Anything for Material: This Writer's Life

A Year Without Resolutions?

2012-01-02T11:30:00.000-05:00

January 2. Time for New Year’s Resolutions, right? Maybe not. The past few years I have made very simple resolutions. One year it was to have more fun; one year to dance more; one year to become more active. As I contemplated goals and resolutions for 2012, I thought I might try something different this year, inspired by two blogs I love.

On Zen Habits, Leo writes about giving up goals. This idea makes me uneasy. Isn’t conventional wisdom that unless you have a goal, you will not achieve it? Leo claims you can achieve just as much, maybe more, without goals.

In that spirit, I thought rather than making goals for 2012, I could use a process I found on another blog I love, The Fluent Self. Havi has a practice of saying hello to each month. I used some of her prompts to say hello to the last few months of 2011, and found it so helpful, I’m doing it for 2012 too. I like it because it’s a way of having intentions about a month (or year) while staying open to what comes.

Here are some prompts to consider if you want to say hello to 2012.

How I would like to describe 2012

How I would like to remember 2012

What I am looking forward to

What I am feeling anxious about

What I would like to give 2012

What I would like to receive

And because I can't quite give up resolutions, I have still made one very simple one, which is to focus on staying in the moment more.

How do you approach a new year?

Grumpy Christmas to You

2011-12-23T08:38:00.000-05:00

For the past few weeks, I’ve been feeling Grinchy. Scroogy. Un-Christmassy. Yes, there’s the clinical depression, which I’m pretty sure is the opposite of merry, but it’s been more than that. I’ve been reacting to this idea that because it’s Christmas, and Daniel’s First Christmas, that I should feel a certain way. And then I’ve been feeling worse, because I’m not overcome with joy and Christmas spirit.

So the other day, I acknowledged to myself that I was grumpy about Christmas, that I didn’t care, didn’t want to participate, and resented the whole thing. I talked about it with some friends, and accepted that’s where I was. I gave myself permission to be grumpy. I remembered Fr. Meehan, a very special priest who died this year, saying in a Christmas homily, “We come to Christmas as we are.” I love that idea, and I’ve held onto it for years. Because sometimes, on special days, what we feel is sad, or lonely, or depressed. And then we can feel worse because we’re not supposed to feel those things on Christmas. But sometimes we do. More and more, life seems to me full of the bittersweet. For me, acknowledging and accepting the bitter helps me to enjoy the sweet.

The lovely Claire, after listening to my holiday rant yesterday, hugged me as she left and said, “Merry Christmas,” and then corrected herself, “Or Grumpy Christmas. Whatever Christmas you want to have.” Talking with her reminded me that Christmas, like anything else, is what we make it. I can’t make myself feel joyful, but I can focus on the positive. What I really want for Christmas this year is to enjoy the real gifts of my life. To be in the present, with Daniel, seeing him kick his legs in his high chair as he eats, listening to him testing out his voice, watching him inch around the floor, warming up for crawling. He is my Christmas miracle, every day.

I hope you all enjoy the real gifts of your life this Christmas. And if you're still feeling grumpy, that's okay too.

The Best Advice

2011-12-17T09:53:00.000-05:00

What's the best advice you've received recently? I've implemented two game changers in the past month. One is to make coffee the night before. So simple, and it makes such a positive difference in my morning.

Find the other here.

The Bright Side

2011-12-11T10:44:00.000-05:00

Since my pregnancy, I’ve been collecting thoughts about mothering and writing. Two ideas have stayed with me as talismans, helping me in dark moments. One is a quote from Barbara Kingsolver who when asked about writer’s block said something like, “The best cure for writer’s block is having children. Because any minute I had to actually write, I would fall upon the keys like a starved dog.”1

The other idea came from Elizabeth Alexander, the poet who read at Obama’s inauguration. She said that she did some of her best writing in the sleep-deprived early years of her children’s lives; that something about the lack of sleep made her open in a new way, less obstructive to the creative force.2

These ideas give me hope, not because they are necessarily true for me, but because they reframe the writing/motherhood dilemma. Maybe the two are not in conflict after all. In fact, maybe each feeds the other. So far, my experience of parenting has gifted me with a wealth of new material. Mothering has cracked me open in many ways, and the expansion, the new depths of feeling, the survival of heretofore undreamed of challenges, it’s all rich and dense—great compost for writing.

Do you have any unexpected bright sides about parenting or other challenges?

1 Kingsolver wrote one of my favorite books in recent memory, The Lacuna. Yes, that’s right. I’m footnoting a blog entry.

2 You can listen to the interview with Alexander here: http://being.publicradio.org/programs/2011/words-that-shimmer/

New Blog: 4 Broad Minds

2011-11-17T19:15:00.001-05:00

Dear Readers, I hope you will come visit the new blog I started with some writer friends, 4 Broad Minds. I post there once a month. But don't worry, I will continue to post here on a weekly basis also.

As a thank you, a photo of my ridiculously adorable Pug (emphasis on ridiculous):

The Reset Button

2011-11-11T12:36:00.000-05:00

Blissed out--alone--at the beach

After the trip to Mexico, having a cold, hosting a baptism party for 50 people at my home, then a week of Daniel not sleeping well (day or night), I felt utterly depleted – physically, mentally, emotionally. When I found myself crying at 6 a.m. last Thursday, I knew something had to give. I texted Carl and requested to spend the next night away, alone. He said yes—bless him. I didn’t know where I would go, just that I needed to be in a house where Daniel was not, in hope of getting the first good night’s sleep in what felt like a century. I needed to hit the reset button.

Just knowing that a break was on the horizon – the immediate horizon—helped so much. The next day D was pretty chill. (I swear, he’s his most charming when he knows I’m going to be leaving.) I had dinner with Carl, then took off, tires squealing as I made my getaway. I listened to loud music without worrying about waking the baby. Arriving at the shore at 9 p.m., I pumped milk—no escaping that at the moment—watched some silly TV, and went to sleep by 11.

I woke up—pause for effect—9 hours later.

As if it didn’t already feel like the best morning of my life, it slowly dawned on me that no one needed me to do anything. I didn’t have to feed anyone, change anyone, walk anyone. I could just…well, be. It was glorious.

After a quick stop at the beach, I had a blessed breakfast of buckwheat pancakes, smothered in butter, a side of pork roll, perfectly grilled, and bottomless coffee. I poked into a few stores, bought some fudge for my amazing husband. Then off to a massage, where I luxuriated in the feeling of being pampered, of being cared for, with no expectation in return. (Other than payment, which I was happy to provide.) I followed that up with a pedicure, mostly just so I wouldn’t have to move for another hour. I ate lunch at the counter of Mack & Manco’s, watching the ocean through the window, then wandered the boardwalk. I spent a few more precious moments at the beach, just because I can never get enough of the salt air, the crashing waves, the sandpipers scurrying, the sun penetrating to my very heart. I left feeling refreshed, renewed. Yes, reset.

I came home to a sick baby. Poor little guy has his first cold. Which meant another week of very little sleep for any of us. By Thursday, I was ready for another escape. Had I opened Pandora’s Box by my one glorious day to myself? Knowing it’s not realistic, or even desired, to be away one night every week, I had the idea of Carl and I alternating nights taking care of Daniel, until the sleep strike ends. So last night, I was here, with my family, but in another room, where I slept blissfully for 8 straight hours with a loud fan to block any noise. I woke up refreshed, renewed, reset. So maybe the answer isn’t waiting for opportunities for grand gestures to myself, but rather, carving out small spaces for myself whenever possible.

How do you hit the reset button for yourself?

My Mexico

2011-11-02T13:34:00.001-04:00

Cutest passport ever

Some people thought I was crazy to bring my four-month-old son with me to Mexico a few weeks ago. Of course I cleared it with the pediatrician first, and invited my mom to join us, thank God, but why would I do this? Come with me for a few moments to My Mexico, to see for yourself why I return again and again.

Upon your arrival, the bride meets you at the bus station. No matter that her wedding is in three days and she has a million things to do. She comes herself, and remains unruffled when your infant son screams for the entire thirty minute cab ride to her house. Later, as she holds your son so you can eat in peace, she says, “Pobrecito was just so tired from the journey.”

Your host mom has dinner ready when you arrive—homemade tortillas, filled with cheese, topped with freshly made salsa verde and ensalada de nopal—cactus with reputed healing properties. And of course, your favorite—sweet, delicious Mexican Coke in a glass bottle.

In the morning, the octogenarian abuelita arrives to stay for a few days. After telling a sad story about a fight she’d had with her daughter, she says, while crying, that she is unsure about where she will live. Then your baby appears. When abuelita takes him in her arms, her whole being lights up, her smile shining out of her eyes. She is lost in the pleasure of holding this little one. Seeing her joy warms you from head to toe.

Later, as you walk the baby in the stroller, a passing bus driver honks and yells “Guera” out the window.

In the zocalo, spotting a teeny embroidered shirt you want to buy, you realize you know the woman selling it. She greets you with great warmth, so happy to meet your baby and says, “You must be grateful for this gift from God. Not every woman is granted the privilege of being a mother.”

Asking a woman in the street for directions how to walk to the market, she tells you sternly it’s not safe to do so with the baby. When she can see that you really want to go, she relents slightly and says if you must go, you can take the bus, and tells you how to do it.

A man hops onto the bus, up the stairs and into a seat, loudly joking with the bus driver. He has no legs, so he walks on his hands. No one stares.

Driving to the wedding, the mother of the bride invites the cab driver to the reception, and means it.

At the wedding reception, everyone demands to hold the baby. They comment on how pale he is, how he looks like his father, how he’s a muñeco—a little doll. No one bats an eye when he cries, or when you nurse him. You notice in a new way how children are a part of the landscape, viewed as treasures, not as noisy bothers.

All dressed up for the wedding

Three sisters—ages 18, 15, and 13, adopt you and your son at the wedding reception, following after you, sitting with you while you nurse him, running to get whatever you need from the diaper bag. They can see you need help and they provide it. You’ve never met them before.

You catch your macho host brother wiping away tears as his baby sister says her vows. Later he grabs your hand and pulls you to the dance floor where you shout together, “No pares, sigue sigue.” Nearby, you find everyone from infants in arms to grandmothers, laughing, dancing, singing.

Waking up the morning after the wedding, you learn that not only had the post party continued until 2 a.m. the night before, but that your host mother, the mother of the bride, had made a pot of pozole as large as a keg of beer, for her birthday party, which begins at 11 a.m. and lasts well into the night.

Daniel's abuelitos

At the airport restaurant in Mexico City, you sit, sad and tired, eyes barely opened. The waitress shyly asks if she can hold your son. When you gladly hand him over, the entire staff gathers, passing the baby around, smiling, and laughing.

After returning home, you call your host mom to tell her you’d returned safely. She says, “Ya extraño el llanto de Danielito.” I already miss Daniel’s crying.

