like it better than mine.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Nalu

I've had writer's block for the past two weeks. Not with the book, thank God, that's still moving forward steadily and rather smoothly. But for the past two weeks I've been wanting to write about my gorgeous little puppy Nalu and unable to do it. To answer the FAQ about her, she is a black pug, her name is a Hawaiian word that means "wave," she will likely grow to be 15-20 pounds, although she's only 3 pounds, 7 ounces at the moment. I can hold her short squat torso with one hand, with her little legs on either side, sometimes running in the air, which I find hilarious.

Although I was prepared to love my little darling, fuss over her, cuddle her, I was not prepared for everyone else in the world to do the same. From little old ladies to small boys, from matrons to my personal favorite, the burly plumbers we met today, Nalu turns everyone into squealing, cooing sweetness, which is delightful to witness. Seeing people love her helps me see the goodness in everyone, the child in everyone, the pure joy that people can emit for a small helpless creature. One woman ran out of her office, another around the corner, just to pet her and fuss over her. Many people have pulled their cars over--Nalu literally stops traffic.

Other surprises about puppyhood include how little I mind picking up her poop. Honestly, it doesn't bother me in the least. I'm pleasantly surprised by the stores of patience I didn't know I had. She can be determined, nippy, crazed, disobedient, and still I'm consistently patient and kind. We had a rough day at the end of week 1, but since then, I've adjusted my expectations (poor Nalu is also the victim of my perfectionism) and things are going much better. "Bless her, change me" is one of my mantras. The other is "calm assertive." That's the attitude Cesar Millan says each owner should have toward their dog. It helps.

Sweet surprises include the excitement of my loved ones, the visits to meet Nalu, the gifts for her, watching her bond with my parents and Carl's parents, meeting lots of neighbors, the support of other dog lovers and owners.

One not-so-sweet surprise is how many people insist on comparing raising a puppy to raising a child. I know that our human minds look everywhere for comparisons, that it's hard-wired in us, and there are some points of similarity, but come on, I'm not starting a college fund for Nalu. She'll be full grown within a year, the hardest part of puppyhood is over quickly, and she can be left home alone for hours at a time without compromising her health or happiness. And though I'm not a parent, I'm pretty sure that none of those things are true for children.

I'm not surprised by how much I love her, but I am surprised by the worry and the guilt. I have flashes of irrational fear of finding her dead in her crate. And if she's alone for more than two hours, I find myself rushing home, anxious to rid myself of the guilt.

This journey with Nalu has just begun, and I'm sure there will be much more to say about it. There's lots more to say right now, which is partly why I was blocked. Getting a puppy is a huge thing for me. I went 32 years without having to be responsible for any other living creature, and now, there is a small animal in my home that relies on me for food, shelter, health care, training, emotional well-being, a creature who cannot be alone for more than a few hours. That's huge for Julie Owsik Ackerman, but I'm getting used to it.

I promise to post pictures soon.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Another Little Rincon of My Heart

Carl and I crossed a milestone last week—our first surfari. I hope it’s the first of many, especially after hearing Carl say over and over, “This is the best vacation ever!” We went to Rincon, a small town on the west coast of Puerto Rico, a place that draws world class surfers with waves that can get fifteen to twenty feet high. Think about that. That means you’re standing on a surf board, riding a wave that is more than two or three times as tall as you are. Big.

Now, Carl and I are beginner surfers, and I’m not stupid, so before I booked our trip I made sure there were surf breaks with sandy bottoms and small waves. But as soon as we arrived we drove to the big wave breaks, Escaleras and Marias, neither of which looked terribly scary, though bigger than anything we see in New Jersey. We ate at a spot overlooking the ocean, watched some surfers in the water as the sun set, and I felt equal parts terrified of getting in the water and impatient to do so.

After a failed attempt to go out on our own, we secured the services of Melissa, a surf instructor. She met us at Marias, pulling up in a big black pickup truck with eight surfboards stacked in the back. She personified surfer chic, wearing a cool mismatched bikini and a crocheted black dress coverup with long blond hair, toasty tan skin, and yes, sea blue eyes. She took some time to watch the waves, looking dissatisfied. We peppered her with questions, which she patiently answered with her eyes mostly on the ocean.

“Normally, Maria’s is better for lessons because the rides are longer, and it’s not as crowded as Domes, but today...”

She placed a call, found out that Domes looked better and so we found ourselves at Domes, paddling out with her. Melissa watched the waves and when she saw a good one, she told us to get ready, when to start paddling, then pushed us into the right spot on the wave, shouting “You got it!” once it was time to stand up. The first few waves I stood up, but not for long. She was positive and encouraging, spotting mistakes and helping me to correct them. “You did great on that one,” she said as I got back outside after my first wave. “Next time, make sure you’re looking up. You always want to look in the direction you’re going.”

I wasn’t always able to follow her advice immediately, but I learned to feel what I was doing wrong, and little by little I put a few of her nuggets into practice. By the end of our hour lesson with her, I had the longest ride I’d ever had.

Stoked, we set up a lesson with her for early the next morning, meeting her back at Domes with more confidence and excitement than I’d had for surfing in a long time, maybe ever. We paddled out more quickly, and got into waves right away. I learned how to drop into a wave without my board nosediving, I caught some waves, stood up, had another few great rides, garnered some applause and “Go get it, girl” type encouragement from local surfers, all of which was great.

And then that afternoon I had the moment that made the whole trip worthwhile, the highlight of my surfing career, when all by myself I spotted a wave, turned around, paddled for it, caught it, dropped it, and rode it.

Flush with victory, I paddled for wave after wave, but found it hard to position myself correctly or get my timing right. My frustration and exhaustion grew. I saw Carl paddle out a distance away and watched him make a new friend and have some great rides. After resenting him from afar, I swallowed some pride, some more sea water and paddled over to where he was. His new friend was a sweet 22 year old, handsome like a Disney prince, who said, “Hey Julie, I’m Eric, why don’t you hang out with us?” Though we had some laughs, I didn’t catch any more waves that day, but I held on to my earlier breakthrough.

The next morning I woke up feeling lousy, but the town was buzzing about a swell arriving that day, and we had arranged to meet Melissa that morning, so I bikinied up, gave myself a pep talk and headed to the beach.

For Rincon, the surf was so-so; for me it was huge. The waves were 6-8 feet, so if you’re on your board, the wave is over your head. Just standing on shore I was scared. My discomfort increased when I found out Eric was taking us out that morning instead of Melissa. Sweet as he was, I had a feeling that he was a natural, and naturals often don’t understand the limitations of mere mortals. But I pushed my reservations aside and paddled out.

My fear/adrenaline exploded as I saw a giant wave hurtling toward us. “Paddle, Julie, paddle!” Eric said, easily speeding up his arms. I moved as quickly as I could, but when I saw I wouldn’t make it over the wave, I rolled over, holding my board above me, hoping it would wash over me, but unfortunately, the wave ripped the board out of my hands and I went tumbling after, my arms curled over my head to protect it from the board and the coral reefs. When I emerged, gasping for air I saw the next wave bearing down and dove underwater, my right leg yanked by the force of the water trying to drag my board to shore. I came up, tugged the board back to me, kicked and strained my way back on top, only to be knocked off by the third wave. I waited for the fourth one to pass before trying to get back up. I was beaten down, discouraged, disoriented.

Eric came back toward me, his arms effortlessly, playfully moving his board forward. “You okay?” he asked. I nodded. “Okay, we gotta get out before the next set, come on.” I paddled my little heart out, gasping for air, arms burning. “I’ll give you a little boost” Eric called before pushing me from behind, catching up to me, then pushing again. “Come on, you can do it!” I paddled paddled paddled, arm over arm. After all that, I had to at least get past the break. At least that. After what felt like forty minutes, but probably was only ten, I finally got outside, on the verge of physical and emotional collapse, but beyond the break.

Ten seconds later Eric said, “Hey Julie, here comes a good one, you want it?” I didn’t even have the breath to answer him, let alone catch the biggest wave of my life. Carl went for it, and got destroyed. The mountains of water were rising under me and falling away into thunderous foam, my dread and fear growing with each one.