The next morning you emerge from the shower, greeted by the baby crying. You look at each other, somewhat shocked that no one has appeared to comfort him. You’re both thinking, when can we go back to Mexico?

Feel the Guilt and Do It Anyway

2011-09-13T13:29:00.000-04:00

Is this my tentative theory of parenting, three months in? Maybe. My best friend shared with me some wisdom passed to her by a more experienced mother, who said, “You have to decide if you’re going to parent from guilt or not.”

Wow. There’s a choice?

I’m working on believing that we have choices in almost everything in life. Maybe not what happens to us, but how we respond to what happens to us. My choice today related to my son’s nap. I’m trying to encourage longer daytime naps. He seemed cranky, so I figured I’d try to put him down. After I swaddled him, as I’m walking toward his room, he turned on the full charm—big smiles, cooing, flirty eyes. Can he be this smart or manipulative at a few days shy of three months? Is it coincidental that he often shows his sweetest self as I’m trying to get him to sleep?

Of course then I didn’t want to put him down. But I had already swaddled him (does he spend too much time in a swaddle? Does he not like it? Is it inhibiting his spirit or enjoyment of life?) And I wanted him to nap this afternoon, so okay, I put him down. Immediately the guilt started. Was he lonely? Should I be spending every moment of the day with him? The answer to the second question is no. I like some alone time, and I think it’s good for him too. So why the guilt? Maybe because of some doubt I have of my competence as a parent. Some doubt of my instincts. Some fear—always fear is lurking—that he’ll be scarred for life by some mistake or series of mistakes that I make.

I took a deep breath. The thing is, I had to make a sandwich, and I’d like to do a little laundry, and maybe, just maybe, some writing. All of that is hard with him awake and in the same room. I am a better mother when I get some breaks. After some down time, I have genuine enthusiasm for him, an almost sickening amount, instead of the forced kind I feel when I don’t get a break. So isn’t it better that he be rested, and I be rested and happy? Undoubtedly yes. Sorry, guilt and fear. I hear you, but he’s staying in his crib. For now. Unless he really starts crying. I’m getting stronger, but I’m not made of stone.

Over the Rainbow

2011-08-16T14:36:00.001-04:00

Week 8 postpartum. Daniel is sleeping from 11ish until 4ish every night, waking up to eat, and going back to sleep for another couple of hours. Breastfeeding is no longer excruciatingly painful, though we still have a few challenges. Daniel will drink from a bottle, allowing me to be away from him for more than three hours at a time. He still sleeps a lot during the day, but also has longer periods of time when he is awake, alert and HAPPY! I love happy Daniel. He gives huge gummy grins, kicks his chubby legs, and squeals in delight. We’ve even heard some preliminary laughs. (And since he has two hilarious parents, I’m sure the laughs will get bigger.) But my favorite current trick is the noises he makes in response to questions. As of right now, life seems pretty manageable. Which feels miraculous to me. Why, you ask?

Weeks 3-6:
In week three, we traveled to Syracuse. Though I cherished seeing our friends and family, the trip unfortunately coincided with a four night stretch of Daniel not sleeping for more than an hour at a time. There was lots of screaming, inconsolable crying (and Daniel made some noise too.) By day two of almost no sleep, I called my best friend, sobbing, to ask if she thought I had postpartum depression. Her answer: “If things continue this way, you could talk to someone, but I think you’re just exhausted.”

She was right. It was complete and utter exhaustion. I thought labor took a lot out of me—and it did—but four days with almost no sleep and an inconsolable child takes a whole other kind of toll. After a six hour drive home from Syracuse, arriving at 8 pm, Carl had a weeklong workshop starting early the next day. I woke up to a house with no food, worse—no coffee, and a screaming child. I put said child in the car seat to take him for a walk. As I tried to get out the door, Nalu scrambled out and ran down the block. I left Daniel on the porch to grab the dog, somehow got her back in the house. Realized the strollers were folded up in the kitchen, not on the porch. I struggled one of them out the door, Daniel still screaming the whole time. And when I couldn’t figure out how to get the stroller open, found myself shaking it and shouting, “WHY DOES GOD HATE ME?”

Not a great start to my first week alone with Dan.

Thankfully, I had lined up some help for the week. My friend Jan showed up that afternoon, allowing me to lie down for thirty minutes. I called Best Friend again, detailed what the few days had been like, and she showed up later with every brand of pacifier she could buy. Up until this point, the only thing that calmed Daniel was sucking on something, but he wouldn’t take a pacifier, which meant one of us holding a finger in his mouth when he wasn’t nursing. That might not sound exhausting, but trust me, it is. When Daniel took a pacifier later that day, and lied in his bassinet for a few minutes, quietly sucking, I felt a glimmer of hope. (I hadn’t realized that some babies prefer certain brands.)

Being without Carl that week made me realize something was wrong. The pediatrician was less than helpful. “Babies cry. Babies get gas.” Okay, yes I know that, but it shouldn’t be so much that you need two parents to comfort him around the clock. Mommy instinct (and desperation) drove me to seek help from a breastfeeding support group. But after two hours of listening to problems that I couldn’t relate to—how much solid food can my baby eat, should I still breastfeed after a year—I wanted to scream, how do you keep your kid from crying for more than an hour? I started to pack up, but Dan, my little fire alarm, went off, drawing everyone’s attention, including the facilitator, who asked if she could try to calm him down. Yeah, good luck I thought.

She swooped him out of his car seat, put him over her shoulder, and magically, he quieted. At her prompting, I described the crying, the sleeplessness, and the crazy weight gain, which led her to diagnose me as an overproducer of milk. Apparently, if you make too much milk, the baby only gets the sweet and sugary foremilk, not the creamy satisfying hindmilk. So essentially, Daniel had been hungry since birth. No wonder he was cranky.

Luckily, the solution was easy—feed him on the same side for six hours before switching. She said I should see a big difference in him within two weeks—“He’ll be like a different child.” When I reached my car I burst into tears, a mix of frustration, relief and hope. Within two days, he was markedly happier. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, breastfeeding group.

With that resolving, I had time to realize how much pain I was still having while feeding him. That sparked another two week process including a home visit from a lactation consultant, a pediatrician visit, days of internet research, a visit to an ear, nose, and throat specialist, the snipping of Daniel’s frenulum to separate his tongue from the bottom of his mouth, and a learning curve of Daniel figuring out how to properly suck. Good lord.

In the midst of this, Carl went away for a week for work. I went to the shore with my parents for the first four days. When my mom had to leave I literally wanted to cling to her leg and beg her to stay, but I didn’t. How hard could being by myself with him for 24 hours be? Well. Hard is the answer. We hit bottom when I walked him to church, looking for a serene 30 minutes, and he started screaming bloody murder as soon as we arrived. I took him outside, did everything I could to calm him, but then scrambled into the bathroom and fed him while sitting on the toilet, which finally succeeded. Four hours later when two friends showed up to stay the night, I said, “I have never been happier to see anyone in my whole life.” And I meant it. Who knows what was wrong that day? I was stressed, Daniel was stressed, eating was still hard and there was no relief for either of us.

I had help for the rest of the time Carl was away, and we managed alright. Though when Carl’s flight was delayed several hours I realized how I was holding on by my fingernails. “Please God. Please please please let him get home tonight.” He did, to my immense relief.

The really good news is that after six very very hard weeks, with Carl back, and feedings easier, all of the sudden, Daniel-care felt amazingly easy. Delightful even. Sure there are still occasional tantrums, but they seem to be getting shorter and further apart. We know much better how to calm him now (the vacuum helps if he’s really worked up.) And the occasional bout of “passionate crying” (as my diplomatic BF put it) feels easy, comparatively. Best of all, happy Daniel appears so frequently now, making unhappy Daniel much easier to take. We’re all entitled to be unhappy, but it shouldn’t be 85% of the time.

So now that my little man is getting enough to eat, of the good creamy milk, and it no longer hurts to feed him, and he’s sleeping well, life feels really blessed. Carl said, “Maybe God makes the first six weeks so hellish so the rest of the time doesn’t seem as bad.” I don’t think God works like that, but I do feel very grateful for the quiet, serene moments we have now. I feel extremely thankful for rest, for time to write, for vacation. On Sunday night, after eating a gorgeous meal with my family, during which Daniel slept the WHOLE TIME, we saw a rainbow arcing across the sky (pictured below.) The next day I stood up on my surfboard for the first time since being pregnant. I think, just maybe, we are over the rainbow.

The Baby

2011-08-09T12:16:00.003-04:00

Daniel Egan Ackerman entered the world on June 19, 2011 at 10:51 pm. He weighed 8 lbs, 10 ounces, measured 22 inches and had a 15 inch head, which I’m told is very big. (I didn’t need to be told.)

In the twenty minutes I hope I have before he needs to eat again, I'd like to capture something about the first three weeks of his life.

Challenge number 1: Recovering from labor and delivery. Not that I expected to be up and at ‘em immediately after birth, but neither did I expect to be completely incapacitated for almost two weeks. When I was really struggling on day three or so and called the midwife, she asked what I had been doing since I’d been home. I described what seemed like nothing to me, and she said, “When I say, you’re not supposed to do anything, I mean, you can go up and down the stairs once a day. Otherwise, you need to be resting. And nothing else.” Oh. Wow. Actually doing nothing is not something I'm good at, but I tried.

Once I figured out some pain management and my glorious mother-in-law scrubbed my bathroom so I could take warm baths, and I began just resting, things began SLOWLY to improve. Today I took a thirty minute walk with Daniel, which is the most physical activity I’d had since the birth, and it felt good. Slowly slowly I’m starting to feel like myself again. Looking like myself? That’s a whole other issue.

Challenge number 2: Breastfeeding. Good lord, it is hard. It’s better now, much much better. But for weeks one and two, it was painful and difficult. I feed him at least every three hours, and for the first two weeks, at least three feedings a day would be a 45 minute production, just to get him started eating. There would be screaming and crying, swaddling, shushing, swaying, a hair dryer blowing for white noise, Carl and I both trying to get him calm enough to latch, and then if it didn’t work, the process would be repeated. I’m thrilled to say that seems to be a thing of the past. Daniel and I have figured out together how to get him latched, and that happens pretty quickly and easily now, almost every time. Thank God. Because being on call 24/7 is challenging enough, without your patience being severely tested 3-6 times a day. Add to that sleep deprivation, nipple pain and hormones and wow. I really understand why women can’t stick with breastfeeding, especially if they don’t know how much better it gets after two weeks (for most people.)

Challenge number 3: Still looking pregnant. I don’t want to write about this, but I will for the sake of education. I didn’t know I would still look so pregnant in the weeks after his birth – like 6-7 months pregnant. Again, I didn’t expect to have my old body back immediately, but neither did I expect that MULTIPLE people would ask me when my baby was due. If you don’t already know this, please take it to heart. NEVER ASK A WOMAN IF SHE IS PREGNANT. Just don’t do it. I was struggling enough in those first weeks without then having to process feelings about how my body looked. Literally just getting out of bed was physically hard, and then I have to feel fat on top of it? Not cool.

Happily these weeks have been filled with joy too. Seeing my little man’s face makes me smile. When he’s awake and alert, staring into my eyes, I feel wonder unlike any I have ever known. Some of my favorite moments of the day now are feeding him, feeling his warm body snuggled up to mine, his little hands and feet stroking my skin. I soak in the joy he brings to others, the love showered on him, the wonder felt at seeing his little person.

We have received a river of kindness since his birth: people dropping off meals, sending flowers and gifts, coming for visits. My mom has fed us, done the laundry, rocked and comforted Daniel. I don’t know how we would have gotten through those first weeks without her. My in-laws showed up with new pjs for me, an SU hat for Daniel, and lots of love and laughter. Our neighbor appeared one night just as we finished dinner with the most beautiful blueberry pie I’d ever seen. The kindness sustained me as much as the food, and I accepted it all with a grateful heart.

I can’t wait to see how my son (what? I have a son? This still seems unreal.) How he grows and develops, what kind of person he is. But I’m trying to not get ahead of myself, trying to enjoy this phase, one day at a time, for what it is.

The Pregnancy

2011-06-09T09:00:00.006-04:00

I can't believe I thought that was a bump.

More bump like

Hello baby.

People have asked why I haven’t written that much about the pregnancy. I don’t know. Maybe the fact that it took me ten years to write about Mexico is some indication—I need time to process stuff, especially big stuff. And speaking of big, check out that baby bump. And that picture was two weeks ago.

Writing an essay to neatly tie up my feelings about pregnancy feels beyond me at the moment, but perhaps I’ll mention a few highlights:

People smiling at me all the time. Sometimes I forget why someone would be smiling at me, and I feel again like I did when I first moved from New York City to San Diego—people would make eye contact and smile and I would think, “What the fuck do you want?” I don’t quite think that anymore, but it often takes me a moment to realize, oh yeah, I have a huge baby bump, that makes people smile. It’s sweet.

Carl’s excitement about baby’s arrival. “It’s like Christmas, but it could come any day.” That’s what he’s been saying for the past week.

Eating for two. I tried to not take this too far. More than anything, I tried to eat lots of good fruits and veggies, but it was nice to have an excuse for some extra sweets.

Huge knockers. I have no complaints about my normal breasts, but it’s been fun to have gigantic ones for awhile, even if they now look tiny next to the belly.

Elastic waistbands. In general, I don’t love maternity clothes. They don’t fit very well, they’re not that cute, they’re expensive. But I dig the elastic waistband.

The pregnant lady fashion pass. Sometimes I walk my dog in my pajama bottoms now. Because really, who is going to say anything to someone who’s nine months pregnant?

Slowing down. Physically, I’ve had to slow down. Significantly. Sometimes I forget, and climb our stairs at my normal pace, only to have to sit down on the bed to recover. But it’s been nice to slow down, to let up on expectations for myself a little, enjoy life at a slower pace.

Other people’s excitement about the baby. For Carl and I, this baby is a life changing, awesome, scary, sometimes overwhelming experience. But for so many other people in our life, the arrival of this baby is pure joy. I’ve been basking in that joy, soaking it in.

Being part of the mommy club. I really wanted to be part of the mommy club for a long time. I didn’t necessarily want to have a baby, but I hate to feel excluded. It’s amazing how now I have something to talk about with any other parent. A shared experience. I met all the dog people in town when we got Nalu, and now I’m meeting the kid people, which is really fun. This baby has already opened up a whole new world for us.

The Midwives. I love The Birth Center, where we are planning to have our baby. The midwives are so kind, supportive, and generally awesome. It is far and away the best experience I've ever had with care providers.

Early bird schedule. I don’t love the insomnia, but the bright side is that I’m awake almost every day by five a.m. now. It’s amazing how much I can accomplish in a day with those few extra hours. And I do love the early morning, before the world wakes up, I’ve just always loved sleep more. (and still do, but you know, you work with what you have.)

Finding strength I didn’t know I had. Physical strength – yes. I’m amazed at the yoga positions I can still twist this body into. Also mental and emotional strength. Pregnancy has held many challenges for me, and though challenges aren’t always fun, I’ve seen myself rise to meet them, with much love and support, and am proud of what I’ve seen.

So now that I've written something about the pregnancy, maybe baby will think it's okay to arrive. A girl can hope.

Looking for the Gifts

2011-06-06T15:38:00.003-04:00

I have a situation in my life that I don’t like right now. Namely, my baby is breech. This means the baby’s head is not down. If the baby doesn’t turn around to the vertex, (head down) position, then I will have to have a C-section. This may not sound like a big deal to you, but it is to me. Not only do I have a serious aversion to hospitals, I was hoping to have a natural birth at a cozy place called The Birth Center, attended by midwives. And as far as birth experiences go, a C-section in the hospital is the other end of that spectrum.

Now, you may not understand my disappointment. Many don’t. But that’s not the point here. The point is that it’s been a difficult two weeks since I first found out the baby was breech. It’s been very emotional—as many things are at 36-37 weeks pregnant. I’ve been through fear, anger, disappointment, hope, more disappointment, something close to despair. I’ve cried many tears. I’ve squeezed into my life many phone calls, appointments, and exercises to encourage the baby to turn. Somehow, eventually, I came to a place of acceptance. I still don’t like that my birth story may be a c-section, but there is only so much I can do here. If after chiropracty, acupuncture, meditation, and a “version” procedure in the hospital, the baby is still breech, well, then I guess it’s meant to be a C-section. But I learned awhile ago, that even though it helps me to accept things, I still don’t have to like them. So that’s where I am. A place of discontented acceptance.

Still, as with any challenge in life, there have been gifts. And for the sake of maintaining my generally sunny disposition, I’d like to acknowledge some of them. First, this has brought Carl and I closer. He’s been amazingly supportive. And in exactly the way that I needed. It’s funny how so many people want to fix this, or want me to not feel what I’m feeling, or maybe just not talk about it, or just admit that what matters most is having a healthy baby. I know that. But I’m also allowed to have feelings about how this baby comes into the world, and Carl has let me express them, giving hugs and back rubs, just listening and validating. That’s meant the world to me.

I’ve done some serious relaxation and meditation work. I had been doing this anyway, in preparation for birth, and I try to meditate every morning as a general practice, but I have stepped up the time and energy I put into meditation, yoga, and relaxation exercises, and I can feel the effects in my life. In spite of many emotions, and physical discomfort, I have been generally very calm and peaceful over the past two weeks. And that’s a gift.

I’ve examined my expectations of other people. After feeling disappointed at how some people reacted to this news, I realized that I was looking for someone else to validate my feelings, to give me permission to feel a sense of loss, or anger or whatever. And I needed to give myself that permission. I needed to take care of myself in the way I was looking for others to take care of me. Which was a good reminder. It’s always my job to take care of myself. When I’m feeling resentful at what other people aren’t doing for me, there is always something I can do for myself, and I should do it.

A neighbor shared with me her own disappointment in having to have an emergency C-section. I felt that she really understood where I was coming from. And then she reassured me that the birth was still beautiful and special and that our birth would be too, no matter when and where it happened. I’m carrying her kindness with me like a talisman.

The testing I had at the dreaded hospital was not so bad. And all the people there were very kind, offering me a positive view of the medical world, and hope that even if this is a hospital birth, it could still be gentle and joyful.

I’ve seen that I can be strong and calm and happy, even when challenged. That I still have faith that I will be taken care of, and my baby will too. I’ve had many joyful moments over the past two weeks, and have worked hard to not let my fear or anger or disappointment take over my life. The trick is letting myself feel whatever the feelings are, but then still looking for the gifts each day brings. A few recent gifts: the most perfect beach weather last Sunday; splashing around in my beloved waves; Carl taking pictures of his hugely pregnant wife, saying I’m adorable; preparing a gorgeous meal of crab cakes and shrimp Saturday night for my family; giggling with my brother; walking around Ocean City; ice cream (and yes, pickles, though not together); napping; gaining on the finish line of a first draft of my second novel.

One of the best gifts has been treating myself with extra kindness and gentleness. This does not come easily to me, but it’s been essential in the past two weeks, and I’ve done it. Like many things that are good for me, I can see that the practice works, I can see the good results, which hopefully will encourage me to continue the behavior in the future.

Perhaps the best gift of all was given me by the tech at my ultrasound—a 4-D photo of my baby. Baby’s foot is obscuring half of his/her face, but I can see a closed eye, half a round nose, a chubby cheek. There are no words to describe the wonder of seeing this child’s face for the first time. But just that glimpse may have made the whole breech situation worthwhile. (Though if you’re listening, Baby, please turn over.)

Update: I wrote this last week, and had the version procedure this morning, in which an amazing doctor turned baby over in my belly. Baby is now head down! Hooray for the vertex position!

Back to Reality

2011-05-05T09:10:00.002-04:00

The last few weeks have been a roller coaster between finishing my writing workshop, taking an exam for work, getting ready for vacation, traveling, then coming home. Our vacation in New Orleans was heavenly. Beignets, barbeque shrimp, po’ boys—I think everyone who’s pregnant should go to New Orleans. I also took advantage of our Babymoon to take naps, wander around art galleries, poke in and out of stores, get a pedicure. I don’t believe that our life will be over when the baby comes—thank god—but I am trying to savor these last few weeks of having the time and independence to do adult things.

If New Orleans was a fantasy, re-entry was a nightmare. Forgetting how difficult transitions can be for me, I spent the better part of last week feeling very cranky, and then upset with myself for feeling that way. As if one can talk oneself out of grumpiness. Now that I’m through to the other side, I thought I’d share a few things that helped.

1) I recognized I was cranky. That may seem small, but for me, just putting a name to something is often helpful.

2) I accepted that I was cranky. This is huge for me. I’m blessed with a pretty sunny disposition, so whenever I’m feeling down, I want to make it go away immediately. This time, I gave myself permission to be in a bad mood, which didn’t make it go away, but did ease the self-flagellation.

3) I bought myself a coke. Sometimes eating or drinking something sweet will sweeten my disposition. It did help, at least temporarily.

4) I listened to music, another mood elevator.

5) On Friday and Saturday, I rested. A lot. I had many things I wanted to do, and felt like I should be doing, but I was exhausted. So I gave myself permission to rest. Even at 8 months pregnant, this is difficult for me. Especially when my to-do list is so long! (But then, it always is.) After meeting my essential commitments for the day, including my minimum daily word quota, I let myself off the hook. Often when I’m cranky I’m either tired or overwhelmed. After resting for the better part of two days, I was rewarded with superhuman energy on Sunday, reinforcing the idea that if I take care of myself, I’m better able to efficiently meet my responsibilities.