Finally I decided I’d try to catch one wave. After one, I could go back to shore, but I had made it outside, so I owed it to myself to try. I told Eric and Carl my plan, turned around and steeled myself. Eric saw one coming, I started paddling, he pushed me and I immediately knew my timing was off. The water swallowed me up, tumbled me around, and spit me out. I was done.

I paddled back in fighting back tears. As I climbed over the reef out of the water, I tucked my feelings away, determined not to cry at the beach and plopped down on a surfboard next to Melissa. “I’m trying to not be mad that I’m the one who took up surfing and Carl is better and braver than me already,” I said. Melissa nodded. “My younger brother doesn’t teach surfing, and he’s a better surfer than me,” she said.

Commiserating helped soothe my wounded ego. So did a break from the beach, and speaking Spanish, something I do very well. Maybe best of all was returning that night to watch other surfers in the big waves. I don’t know where those people came from, but they surfed as well as the people we watch in movies. They dropped into the waves, jumped up and skimmed across the top, and popped 360 aerials. Sitting on the sand with the sun setting into the water I realized that those were waves for experts, not for people who had just started last summer.

I learned a lot on the surfari. I learned it’s good to admit when you need help, because you might get some. I learned that I am still a beginner, and I can’t expect myself to keep up with experts. I learned that even great surfers miss waves, misjudge, get caught inside, wipeout. I learned that though it’s good to try, it’s also good to admit when something is too much. Finally, I learned that as hard as surfing is for me, as much as it brings up, being in the water still beats being on the beach.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Swimming Lessons

As a kid, I was a natural little swimmer, rising through the ranks of the YMCA swim program from guppy to minnow to fish to flying fish. After a twenty-five year hiatus, I went back for more swimming lessons last winter, hoping to improve my surfing. Little did I know I was in for one-on-one classes with Edmund, an Albanian champion swimmer. He was a big bear of a man—over six feet tall, barrel-chested, hairy front and back with an ease in the water unlike any person I’d ever met.

Edmund was an exacting teacher with high standards, and boy did he understand swimming. He had watched me swim half a length of the pool freestyle when he stopped me and said, “Of course you can’t breathe when you swim, you’re turning your head not your body.” And I felt that clunk of recognition, like when I hear an on-target critique of my writing—like of course, that’s what I’m doing wrong. He taught me how to stretch, how to use gravity, how to position my head to look down and not ahead, how to use my arms to move myself forward, not just my hands.

My freestyle stroke and breaststroke gradually improved, but my backstroke was hopeless. I understood the arm motion of the backstroke, which we practiced standing up in the shallow end, but I couldn’t get the floating or the kicking. I actually went the wrong way when floating on my back and just kicking. “It would be better if you just used your arms,” he said, not quite with disdain, just as a fact.

He gave me some exercises to do to fix it, which I tried, but when the end of our time together arrived my backstroke was still abominable. I continued swimming at the local high school pool, doing mostly freestyle and breast strokes, throwing in a few laps of backstroke when I had a lane to myself, suffering and tense, water going up my nose, but determined to keep trying.

Over the summer I traded surfing for swimming and when I got back in the pool this winter and revisited the backstroke, I was surprised to note that something had shifted. I didn’t dread it as much, and after awhile I began to look forward to it, because I could feel progress, and I love feeling progress.

Then last week while reading a book about Duke Kahanamoku, the Hawaiian surfing icon and champion swimmer, I came across this advice of his about swimming: “Relax. Let your muscles be soft. When they tighten up from fear, you are as heavy as a rock and you sink.” I felt another clunk of recognition. I was so tense during the back float—so afraid of getting water up my nose or hitting my head on the wall, of sinking, of flailing, of looking bad—no wonder it was so hard.

The next day I took Duke’s words into the pool with me. I focused on relaxing while I swam—which isn’t easy by the way. I would relax, but then need my muscles to move forward. So I tried relaxing my core, just using my arms and legs. Then I tried relaxing whatever muscles I wasn’t using. And something awesome happened—I enjoyed my swim more than I ever had before. It felt better, more natural, less forced.

As I swam I thought about the balance between relaxing and engaging, and that sometimes what is needed isn’t more effort, but less. Less effort feels to me like letting go, trusting that I will be okay. I’m starting to do this in my life outside the pool too. The more I do it, the more I see it works. The more it works, the more I do it.

Edmund would be so proud. Maybe I’ll go back next winter to learn the butterfly.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Goodness, Guidance and Gifts

I’ve been trying something different in the past few weeks, and have noticed significant results. For over a year I’ve been waking up and doing morning pages first thing—three pages of long-hand stream of consciousness writing. It’s a place for me to complain, to brainstorm, to dump whatever is hanging around my brain from the day before or my dreams. Also, it’s a place where I learn not to censor myself, to just let it rip.

Recently I added a meditation to my routine. After morning pages I read a meditation, then lie back down in bed, close my eyes, relax my body and open my hands. I ask for eyes open to seeing goodness, a mind open to receiving guidance and hands open to receiving gifts.

And it works. Guidance: I have received guidance on everything from what to do next in my job search to what scene to fix in my novel. Goodness: I have seen wispy clouds in the sky, felt the blustery wind blowing my hair about, appreciated the chilly mornings of winter’s last stand. Gifts: I have recognized the many gifts that have come my way, including an exciting job lead and the very real possibility of bringing a puppy home on Easter Day.

Maybe the best gift of all is the feeling of calm I’ve had. In spite of many changes swirling in and around me, I’ve been living in the moment, taking my next small step, and getting longer and longer stretches without worry and anxiety.

Ask and you shall receive? In my case it feels like—ask, open yourself, listen, and then you shall receive.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

BFF

Melissa has been one of my BFFs (best friends forever) since we were fourteen. I fell in love with her immediately for her fierce attitude, her courage, her ability to say things I hardly dared to think. And okay, for her curly red hair too. Her mom moved her and her siblings back to Scranton when we were sixteen, and I was devastated. I couldn't imagine life without her, I didn't want to. I thought we'd never see her again, that it would never be the same. I was partly right, it was never the same. We had to write letters and talk on the phone and travel a few hours to see each other. It wasn't always easy to be long distance friends. It took work. Luckily for me, she is a dedicated letter writer and communicator, because I have been known to slack on both of those fronts. But over the more than ten years that we lived in different cities, we remained close friends.

And then a few years ago, she moved back to Philly! We've grown closer than ever since she's returned, and now it's funny to remember how scared I was that I would lose her friendship, because she is part of the small handful of people that I see and talk to most.

She's on the brain because she gave birth to a gorgeous baby boy this week, which got me to thinking about life. (Dangerous, I know.) If Melissa hadn't moved to Scranton, she wouldn't have met her husband. If she hadn't met her husband, not only would I not know The Dicker, one of my favorite people in the world, but also we wouldn't have Alexander. And it's clear as day to me that the world needs Alexander, that he's part of the plan.

So it's true that things were never the same, but they actually got better. This helps me in two ways:

1) When things are uncertain, I tend to assume the worst. But in this scenario, not only did I keep my friend, but added two more amazing people to my world (and a really sweet dog.)

2) When things are painful, I always want an explanation. You know, like "why would God do this to me?" kind of thing. And though an explanation while the pain is happening would be nice, today when I finally understood the much greater good that came out of my friend moving away, it helped me to believe that there actually is a plan, even when I don't understand it.

So I'm grateful this morning, not just for Baby Alexander and his parents, but for friendship--real, true, deep friendship. I'm grateful for acceptance. For having people in my life with whom I can be totally honest, totally myself. For people with whom I laugh early and often. For the support and nourishment I get from my friends. And for this new tiny bit of insight into the Universe that just may allow me to have a little more faith.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Celebrate Your Life

I had the great good fortune to spend time with some dear friends in New York City this weekend--a trip that was good for my heart and soul. I laughed until my belly ached and my mascara smudged many times. We talked and talked and talked and talked, and a recurring theme was the idea that each of us should celebrate our lives.