6) I reminded myself to focus on the positive. Like many simple ideas, this one is hard to practice. Coming home from vacation to reality can be hard. I kept thinking things like, “Why can’t I spend every afternoon shopping and eating beignets?” “Why do I have a schedule?” “Why must I go to work, and food shop, and do laundry?” But then I read something that reminded me that when I focus on the negative, the negative grows, and when I focus on the positive, the positive grows. So this week I made a strong effort to focus on the positive in my life. From things as small as the scent of lilacs in the air, to making a chocolate tart for my parents’ birthday meal, focusing on the positive helped me feel better, and seemed to draw more positive experiences.

With some rest and some perspective I have remembered that I love this life, here at home. I need the structure, even if I don’t always like it. I love to cook, I love walking around Narberth, I love the satisfaction I get from working, and writing, and caring for my home. It’s just the transition that’s rough. So next time I go away, I’ll try to remember, reality is good, I just need to wait out the transitionary period.

Wonder is an Inside Job

2011-03-26T10:25:00.002-04:00

A few weeks ago, I went to see Frances Mayes speak at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I loved her books about Italy—Under the Tuscan Sun and Bella Tuscany among others. Thrilled at the chance to see a favorite author in person, I sat alone, fourth row center, six months pregnant. She read an essay about art, Orvieto and churches. Afterwards, while being interviewed, she was funny, and smart, saying, “When people say ‘I don’t like Venice,’ I want to say, yeah, well I don’t like you.”

Most striking about her, to me, was her passion for Italy—an infatuation that has deepened into respect and devotion. She spoke of loving a place on a molecular level, how one can fall in love not just with people but with places. I have experienced that. Lisbon stole my heart at first sight. And my ardor for Mexico I can never shake, though Mexico does its best. So yes, I understand the marvel inspired by travel, by discovering unfamiliar places, by creating a life someplace new.

Yet, to my surprise, I left the lecture, not dying to move to Italy, but rather, filled with gratitude that I love my home and my life so much today. I spent many years either moving somewhere else or plotting when I could one day move somewhere else. Although I enjoyed Mayes’ adoration of Italy, I thought, I feel that way all the time, no matter where I am. In fact, immediately after her talk, I stumbled into a small hallway in the museum that I had never seen before. I stood before a giant deformed female statue with pointy nipples and medusa-like hair, and then was pulled across the room to a twelve-foot Tiffany column, covered in shiny blue mosaic tile. And I felt that child’s wonder of discovery, of adventure, of life being full of beautiful surprises.

Frances Mayes speaks of Italy as “endless,” and I’m sure it is. But so is Ocean City, where I find untold beauty in the sandpipers scuttling, the giant horseshoe crabs washed up on the sand, the coin-shaped iridescent gold shells. Narberth in Spring can steal my breath with entire lawns covered in purple crocuses, bulbs bravely sprouting through the still-cold ground. Just observing my puppy as she sleeps with her head resting on a pillow and her pink tongue poking through her teeth makes my heart swell. There is endless wonder in my life, no matter where I am, if I take the time to look for it. I’m so grateful that I often do.

Productivity Trick

2011-03-04T10:27:00.003-05:00

It was inevitable. I knew the honeymoon would end. Or at least pause. The initial infatuation with my new novel is gone, replaced with the knowledge of what a long cold slog it is to the finish line. Forget about finishing. Right now I'd settle for some forward momentum, some semblance of a plot.

I forgot that I once felt this way about the first novel--uncertain of where it was going, of what my protagonist's problem was, if there was even a story worth telling. Luckily I have this blog and friends with good memories to remind me it was like that for the first one too. This is part of the process--fumbling toward a plot, putting words on the page, not knowing if they will add up to anything worthwhile. Man, this part is hard.

In hope that structure and deadlines would help me--they usually do--I signed up for an online writing workshop. For the class, I can submit up to 50 pages over ten weeks, which in and of itself, has scared me into working harder.

The class has already paid for itself with this advice from my teacher: "Make a small and manageable writing goal, and meet it every day." I've heard this before, in various forms, but this time it struck me. That's exactly what I needed to do.

So last Friday I made a tiny daily goal for myself: write x number of words every day, no matter what. I made it so small that I can accomplish it in 15 minutes if pressed. And guess what? It works. The goal is so minute that even mornings when I'm rushed, or tired or resistant in any way, I know I can still meet it.

I'm happy to report I've met my goal, every day except Sunday, (which is after all, the day of rest.) The great thing is on mornings when that's all I can manage, I still get a great sense of accomplishment, from meeting a goal. Other mornings, I find myself on a roll, happily typing, well beyond my limit. I believe that's what we call a win-win.

Sure, my inner critic still shouts--More! We need to be writing MORE! But I can see that momentum is building. Forward progress is happening. Maybe best of all, because I'm thinking about the book every day, my subconscious is starting to work on it. The characters are starting to live in my head. First sentences appear seemingly from nowhere. Magic is afoot.

Set a small, manageable goal, and meet it. Genius. Who knew?

For All You Perfectionists

2011-02-25T09:25:00.004-05:00

"My imperfections and failures are as much a blessing from God as my successes and my talents, and I lay them both at His feet." -Mahatma Gandhi

Wow. When I read those words a few days ago, they stopped me in my tracks. I've been chewing them over ever since, but am still not quite sure what they mean to me.

First, do I believe that to be true? Are my imperfections and failures as much a blessing from God as my successes and talents?

Perfectionism is one of my imperfections. I'm not trying to be cute, it's just true. By perfectionism I mean the tendency to want something to be so good (perfect) that either 1) it will never be finished, 2) it will never live up to my unrealistic standards or 3) I will never begin it in the first place, knowing that it will never be good enough.

Is this a blessing from God? Well, having high standards does motivate me to work hard. I do reach for fairly high goals. I can relate when people share about being overwhelmed or stuck or unable to finish something, thereby making me more compassionate. Those seem to be blessings.

Another of my imperfections is a compulsive need to figure everything out. Exhibit A is this post, right here. Can't I trust Gandhi that this is true? No, I need to test it, probe it, take it apart. This can be a blessing--a healthy skepticism is an asset in many ways. So is questioning, which leads me to new understanding, to larger truths sometimes.

Failures have certainly been blessings from God. I was devastated--rather--my ego was devastated when I was not accepted to University of Pennsylvania's law school. Yet, now I see that I ended up exactly where I needed to be.

I love the idea of laying all of it at God's feet. There is only so much my limited brain, with my limited worldview can understand. I do believe that there is a sentient being out there, something greater than myself, who understands why things happen. I am not that being. But if I believe in its existence, which I do, then I can work on trusting that my imperfections and failures are a part of some larger plan. Which doesn't mean I can't work on them or try to improve, but for me, it means trying to love myself, just as I am in this moment. Maybe one of my vexing imperfections is doing someone a lot of good. Maybe like my doggie's googly eye, my imperfect nose is part of why others love me. Who likes someone who seems perfect? (Not me, another imperfection.)

The crazy thing about perfectionism is that by definition, human beings are flawed. No one is perfect. Never has been, never will be. So why should I think myself any different? (Giant ego, another imperfection.)

A quote that has helped with my perfectionism lately is this one by Emerson:

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

I love his certainty that some blunders and absurdities crept in. Yes! Ralph! How did you know? And his use of the word nonsense. It's much gentler than the words I can use with myself. Most of all, I love his idea that I have a choice. I can choose high spirits over the nonsense. What a hopeful and empowering thought.

Let's have an imperfection party. Who's got one to celebrate?

My Funny Valentine

2011-02-14T10:12:00.001-05:00

I’ve been a bit grumpy lately—maybe the hormones, maybe trying to do too much, maybe not writing enough—possibly all three. But I had a reality check this morning when I thought of a dear friend of mine who is heartbroken at the moment. Then I heard another friend in my head saying, “Celebrate your life.” I love that expression, because it reminds me to practice gratitude, taking my focus from what I don’t have, and redirecting it to one of my many blessings.

Which brings me to my Valentine. I suffered through many Valentine’s Days, either lonely or heartbroken, so today I’d like to celebrate the great love I have with my husband, Carl.

I remember thinking, shortly after I met Carl, that I hoped he would always be a part of my life. We were just friends then—it took us almost a year to figure out we were in love—but I liked him at first sight, immensely, and as I knew him better, my affection, respect and admiration for him continued to grow. He made me laugh harder and more often than anyone else I’d known—no small feat, given how hilarious my friends are—and he had a giant heart, filled with kindness. We were babies when we met, all of 22 years old, but I already knew how some friends stayed in your life, while others were just temporary. I really hoped Carl would be one of the few permanent ones.

So I married him.

And I can honestly say, I have more respect, admiration and love for him today than I did 12 years ago. He is still the funniest person I know, and one of the kindest. He’s loyal, honest, hardworking, and thoughtful. He’s forgiving, accepting of my shortcomings, and generous. Without him, I wouldn’t have had the courage to really pursue writing. His belief in my talent, his support of my dreams, his willingness to follow me into uncharted waters, well. It’s more than I ever would have asked for.

So for those of you in romantic relationships, I invite you to celebrate your loved one today. Not because Hallmark tells us to, but because I bet you don’t do it enough. I know I don’t. And for those of you for whom Valentine’s Day is hard, celebrate what is working in your life today. I know if you look, you’ll find something.

Ignorance is Bliss?

2011-02-07T10:56:00.002-05:00

I loved The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini’s first book. I know people had beef with some of the coincidences in the plot, but for me, I loved that Hosseini brought Afghanistan to life for me, in a way the news never had. I loved living in Kabul, before the wars. I loved the themes of treachery, forgiveness and redemption. I thought it was beautifully rendered, moving, hopeful.

I approached his follow-up book, One Thousand Splendid Suns, with some trepidation. After I had read the first half, I realized why. The characters’ lives were so grim, so relentlessly horrible, that I wanted to put it down. I really did. It colored my weekend, which was already rainy, even more gray. But I was too invested. I wanted to see what would happen. So I give Hosseini credit for that. And also, for once again, bringing Afghanistan to life. The war, the poverty, hunger, violence, the complete powerlessness of women—they became very real to me as I read the book. And God bless him for writing it. I can imagine the burning need he must have had, to give voice to the women of his country who suffered so greatly.

But…it was hard to take. There was hope at the end, thank God, but if I’m being honest, I really don’t want to spend my time living in such horror. I think works like that are important. I’m sure there are people in the world who don’t know such atrocities exist. I hope people read that book and felt moved to do something for others, be it refugees, victims of domestic violence, or someone in their family. But in the years I worked with refugees, I heard enough gruesome stories to last a lifetime. People told me things so terrible, I would sit in awe, amazed that the person who survived them was sitting in my office, drawing breath.

My clients’ stories inspired me. Seeing the resilience of human beings, of what people can endure, and come through gave me faith that I too, could endure hardship should it appear. But they also exacted a price. I couldn’t hear the stories without taking the details into my very vivid imagination and living with them.