So often I get messed up by looking at what other people have, and either wanting it for myself, or thinking that I should want it, or wondering why I don't want it, when really, if I can refocus on my own life and my own choices, I have so much to celebrate.

So today I celebrate the fact that I have Tuesdays and Thursdays to work on my book, to take care of myself, to refresh my creativity with artist dates, to catch up with friends, to cook, to read, to write letters and blog entries. I celebrate the fact that Carl and I just booked a trip to Puerto Rico, somewhere I've always wanted to go. I celebrate my ability to surf which is steadily improving, my improving fitness, the time and space I've given myself to write, my ever-improving manuscript. I celebrate my house, my job, my friends and family. I even celebrate the difficulties, through which I learn so much.

What in your life can you celebrate?

Friday, February 20, 2009

Standing at the Edge of the Unknown

I found out yesterday that it was pretty likely that my job would end on April 1. That, along with some other recent changes in my life have me feeling agitated. I’ve been trying to live with the agitation, to acknowledge it and accept it. They say acceptance leads to serenity, and they’re right. I just can’t always get there.

Speaking with a friend this morning about these changes he said that standing at the edge of the unknown is turbulent. He added that we make it worse for ourselves by imagining worst case scenarios—like I’ll never get another job I like, I’ll never finish the book, Carl and I will lose our house, etc etc. (Not that I’ve thought any of those things, but you know, one could.) My friend concluded by saying it would be better if we could look toward the unknown not with dread but with curiosity. After talking to him I thought maybe I can take it a step further and feel hope—hope that whatever comes after this job will be great, will be joyful, helpful, the thing that I need.

My current job turned out to be the thing that I needed, a thing that really helped me in many ways. It helped me make some money, feel some relief from financial worry. It helped me to get back into the workforce, to try a schedule where I had a job and had some responsibility while still working on the book. It allowed me to see lawyers in a positive light again. It may have even piqued my interest in doing legal work again. So if this job could do all this for me, what might another job do? Might it not be great? Be just the thing I need?

Maybe I can take it even one step further and try to be grateful for the unknown, for the new possibilities that shimmer just out of sight, and even for the turbulence, which at least isn’t boring. I am grateful that I no longer see my life stretching out ahead of me in a straight and predictable line. It’s good to have some mystery, some unknown. Isn’t that what keeps life interesting?

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Don't Think, Just Do

The down side of my overactive imagination is that I can vividly imagine how hard things are going to be. For example, if I start thinking about going to the gym, I see myself changing clothes, getting in the car, suffering through a work out, coming home and showering, which when put all together in my mind seems like too much. Last week I heard someone say, "Don't think, just do," in reference to this very gym scenario. "Thinking is a trap," she said. "Just get your butt there." This is a smart person, a wise person, so this week, every time I got stuck thinking about going to the gym, I told myself, "don't think, just do." And it worked.

Drunk with success, I tried applying it to my writing. When I've found myself going down the mental road of "I don't want to write, I don't feel like it, I can't do it today, I don't know what to say, I don't know what to do next, I hate the stupid book, why did I ever begin this anyway, etc etc" I have told myself, "Don't think, just do." Here too, it works! The other morning I woke up and saw a piece of the manuscript on my night stand. I had never once tried to work on the book in bed, but I figured what the hell? Just do. So I started reading, and worked very happily for about an hour, lying in bed, in my pjs. What a gorgeous way to start my day.

This morning I woke up later than I wanted and didn't have time to do anything before I left for work. But I grabbed a few chapters and read them on the train. Snatching moments here or there to work on the book has been adding up to good work, good progress and good feelings. For the first time in awhile, I feel forward momentum again. Oh how I have missed you, forward momentum! Don't think, just do has spared me the agony that attends the procrastination. It has helped me get over that hump that feels insurmountable some days--the hump of beginning. Once I've begun I'm almost always happy, so why is it so hard to start? I don't know. But I'm going to use this trick for as long as it keeps working.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Disney Hangover


I’ve had a Disney hangover since we returned from Florida last week. Part sadness, part exhaustion, part common cold, part reluctance to return to reality, part inability to process the experience. We packed so much into five days that like a liver on New Year’s Day, my soul is struggling to process the experience.