It’s not that I want to be unaware of what’s happening in the world, it’s that I don’t want to be so paralyzed by sadness, so overwhelmed with horror, that I do nothing. For similar reasons I limit my intake of news, which is rarely anything but doom and gloom, and I avoid books like One Thousand Splendid Suns. Because by spending time in that world, I don’t feel inspired, I don’t feel empowered, I feel borderline despondent. And I don’t see how that helps anyone.

Is that willful ignorance? Maybe. But I guess I fail to see how me having a sad weekend will do anything to help people like the characters in the book. So, I’m glad it was written, I’m glad people read it, I hope it did some good in the world, but for me, I’d rather have spent the weekend laughing with Bridget Jones.

My .0015 Seconds of Fame

2011-01-22T10:18:00.003-05:00

Okay, maybe it doesn't look like much. Allow me to explain. On a recent morning, Ants Marching, by Dave Matthews Band came on the radio. I mentioned to my husband how I was there when they shot the video. To my surprise, he had never heard that story. I proceeded to tell him how, during my freshman year of college, I, along with many many others, was discovering DMB and obsessed. Friends and I went to various shows of theirs in Philly and New York, and when Z100 had an exclusive concert you could only attend by winning tickets, I called ceaselessly for weeks on end. Sadly, to no avail.

Undaunted, some friends and I went to the site of the concert, hoping to somehow score tickets. Miraculously, by talking to someone who knew someone who knew a roadie, three of us were admitted. The golden ticket. It was acoustic, intimate--magical. The day got even better--I know, seems impossible--when someone handed us information about the video they were shooting for Ants Marching the next day, and invited us to be extras.

This was obviously more important than attending classes, so on a cold February day in 1995, we trudged to some warehouse in Manhattan and spent all day in the presence of--gasp--Dave Matthews. Filming itself was a bit tedious after awhile. A lot of breaks and hearing the same song over and over for eight hours straight. Sometimes they'd have us march--get it, like ants? around the band, skipping and frolicking. Sometimes we'd watch them perform and dance. I was too shy to try to talk to Dave. What would one say? I love your music? We're soul mates? You speak to my heart? Too corny. Better to say nothing, play it cool.

We waited anxiously for the video to appear on MTV, but when it did, none of us were in it. Or so I thought until this morning, when with the magic of Youtube and pause, I glimpsed myself, walking in front of the camera. Then I caught several shots of my friend Andrew, dancing right behind Dave!

Why is this so thrilling? I don't know. Maybe just because it brought me back to that day, all those years ago, so full of admiration for this artist, so overcome with the opportunity to be near him. Maybe it's nice to have proof. After awhile, I start to wonder if some of my stories are true. Maybe that's a professional danger of being a novelist. So it's nice to have photographic proof, that I was indeed there for that.

If you want a better view of me, check out the link. When you get to second 53, look closely and you'll see me walk by, pushing my hair back. If you blink, you'll miss it.

Dave Matthews Band, Ants Marching video

Below are two shots of Andrew. He's the guy in the long sleeve shirt and glasses, standing right behind--Dave Matthews. (Insert dreamy sigh.)

Surviving the Earthquake to Paint Again

2011-01-07T16:11:00.004-05:00

With the one year anniversary of the Haitian earthquake coming up this week, I've had Haiti on the brain. Below I'm posting an article I wrote about Frantz Zephirin, an incredible Haitian artist.

Here is an example of his work:

If you want to do something to help Haiti, please consider donating to the Art Creation Foundation for Children. Located in Jacmel, Haiti, they teach art to street children, and my friends who have visited them speak very highly of their work. Every dollar helps.

Surviving the Earthquake to Paint Again

Originally published: Tuesday, June 01, 2010 in Ticket, the entertainment tabloid for Montgomery County, PA

By Julie Owsik Ackerman
Correspondent

Frantz Zephirin, one of Haiti’s leading contemporary painters, escaped death in the January earthquake by an unlikely action — leaving a pub early. That afternoon, Zephirin sat in one of his haunts, having a few drinks with a friend when a group of men came in, loudly discussing politics. “I say, ‘I’m not going to stay and listen,’” he recalled, “I just came to drink my beer.” So he asked for the check, told his usual waitress that no, he wouldn’t be staying for dinner that night, and left with his friend.

Fifteen seconds later, the ground began to shake violently.

“I thought it was a bomb,” he said. “I saw the street open, then close.” Black sand filled the air, making it impossible to see. He fought his way to a lamppost and clung to it until the shaking stopped. “I heard the cry of the people dying but you don’t see nothing, only dark sand. I walked back to the bar. I say, ‘Where is the bar?’ But only the sign remained. Every building was like a sandwich. The bar where I was, all the people died inside. Every day I pass to look at the place where I was supposed to die.”

What can anyone do after witnessing such horror? Zephirin said, “The only thing I could imagine was to paint.” And so he did. “Frantz Zephirin, Art and Resilience,” his first U.S. exhibit since the earthquake, is currently running at Indigo Arts Gallery in Philadelphia, through June 19. The show includes 30 paintings, most of which he completed after the earthquake.

This exhibit comes to Philadelphia through an unlikely friendship that developed between the exuberant Haitian painter and reserved art dealer and Merion resident Frank Giannetta, who traveled to Haiti in 1989 after his art gallery burned down. On that trip Giannetta met Zephirin at a gallery in Port-au-Prince and purchased eight or nine of his paintings.

Giannetta said, “I didn’t speak Creole, he didn’t speak English, but between three different languages, somehow we communicated.” Zephirin contacted Giannetta the next year about having an art show in the U.S., and the two have been friends ever since.

Zephirin began painting when he was 5 years old and had his first taste of success at the age of 8 when he gave two paintings to a tour guide who sold them for $40. From that day, he was hooked, using school time to think of ideas and sketch, and weekends to sit at the elbow of his uncle, Philome Obin, considered by many to be one of the greatest Haitian artists of all time. When I asked if his uncle taught him or looked at his work, Zephirin laughed.

“I was a child. He did not think to look at my work.” But young Frantz studied which brushes his uncle used, how he applied paint to canvases, and took leftover materials to use for his own paintings.

When he moved to Port-au-Prince at 15, Zephirin took two paintings around to the galleries there, but no one was interested in buying them. They said his work looked too much like the Cap Haitien style of his uncle, known for realistic depictions of everyday life. Frustrated after a long day of many rejections, Zephirin met a tour guide who offered him $20 for the two paintings. In anger, the artist threw his work into the ocean. “I say, ‘You are a dog, a pig, a monkey,’” he recalled, “and in my mind, the animals come. I think, now I go to paint you like an animal, like you are.”

This was a turning point for Zephirin, who, inspired by his vision of people as animals, began to create works that depicted fantastical human/animal creatures, spirits, gods and goddesses. Giannetta said, “Rather than painting what he saw around him, he began to paint the mystical creatures coming out of his own mind.”

After a year of working with this style, and some success in selling his work, Zephirin ventured off to the Galerie Monnin, in spite of naysayers who told him that Monnin only sold the best Haitian art. He carefully prepared a painting and brought it to Roger Monnin, the owner, who said to his son, “Michel, this guy bring something new; we need to keep this guy.” Customers snapped up paintings as quickly as Zephirin could make them, even though he worked night and day.

Since then, Zephirin’s work has been shown in many cities of the United States and Europe. One of his paintings appeared on the cover of The New Yorker on Jan. 25, 2010, the week after the earthquake.

In the current exhibit at Indigo Arts Gallery, one of the most haunting paintings is rather simple, at least for a Zephirin piece. On a tan background, swirling around a small depiction of a graveyard at the center, single eyes peer out at the viewer. Looking at the painting, Zephirin said, “It’s the eye that’s here,” pointing to the middle of his forehead. He added, “On the day of the earthquake, the people were so confused. One moment they’re here, the next moment they’re not. They were swept up,” he said, making a sound and motion of water quickly going down a drain. “The other eye is looking, saying ‘What happened?’”

Tony Fisher, director of the Indigo Arts Gallery, observed that many of the paintings in this exhibit “show an opening from one world into another, but the dominant one is what we would call ‘the spirit world.’” An example of this is “Rara ti boujwa,” a 48 x 48 inch canvas, covered by three large rainbow-colored spirits. At the center is a small circle depicting a street party with white bourgeois people, because, according to Zephirin, “Before, the carnival was for the blacks, the poor. Now we’re all the same.”

Sitting in a café in Wynnewood, Zephirin’s gratitude for his life was palpable. He radiated the kind of joy one finds in spite of darkness, in spite of living through the goudou goudou, the phrase Haitians use to refer to the January earthquake.

“We are supposed to live every moment and enjoy the moment,” he said, “because you don’t know. You can lose everything in a second — your business, your house, your children — everything.” He dreams now of starting a foundation to help rebuild his country, address deforestation and assist street children.

When asked why art matters, in the face of such tragedy and suffering, Zephirin said, “The artist is the witness of everything that’s happened. Cameras can’t give you what you have inside. They see what you have outside, but you need the vision of the artist to paint what’s inside.”

The night of the earthquake, with great difficulty, without any standing landmarks, through the chaos and devastation, Zephirin found his way home. Blessed to have his life, and even a house still standing, he lit a candle, and did the only thing he could — he painted.

Julie Owsik Ackerman writes essays on creativity, travel, surfing and other topics at AnythingforMaterial.blogspot.com.

If You Go

“Frantz Zephirin, Art and Resilience”

will run at

Indigo Arts Gallery,

Crane Arts Building, #104,

1400 N. American St.,

Philadelphia, PA 19122,

through June 19.

Info: 215-765-1041 or www.indigoarts.com.

Merry Christmas!

2010-12-22T10:53:00.003-05:00

This is Nalu, my little princess. She's not afraid to strike a pose.

I try to count my blessings every day. Gratitude helps to ward off jealousy, worry, and all kinds of other nasties. This Christmas, I have so much to be thankful for, it's almost ridiculous. I have a job I like, that leaves me time for writing--that alone feels like nothing short of a miracle. I have a novel, completed, of which I am extremely proud. I have great hope for finding a publisher for the novel, in spite of a recent rejection. I have thicker skin than I used to, no longer finding rejections devastating as I once did. I have a Florida vacation starting on Friday, with my in-laws who I adore. I have parents who will properly spoil my princess while we're away.

Finally, the blessing that is almost too good to believe, I have a baby growing in my belly.

What are some of your blessings? Tell me or just tell yourself. They're there if you look for them.

Nalu and I wish you all a holiday season full of blessings, gratitude, and joy!

Literary Betrayal

2010-12-21T11:06:00.002-05:00

Perhaps it's my fault. I wasn't loving the book to begin with, so maybe I should have put it down. But I had read more than half of it, and the pace started to pick up with a good conflict, and I wanted to see how it would end. So on Sunday, tired after an evening of entertaining at my house, I curled up on the couch to finish the last hundred pages of My Name is Memory.

To my dismay, a few hours later, in spite of an amazing come-from-behind Eagles victory, I felt angry--betrayed by Ann Brashares. Why? Because she didn't resolve the main conflict of the book. Not only that, she used the last chapter to blatantly set up a sequel. Which is bullshit. I understand leaving room for a sequel, even making it obvious, but to ask someone to invest the time to read 300 pages, with no resolution--that's just rude.

Sometimes, as a reader, I get worried as a book nears the end and the conflict is still not resolved. Like, how is she going to do this in 30 pages, 20 pages, whatever. But almost always, the writer pulls it off to my satisfaction. If I wanted unresolved conflict, I would just observe real life. When I'm reading a book, I don't need a happy ending, but I need an ending.

Do you have any unsatisfying endings to report? Spare me future pain, readers.

Sew What?

2010-11-12T13:01:00.002-05:00

Over the summer I met a woman who raved with shining eyes about how sewing had changed her life. She said it was therapeutic, satisfying, creative. Sounded good to me. Plus, I’ve always nurtured a hope that I had a dormant seamstress gene, given the talented seamstresses in my ancestry. I filed it as something to think about. A few weeks later, out of nowhere, my sister-in-law asked me if I’d like to take a sewing class with her. Destiny, right?

I signed up for the class, and finally claimed the sewing machine I’d inherited from my great-aunt fifteen years ago. Though I loved picking out the fabrics, the more money I spent on equipment, the more I remembered other hobbies I had begun with great excitement, only to quit shortly thereafter. I’ll try just about anything, but not much sticks. Still, I’d signed up for the class, so I got what I needed to complete the two projects—one tote bag, one purse.

In the first class we learned exotic things like filling a bobbin, threading the needle, and basting. After only twenty minutes, we were actually sewing. After one and a half classes, I finished the tote bag! I couldn’t believe it. No, it wasn’t perfect, but I love it. Like that woman I’d met this summer, I had something tangible to show for my efforts. Maybe I was a seamstress waiting to be born. I began imagining the fabulous, unique clothes I’d make for myself, all for a pittance.

Unfortunately, it’s been downhill from there. The second project, a purse, involves a pretty complicated pattern. This means lots of cutting, pinning, and sewing. Those things I can handle. More difficult is summoning the effort and concentration to follow the meticulous directions and pay close attention to detail. I am capable of these things, but they are not my natural gifts, and from 7-9 pm, when the class takes place, it feels nigh impossible.

I called my mom to complain this week and she couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “So, your inner engineer didn’t come out?”

“You knew I’d need an inner engineer?” We both know very well this is something I don’t have. Why do moms have to always be right? And why don’t I run more by her?

“You know, honey, there are very simple, three step patterns,” she said. “That might be something to try.”

Maybe it’s the case of too much, too soon. Maybe I would have been better off completing a few more simple projects before diving into something so ambitious. I guess we’ll never know. I haven’t given up on sewing. I still like the idea of taking a piece of fabric and making something simple. Like a tablecloth perhaps. How hard could that be? And I think I can at least hem my pants now. That’s something.

The experience also reminded me of something Julia Cameron writes about—the grace to be a beginner. It’s good to try something totally new, not just because it’s humbling, but because when you’re a total beginner, anything is progress. And if you don’t try new things, who knows what you could be missing? What if I had never tried surfing? I shudder at the thought. Sewing may not be my next great passion, but at least I tried.

For my next new thing I'm considering snowboarding. Somebody told me it's therapeutic, satisfying, and creative.

It's the Grief, Stupid.

2010-09-10T14:40:00.002-04:00

I’ve been feeling, off. With respect to the book. It’s so close to finished, that for all intents and purposes, it’s finished. I just can’t bring myself to say goodbye. I realized, sitting in the coffee shop just now, listening to one of my Laura and Miguel playlists, that I’m grieving the loss of my novel.

I’m not actually losing the novel I know, but this phase, where it was just me and the characters, is coming to an end. At least I hope it is. The phase where I struggled with it on my own, figuring out what would come next, how it would end, how it would begin—all that is over. Which is a good thing. But as my mom says, even good changes are change.

I find myself missing the characters. Missing the good old days. Were they that good? Perhaps I should review old blog posts. Of course, there is a new novel, new characters waiting. But it’s hard to let go of Laura and Miguel. I’ve really fallen in love with them over the past three years. It seems like I’ve spent more time in their world than my own. It’s a place I like to be.

Do you ever want to just capture a moment in time? Stay in one happy place? I have to remind myself that in moving forward, I’m allowing for other good moments. For new experiences. And that although I’m moving on, Laura and Miguel’s story will stay frozen in time. At least this part of their story.

I’m thinking of creating some sort of ritual to memorialize the end of this phase. Yes, that’s the kind of person I am. I had a suit burning after I left the law firm. (It was a very old suit, and disturbingly flammable.) A book burning doesn’t seem appropriate. Any suggestions?

Proof

2010-08-11T10:38:00.003-04:00

In case any of you doubted my honesty, check out the following:

Donnie on the TV set of Blue Bloods.

Donnie mere moments before he spoke to me on the phone.

Are you trembling like I am?

Donnie Wahlberg

2010-08-06T00:09:00.003-04:00

At 4:28 this afternoon, as I sat at my temporary job, I received this text from Carl, who is currently in New York: “Filming show for cbs with donnie walhberg but i haven’t seen him yet.”

The thirteen-year-old girl who lives within me sprang to life, frantically typing, “Oh my god. If u see him, u have to take a picture or get me an autograph. Pretty pretty please.”

I outed myself to my co-worker, Laura, because I had to tell someone immediately, and quickly gave her the background on how I loved New Kids on the Block when I was in junior high (yeah, okay, and freshman year) and how I was literally, actually convinced that I would marry Donnie Wahlberg. Obsession doesn’t begin to cover it. (More like delusion, but hey, I was thirteen.)

It was my life mission to meet Donnie Wahlberg. My favorite cousin, my best friend and I arrived early to every concert—and we went to many—determined to meet the loves of our young lives—Jordan, Joey, and Donnie. The closest we got was meeting the as-yet-unfamous Mark Wahlberg, who did not impress us.

My obsession wore off as high school wore on, and I thought it was over. Until last summer, when Favorite Cousin asked if I wanted to go to the reunion tour. I said yes, thinking it would be funny, ironic.

Little did I know that as soon as the lights went down, we’d begin screaming like 12-year-olds, and not stop. I really felt like that tween again, singing my heart out to “I’ll Be Loving You Forever,” screaming “I love you, Donnie!” squealing and giggling like I never had in my adult life. Cousin and I spent the whole next day IMing about how amazing it was and how someday we had to meet them. Also, downloading The Block, their new album, and repeating to each other how great it was.

4:45 p.m. New text from Carl. “I don’t see him anywhere. Not in this scene.”

Response. “Keep your eyes peeled. Meeting him is on my bucket list.”

Minutes go by. I’m dying. What could be happening? Is Donnie there? Will Carl talk to him? Oh my God.

4:55 p.m. “I’m giving up. too hot out here and kinda really boring.”

Response. :(

I left work, and went home, thrilled that Carl had been somewhere in Donnie’s vicinity. What a fun thing to break up a work week.

6:15 p.m. Carl calls saying Donnie had appeared on set and was filming a scene. He held the phone up for me so I could hear.

“IS THAT DONNIE?” I could barely contain my excitement, at merely hearing his voice in the distance.

“No, that was the director.”

“But you can see him?”

“Yeah. He’s twenty yards away.”

“Oh my God. Carl, you have to get an autograph. Please. You don’t know how much that would mean to me. Please. A photo. Something.”

“Okay. I’ll try.”

I called Cousin who squealed, “He’s standing on a TV set and can actually see Donnie? Donnie?”

The other line rang and I panicked, hanging up on Cousin accidentally, and finding, not Donnie as some part of me hoped, but Carl, saying the scene had ended, Donnie had disappeared, and he was leaving the set. I was disappointed, but still riding a high. If Carl had stood ten feet from Donnie, it was almost like I had too. So much closer than I’d ever been before. Amazing.

I called Cousin back and we squealed some more and speculated about how we might act if we ever did meet our favorite New Kid. I said, “It’s better that I wasn’t there because I would have acted like a screaming idiot, or become completely tongue-tied. It’s for the best.”

I told Carl how though I could try to find where they were filming this weekend, I feared that once word got out there would be hundreds of screaming groupies like me. He sounded skeptical.

8:58 p.m. Carl called to say he had returned to the set, because he was bored and restless and it was only a block from where he was staying. He saw a trailer marked “Danny” and a crowd gathered outside it--heavy, bleached-out, thirtysomething women. Donnie wasn’t in sight, but he had to be close.

“Do you want me to stay?” Carl asked. Because, obviously, he’s the best husband ever.

I said no. I would have been thrilled for him to meet Donnie, but it was a long day, and who knew when he would come out. I thanked him for trying, and said it was fine if he wanted to leave.

Carl started to walk away and just then, the trailer door opened. “There he is! He’s hugging all those women. Okay, I have to call you back.”

Maybe a minute passed, maybe time stopped. Next thing I knew, Carl was on the line and I heard a voice in the background with a very distinctive Boston accent saying, “I gotta get going.”

Donnie Wahlberg.

Carl said, “Hey Donnie, can you say hi to my wife?”

Pause. My heart hammering in my ears, my voice lost somewhere, the moment an eternity and then Donnie Wahlberg’s voice. Coming through my phone. Into my ear. He said, “Hi, wife.”

I waited a second, thinking he would just hand the phone back to Carl, which by the way, would have been more than enough. But sensing he was waiting for me to—surprisingly—speak, I squeaked out something like, “Hi Donnie, my name’s Julie and I’m a huge fan.”

“Well, your husband seems like a real nice guy. But I wish I was meeting you instead of him.”

“ME TOO!”

The crowd reacted and Donnie hastened to explain to them. “Nah, nah, he seems nice, but she’s a fan.” (Donnie Walhberg, talking about my husband. There just are not enough italics for this situation.)

Is he still there? Has he handed the phone back? I don’t think so. Okay, Julie, pull it together. Say something. Anything semi-intelligent will do.

“I am a fan, Donnie! And I love The Block! I listen to it all the time.”

“Aw,” he said, seemingly touched, “thanks.”

Quasi-awkward pause where I wonder if he’s going to just go. But no. The man has manners. It’s clear now that he won’t just hand the phone over without saying goodbye. Even better than that, he said:

“I gotta go, but how about next time, I meet you instead of your husband?”

“Okay.”

When Carl got back on the phone, I was breathless, jumping up and down, sputtering out words like “amazing” and “one of the highlights of my life.”

“So I don’t have to stalk him anymore? ‘cause I felt a little creepy trying to take his picture with my cell phone.”

I took a breath. “No. Mission accomplished. A plus.”

Of course I immediately called Cousin, who made the whole thing better by squealing and screaming with me and repeatedly just saying, “Donnie. I mean, Donnie.” When I recounted the conversation for her, she said, “He was flirting with you!” I must agree. His tone was decidedly flirtatious. She said, “He said he wants to meet you!” He did in fact say this.