I’ll spare you the blow by blow—it would exhaust you just to read it—and rather just list some favorites. My favorite sound of the trip wasn’t Finding Nemo, When You Wish Upon a Star, or God forbid, It’s a Small World Afterall, but rather the sound of the lovely Sophia, now 21 months old, saying “Hi Julie!” with the sweetest exuberance ever heard, 400 times a day. My favorite sight? The giggling nervous excitement of the three kids waiting to hug Winnie the Pooh, Tigger, Piglet and Eeyore ties with the sweet, trusting look of 13-year-old Alyssa when she asked me to sit next to her at dinner. My favorite touch? The feel of Sophie taking both of my hands in hers once the Buzz Lightyear ride started. My favorite taste? The Prosecco from “Italy,” the crazy almond covered sweet pretzel from “Norway” and a surprisingly good grilled veggie sandwich on olive bread with sun-dried tomato paste from a fast food stand at Hollywood Studios. My favorite smell? The roses that bloom everywhere in Epcot, even in January. Yes, I stopped to smell them.

Add to the above the shared stories, meals, walks, bus rides; the shared adrenaline rush of Everest, Rock n Roller Coaster, Tower of Terror; talking and laughing with Andy and Nat at the beach; chasing Sophie down the hall as she laughed her head off; trying out castanets and headdresses with Alyssa, and you’ll get a fuller, yet still incomplete picture of what made the trip so special.

So why sad? For one thing, knowing that Sophie woke up in California the morning after she’d gotten home and said, “Mommy, I go see Julie now.” If that’s not bittersweet, I don’t know what is. Coming back to a cold, gray, snowy Philly doesn’t help matters. Neither does the block I have against working on the book. And though I know I couldn’t have kept up the Disney schedule much longer, though I know I have to get back into my routine, to my structure, and yes, to work, it still feels hard to accept that my world no longer revolves around what time Illuminations starts.

I know there are Disney haters out there and I can understand that. But as an artist, I have a lot of admiration for the imagination and vision of Walt Disney and the Disney corporation. Say what you want about it, but Disney knows how to put on a show. They know how to create characters that people relate to and love. They know how to tell stories, create spectacle, and to create a world so magical that people spend thousands of dollars just to spend a little time within it. And God bless them, they know how to market.

Is their marketing to children nefarious? Are we all just hostage to the influence of their evil advertising? I don’t know, maybe that’s part of it. Maybe I should protest, resist. The younger Julie did. But now I think, if all of my in-laws love going to Disney World, and I have a great time every time we go, why fight it? Why not suspend cynicism and disbelief for a few days and just enjoy? More and more it feels like how much I enjoy myself wherever I am is up to me. So I decided to have a great time in Disney World, and I did. And yes, I came home with a pink Mickey Mouse t-shirt, which reminds me to take life a little less seriously, try to be more child-like, and believe in the magic, at least some of the time.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Crossroads

Today I’m thinking writing a novel is like solving a Rubix cube. It seems like every time I change one little thing, it affects the rest of the work, like just when you'd have one whole side all red, but then try to line up the yellow and mess it all up.

I’m at what feels like a crossroads with the novel. One of my major characters and plot points isn’t working very well. I’ve added detail, subtracted detail. I’ve examined it closely, given it time to breathe, come back to it, and still, it isn’t right. Which makes me think that maybe it doesn’t belong in the book. And it’s getting hard to move forward until I make a decision about it, but I’m scared to make a decision because of the affect that decision will have on the rest of the book. What if I choose wrong? What if in six months I think, oh, I need that character to be a major part of the plot again? What if it means rewriting the rest of the book? Or even just big chunks of it?

Ai yai ai. I guess in the end, writing a novel is a giant act of faith, and all I can do is make a decision based on what I think right now, or put off a decision until I feel some clarity. I think it would help to pan back, look at the big picture of the book again, and think about how this character or story line fits into the main plot, what it adds (if anything), if it feels necessary to the story. Too much of that kind of thinking about the book can paralyze me. I can get overwhelmed by looking at the overall work, by thinking too big. But maybe if I do it just today and maybe a little tomorrow, then put it aside for a few days, maybe that will help. Maybe I'll try asking for some clarity. It's amazing how sometimes if I just ask for something I receive it.