Now. I’m a grown-up. Not to mention a lawyer. I know that Donnie meets fans every day and must talk to hundreds of wives on the phone. But the fact that I had an actual conversation with Donnie Wahlberg, my childhood love, is amazing. He’s a real person, and now he knows that I’m a person too. Named Julie, with a nice husband, who likes The Block. It may not seem like much, but the thirteen-year-old who still lives within me can now die happy. Until the next NKOTB concert.

Renoir Overload

2010-07-23T16:40:00.004-04:00

I am an art lover, though no expert. In recent years, emboldened by creating my own art, finding the audacity to refer to my writing as art, and believe that it is, I've come to have bolder opinions about art. Like, for example, though I have no academic or artistic training in the visual arts, I can have an opinion. That was a radical concept to me. Because like writing, I think any piece of art means something different to everyone who views it. We bring ourselves to art and to writing.

So I'm just going to say it--I do not like Renoir. Considered one of the great master painters of the past few hundred years? Undoubtedly. To Julie Owsik Ackerman--don't like it. Renoir himself helped me realize this. I walked through the entire Late Renoir exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and though I really liked a few pieces--one of a young woman playing with a small boy, a tendril of hair covering one of her eyes, both enthralled with their game--had a sweetness, a natural quality, and love that shone through. That touched me. In others I admired the way a dress was painted. But in general, by the end of the exhibit, I was underwhelmed.

At the end is a painting by Matisse. Next to it is a story of how Matisse had shown Renoir that particular work, along with some other of his paintings and Renoir had said he didn't like them. He said that he would tell Matisse he wasn't a painter, except he admired the way he used black. But he didn't like Matisse's work.

That was my a-ha moment. Few would say that Matisse wasn't a great artist, but Renoir couldn't relate to his work. That's how I feel about Renoir. I'm not saying it's without merit, but it doesn't do much for me. I don't feel much, I don't respond much at all except to say, "Not another fat lady in soft light." Just doesn't do it for me. Why do I love Matisse's work and not Renoir? I like his bright colors. I like his juxtaposition of intricate patterns with simple human forms. I just like it. Something inside me perks up, takes notice, wants more when I see a Matisse painting. I want to stand in front of it, from different angles, spend time, notice how I react and why. Other artists I feel this way about--Van Gogh, Rothko, Degas, Rousseau, Kahlo, Dali, Rivera. Other masters I cannot relate to: Picasso. (and while I'm confessing things, Hemingway.)

Why do we respond to some art and not other? It's subjective. I love bright colors, so a muted pallate is not something that leaps out at me. These are all good reminders for me about my writing. Some people will relate to it and others won't. Just because some people don't like it doesn't mean it doesn't have value, it just means they're more Renoir than Matisse.

Summer Reading

2010-07-13T12:58:00.003-04:00

What do I like in a book? I have to care about the protagonist, and prefer someone I like and can root for. Funny is good, though not necessary. A juicy problem helps, especially if I can relate to it. Bonus points for taking me to a time or place I’ve never been, or letting me return to a place I love. Good writing—do I need to say that? Oh, and I’m a sucker for a love story.

Here’s a short list of books I would recommend for summer reading.

If You Follow Me by Malena Watrous. Highly recommended reading

This book jumped off the shelf at Borders at me, with its intriguing title and its sea green cover, showing a Japanese drawing of a woman. The back copy begins with “Hoping to outpace her grief in the wake of her father’s suicide, Marina has come to the small, rural Japanese town of Shika to teach English for a year.” My novel is about a girl trying to outrun grief by going to Mexico, so I had to read this one.

Watrous transported me to rural Japan, a place I knew nothing about previously, and made me feel like I was there. She took me on Marina’s journey as she adjusted to a foreign culture, tried to face her grief, and figure out her romantic relationships—one with a woman, one with a man. It’s funny and tender and unlike most books I read.

The Secret Year by Jennifer Hubbard. Highly recommended reading

This is a young adult novel, but don’t let that put you off—it’s mature, well-written, and compelling. It also deals with grief. (Are we sensing a theme to my reading list yet?) The story begins right after sixteen-year-old Colt finds out that the girl he was secretly seeing for a year has died in a car accident. It explores class issues in contemporary America—Colt was from the wrong side of the tracks—also self-esteem, love, and sex. All from a male teenage perspective. I enjoyed living in Colt’s brain for awhile, and finding out why he had put up with Julia’s conditions of secrecy. I was compelled to know how Colt would handle this grief that he wouldn’t even talk about. How would move on, make peace with the past?

I was a bit surprised by the amount of sex in the book, and how casually the teenage characters seemed to treat it. I could buy that from the boy's perspective, but I found it a little hard to believe that none of the teenage girls in the book seemed to place much emotional import on sleeping with someone. Despite that minor quibble, I really enjoyed reading this book and definitely recommend it.

After You by Julie Buxbaum. Very highly recommended reading

I really enjoyed Buxbaum's first novel, The Opposite of Love, and liked After You even more. This book also focuses on grief, ostensibly over the death of the protagonist’s best friend, but also hidden grief over another loss. The story took me to contemporary London, and introduced me to a lovable, precocious eight-year-old girl. It explored themes of friendship, secrecy, loyalty, and loss, all with Ms. Buxbaum’s irrepressible sense-of-humor. I cried at least once reading this book, and also laughed out loud. Pretty good for the same book.

Nice Girls Do by Sarah Duncan. Recommended reading

I’d never heard of this author or this book, but I saw it by the checkout at the library. It looked like a light read with some sex and romance, which it was.

The protagonist, Anna Carmichael, is a mousy academic type in contemporary England. When we meet her, she is recently divorced, in a bit of a rut, with no love interests in sight. Two interesting men appear rather quickly, and Anna goes though a journey of self-discovery that involves high living, cocaine, sex and a historic garden. This book isn’t a life-changer, but it was highly readable, with a character I cared enough about to hate sometimes, and root for all the time. Plus, it took me to a world of historic English gardens, and taught me some things I’d known nothing about previously.

The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver. Loved it loved it loved it!!!

Chances are, you know who Barbara Kingsolver is. I’ve been reading her books for years, though I must admit, I wasn’t a fan of The Poisonwood Bible, the one all the critics loved. The Lacuna, though, is one of the best books I’ve read in the past few years. Kingsolver has an enviable mastery of language and imagery. I annoyed whoever happened to be sitting near me by reading aloud particularly beautiful sentences—her writing is that good. Combine her talent with a Mexico City setting, Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera as major characters, and a novelist protagonist, and you can’t be much more up my alley. I loved this book!!!!

Open by Andre Agassi. Highly recommended reading

I include this so you know I do read non-fiction occasionally, and because I loved this book too. I am an ardent tennis fan and a lifelong Agassi fan, so I was predisposed to like this book. The story is compelling, but what surprised me most was that it is beautifully written and searingly honest. This book also made me cry. It’s a damn good story about a little orphan who finds love and redemption. It’s funny, inspiring and fascinating to see what life is like behind the curtain of fame, success and money. Though Andre and I may not have much in common on the surface, we both suffer from perfectionism, and I really enjoyed following his journey as he identified about his demons and eventually learned to get out of his own way.

Happy reading! And please pass along any book recommendations you have. I'm always looking for a great read.

Infidelity

2010-06-30T15:08:00.005-04:00

I'm cheating on my book. With a new story. If the first novel is true love forever, then the second novel is infatuation. I have all this energy for it, because of its…well, novelty. The wide open space for new characters, problems, and themes may intimidate me eventually. But right now, I still have the safety and comfort of the story that I know. That makes it easier to begin a new one. It's like finding a new lover before you break up with your boyfriend. I don't recommend that strategy for human relationships, but for writing, it seems to be working.

I used to worry that I would never finish the first book, wouldn't be able to let it go. I didn’t want to spend years rewriting the same thing, moving commas, a slave to my perfectionism. And although I did not meet my goal of finishing by my birthday, the end is in sight. I am making what I believe to be the last round of corrections before I submit it to agents. That, in and of itself, amazes me.

Equally reassuring though, is how naturally it seems to be wrapping up. Just as many people told me, “You'll know when it's done,” I do seem to actually know. Part of how I know is that I've stopped daydreaming about the characters from my first book. New characters have invaded my head. It feels like the new book is evicting the old one, saying, you had your time, it's our turn now. I like it. Daunting as a new book could seem, what I feel most right now is excitement. Que viva la infatuacion!

Writers' Conference - Friend or Foe?

2010-06-11T10:13:00.003-04:00

My first writers’ conference caused (among other things) the sense that I had no business as a writer, that I would never finish my book, that I shouldn’t bother. So I was understandably squeamish about attending a second. But after the North Wildwood Beach Writers’ Conference this week, I’m a convert. Now I believe, even if you’ve had nightmare experiences like me, you should try again.

Why?

You meet a bunch of writers and talk about writing for a few days straight. You could meet a writer you admire, an agent or editor who can help you. You learn about the publishing business. You get inspired. If you're extraordinarily blessed, you may have a critique experience like the one I had.

For the Wildwood conference you could submit the first page of your book for a critique if you wanted. I had just recently written the first page of my book and was reluctant to submit something so fresh. But I listened to the little voice that told me to do it and tried to forget I had. I didn’t know until the critique session started that the reviewer was a contributing editor of Harper’s who has edited writers like, for example, David Foster Wallace. (If you don’t know who DFW is—find out. He’s a revelation.)

So this editor stood in front of the room and began reading people’s first pages. She said she would read six. I didn’t know if mine would be one of them. I fervently wished both that she would read mine and that she wouldn’t. I fidgeted and sweated through the first, second, third and fourth entries, which were not mine. Then she read the first sentence of my first page. I tried to not outwardly cringe or actually crawl under my chair. It was anonymous, so nobody, including her, knew it was mine and I didn’t want to give it away in case it was awful.

After reading, she said a number of things that she admired. The person who edited David Foster Wallace liked things about my first page. A lot. You better believe I wrote down every nice word she said. I may pin it to the inside of my bra and wear it around for a few months—that’s how much it meant to me.

Then came the hard part—the things that didn’t work. It’s hard to hear criticism of my writing, even if it’s constructive. Here’s a summary of what happens inside me—shame at being less than perfect, at being exposed as less than perfect, followed by defensiveness, then panic. The defensiveness I can keep in check. The perfectionism I can overcome. The panic is hardest. The smallest suggestion can make me feel like I’ll never finish the book.

Luckily by now I’ve been critiqued enough that I know what to expect. All these feelings are familiar if not welcome. So I thought, okay, yes, this happens when I get feedback. I went home, talked to Carl, watched the Phillies, reminded myself of the positive things she’d said, went to bed.

The next day at lunch I ended up at the table with the editor. I didn’t know if I should bring up the critique and wasn’t going to force it, but when another writer asked about my project, I confessed that mine was one of the pieces she had read the night before.