So maybe, like with the Rubix cube, where you often have to wreck one side that looks perfect to achieve your ultimate goal, maybe here I have to wreck something that I thought was good to get closer to my goal of telling Laura Gallagher's story in a compelling way. I can't include everything about her entire life, not in 300 odd pages. Choices have to be made. Is it possible the novel is teaching me about decisiveness too? Even if I'm afraid of what's around the corner, won't I learn from it either way? Isn't that what matters?

Friday, January 2, 2009

I Pity the Fool

Before the holidays I was stuck in self-pity, feeling grumpy, suffocated, trapped. I had a case of “If only we lived in Spain, everything would be better.” And though wallowing in self-pity has a certain satisfaction, maybe because of the illusion that I am a passive victim, and therefore can’t do anything about my misery, after about a week I got tired of my own whining. As I often do, I looked to Julia Cameron for comfort, found an essay on self-pity in one of her books. She said that eventually we will get sick of self-pity and ask “What can I do about it?” I slept on that thought Saturday night, woke up on Sunday, did yoga, then meditated. With a rarely calm mind and body I called to mind the many things in my life that work right now. Here’s a partial list:

1) My creative life. Not only am I writing the book and the blog, I’m exploring other art forms and nurturing my inner artist.

2) My job. Somehow, miraculously, I found the perfect job for me right now. I like what I do, I like the people I work with and the work environment, and maybe most of all, I love how my three day work schedule allows me to keep writing and gives me time and space to continue most of the things I loved about my no-job life.

3) My family. Almost all of my family is in the Philly area, and I get to see them a lot. I get to go to my cousin’s birthday parties. I get to see my Uncle Ed, Aunt Mary Lou and Grandmom around town. I get to have dinners with my parents, girls’ days with my niece, double-dates with my brother and his wife.

4) Ocean City, NJ. It’s hard to feel grateful for the shore this time of year, when I can’t go in the water, and hardly even get there, but our proximity to the beach and access to my parents’ beach house is one of the great blessings of my life.

5) My friends. Not only do I live within a few miles of some of my oldest and dearest friends, I’ve made some truly nurturing new friendships over the past year.

6) Narberth. My one-square-mile town has the world’s best almond croissant, boutiques that sell original art from local artists, a giant mosaic mural, a magical cheese shop, some down-home pubs, a fine restaurant, a few thrift and consignment stores, a talented florist, an old-school five and dime, and the best 4th of July celebration of any small town anywhere. And we gorgeous giant old trees. Loads of them.

7) Philly. I went out last week for an artist date, with fresh eyes, into University City. I wandered around Penn’s campus and discovered some amazing pieces of art and architecture. College Hall, made of travertine stone—an eerie and beautiful green, looking like a castle that belongs on wind-tossed moor in Wales rather than in West Philadelphia, ignited the imagination. A photo exhibit about Nigeria transported me back to Africa. A small Cuban café fed body and soul with a warm latte and an impromptu drum performance. Joy and laughter seeped into me at the University City Arts League, where I went with a group of children to the land “Where the Wild Things Are.” All of these things are in Philly and of Philly. Perhaps the best blessing of that day was the idea that my own city has untold wonders waiting to be discovered, if I can approach it with the fresh eyes of a visitor, at least occasionally.

It was good and necessary to remember what a full and rich life I have. But that wasn’t enough. Self-pity is a signal that something isn’t quite right. With my still-quiet mind, I realized that I need more fun and more exercise in my life, and then I felt immense relief. I don’t have to go to Spain for exercise or fun. So I investigated and joined a gym, where I went for a long overdue swim, feeling my soul expand the way it only does in the water. I’ve done some cardio workouts since, gaining not only those lovely endorphins, but also some insight into the book, better sleep, and more peace in general. So the more exercise is already paying off. Next step: more fun. What can I do for fun other than surf? Suggestions please!