I told her how much her thoughts had helped me, which seemed to gratify her. Then I hesitated, seeing an opening. Somehow I managed to squeak out a question about the critique. What followed was David Foster Wallace’s editor telling me what she thought of my work, my ideas, how I could improve what I had, what was already great.

I am still stunned. Both that I had that opportunity and that I had the courage to take advantage of it. Best of all is after that conversation I felt more confident about what I’ve already written, and have a good idea of how to fix what doesn’t work.

So here’s the thing—go to writer’s conferences. Even if you get scarred and discouraged, though I hope you won’t, you learn from that. And maybe the editor of (insert literary hero’s name here) will end up giving you meaningful feedback. You never know.

Anniversary

2010-06-05T10:22:00.003-04:00

Yesterday marked one year since my Grandmom died. I can cry just writing that sentence, but I won’t since I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Ocean City. Ocean City, where I have so many memories of Grandmom, like her last trip to my parents’ house, where she and I shared the room with the single beds, as we had in so many places over the years. By then, she was an octogenarian widow, and I was a married woman, but for that night, we were two single girls again.

I still miss her so much it physically hurts me. Not all the time. Not all day every day, but it can still hit me with a force that steals my breath, bends me over, clutching the kitchen counter, tears springing forth, bursting out. It’s worse at night. If a wave hits me at night, I can cry and feel like there’s no stopping it—nothing other than exhaustion or dehydration. Sometimes I’ll get into bed, still sniffling, and just hope to fall asleep, which eventually I do.

One of the worst days I’ve had in recent months was the day I changed my hair color. The day after Grandmom died I woke up with a visceral need to change my hair. I walked into a salon in my town and asked them to make me a blond. The change was so dramatic that my husband literally did not recognize me at first. I needed that change, I needed an outward sign that life would never be the same.

As her anniversary approached, I found myself needing to change it again. Needing that year of mourning to be over, an outward sign that the worst had passed. Another change. Another loss.

I didn’t want to be too dark, but I wanted darker. My hairdresser, who prefers brunettes, was only too happy to comply. But when she finished I almost burst into tears. Because Grandmom was really gone. And that time when it was so raw, so present, that’s gone too. Which is good. Life has to go on. But losing the intense grief, somehow that feels like a loss too. Because that was the thing that made me know she was real, she was here, she loved me. And without that, what will I have? Her things. My memories. Ocean City. Her recipes.

Now I am crying in the coffee shop. Embarrassing. But the reason I wanted to write about this is that I don’t think people talk about grief enough. People are ashamed to cry in public, to show sadness. I’m trying to change that about myself. I heard someone say the other day that she grieved her father’s death for decades. That helped me. Because there’s part of me that thinks I should be over it. That Grandmom was 92 years old, lived a full and happy life, died a year ago, that it shouldn’t still hurt.

And it is better. It doesn’t hurt as much or as frequently. But how could you ever stop missing someone you really loved? Someone who made you feel so good with just one look, one squeeze of the hand? Somehow, just being with Grandmom made me know that I was going to be okay, that whatever I was struggling with would work out, and that I would survive it. Her faith in me was so strong that she didn’t even have to say anything, though she often did. I miss laughing with her, I miss confiding in her, having her confide in me. I miss having coffee with her and her friends, feeling so special and cherished. How many people in life actually cherish you? If you’re lucky enough to have one, and you lose them, doesn’t it make sense to feel that loss?

So I just wanted to say, I’m still grieving. I think in some sense, I will always grieve this loss. But I know, I still know, how blessed I am to have a loss like this to grieve. Alice Walker said in a poem that “grief/emotionally speaking/is the same/as gold.” I think I’m beginning to understand what she means.

Why Do I Love the Twilight Saga?

2010-05-18T13:48:00.001-04:00

It’s true—I’m a Twi-hard. I’m not stalking Robert Pattinson or anything, but I read all four books of the series, in about a month, and I’ve watched both movies more than once. Now I’m a 33-year-old woman, well-educated and well-read, yet I’m susceptible to a teenage vampire romance. As a writer, it behooves me to try to figure out why.

So for those of you who have yet to succumb to Twilight’s charm, it’s the story of 17-year-old Bella Swan, klutzy and plain, who falls in love with Edward Cullen, 104-year-old vampire in the body of a gorgeous 17-year-old boy. Rob Pattinson comes close to perfection, I admit, but the descriptions of Edward in the book paint a portrait of the most exquisite male specimen humanity has ever seen. And somehow, the amazing supernatural Edward Cullen falls in love with plain old ordinary Bella.

Throughout the first book, which I devoured, I held on to some skepticism about their “love.” It seemed too obsessive, too consuming, too teenager. No one falls in love so completely at 17 and stays that way forever. No one finds their soul mate that young. (Oh, except my parents.) But not nowadays, that doesn’t happen. (Oh, except for my friends James and Stephanie.) Fine, so maybe it happens.

But the talk about completing each other, needing each other, was a bit much for seventeen I thought. I enjoyed the fantasy, escaping into the world of supernatural beings who are so good that they fight their nature, live a moral life in spite of great temptation, and are fabulously wealthy, athletic, beautiful, and funny. Who wouldn’t want to spend time in that world?

But in the second book of the series, New Moon, when Edward breaks up with Bella and leaves, I began to believe that Edward really was her soul mate, that she may live without him, but it was no kind of life. Seeing Bella’s devastation, and feeling it, made me believe in the relationship between the characters. That’s when Stephanie Meyer (the author) got me.

Maybe because I’ve lived through horrible breakups. Maybe because I have a soul mate, and can’t imagine having a complete life without him. Maybe just because Meyer so effectively conveyed the horror of being devastated by love. Bella can live without Edward, she does, but it’s not the same. She will never be the same.

And this all appeals to me why? I like to believe that two people can love each other so completely. Even if it’s hard to believe that can happen when you’re seventeen and last your whole life, sometimes it does. Don’t we all want someone who loves us so much that they would sacrifice their happiness, even their life for us? Bella and Edward’s love is idealized, I’m not sure that humans really love each other like that, but it’s nice to watch and to imagine. Maybe it’s something to strive for—putting your partner’s happiness first, sacrificing for them, protecting them, standing by them, forgiving them when they make a horrible mistake.

Isn’t it nice to think that kind of love is possible?

How Writing Helps Me

2010-05-14T14:49:00.002-04:00

Somebody recently asked me to describe what writing meant to me. That question feels a bit unmanageable, but I think I can describe some of the ways in which writing helps me. Here is a non-exhaustive list.

Morning Pages
Every morning for the past few years, when I wake up, before getting out of bed, I write Morning Pages, an exercise from The Artist’s Way. This means filling three pages of a notebook with stream of consciousness writing—in other words, a brain dump, writing without editing, preferably without really thinking—just letting your hand move across the page.

This practice helps me realize what’s lurking in my mind—things I don’t want to think about, things bothering me or nagging at me. It allows me to vent frustrations, give voice to negative feelings and fears, and by not repressing them, I lessen them, become aware of them and sometimes even find steps to take or solutions. Ideas for the novel sometimes surprise me in the Morning Pages, and the practice of writing without editing myself makes writing first drafts of anything much easier.

Fiction

In writing fiction, I can let my imagination roam, I can create. I love to let my fingers fly over the keys see what comes out. Through fiction I explore questions, I watch characters work through difficulties, and in the process, I gain inspiration and ideas I apply to challenges of my own. Plus, it's just great fun.

Nonfiction

Nonfiction is scarier than fiction for me because I have to hew to the facts, like it or not. And if I’m writing about myself, I have to be brave. But this also helps me. I often don’t know what I feel or think about something until I write about it. If I put words on a page, play with them, arrange and rearrange them, at the end of the process, I’ve figured something out, I’ve realized something, and I’ve created something, which is its own satisfaction.

Poems

I don’t write a lot of poems. For me, they are a last resort, when plain old prose cannot capture the moment or emotion I want to describe. Sometimes writing a poem is the only thing that makes me feel better, because even when a situation is awful, there is comfort in creating something beautiful from it.

In all its forms, writing helps me figure out what I feel and what I think. After writing something I’m a little savvier, a little more self-aware. But maybe my favorite way that writing helps me is the satisfaction I feel when someone tells me that my writing has helped them in some way.

Does writing help you?

If You Know How to Worry...

2010-04-27T17:17:00.001-04:00

Last week I read this sentiment in a book: If you know how to worry, you know how to meditate.

That blew my mind.

I am a champion worrier. I’m not proud of this, I wish it weren’t true, but it is. I have an obsessive, creative mind, and left to its own devices, it will fixate on all kinds of awful scenarios that will probably never happen. This does not help me.

Recently I’ve been trying, rather than just stopping behavior I don’t like, to replace it with something else. So the sentence about meditating made a lot of sense to me. For the past week or so whenever bad thoughts come into my mind, whenever I start down the path of worry or negativity, I’ve tried to catch myself and think something else instead.

Meditating in this sense is not sitting in the lotus position in a dark room, but focusing your mind on something. I have lots of mantras, sayings, thoughts I’ve collected over the years so I try one of those. It could be “To thine own self be true,” “I am exactly where I am supposed to be,” “Ask and you shall receive,” “God has a plan of goodness for me.” It could be just repeating to myself what I’m doing in that moment---aka “I’m driving the car, I’m driving the car.” The thought that helps will depend on the situation and the person, but I think the concept could help everyone: when you’re worried, switch your thinking to something else. Use that crazy obsessive mind to help yourself!

Olympia

2010-02-22T11:12:00.005-05:00

Watching the Winter Olympics, starring cold and ice, made me long for Olympia, Greece, the stop on my cruise that followed Crete. After docking at the lovely port town of Katakolon, and driving through the scenic Kalamata countryside (covered with olive trees, just as you would imagine) we arrived at Olympia, birthplace of the Olympics.

Even before I learned that Olympia was a sacred site to the ancient Greeks, I felt the holiness in the air—something about the mountain mist, the quiet, the light. The Olympics were part of a festival that honored Zeus, and included processions, ceremonies, sacrifices and prayers as well as athletic contests. Games were held at Olympia as early as 776 B.C. and continued for more than 1,000 years. For each Olympiad a sacred truce was enacted to allow the athletes, spectators and pilgrims to travel safely to the site. The contests included footraces, discus and javelin, wrestling, boxing and equestrian events.

On our tour we saw the gymnasium, where athletes trained in the nude. “Think about that the next time you’re at the gym,” said our guide, Demetrios. Then we admired the Philippeion, (pictured above) a building Alexander the Great had built in honor of his father, and according to Demetrios, one of the most beautiful buildings in ancient Greece.

Most impressive to me was the imposing Temple of Zeus which once housed the gigantic gold and ivory statue of Zeus that was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Though unfortunately the statue has disappeared without a trace, the size of the one pillar that remains standing (34 feet tall, 7 feet thick, weighing 9 tons!) allows you to imagine the grandeur of the original structure, worthy of the King of the Gods.

Temple of Zeus.

Temple of Zeus

After passing Hera’s altar, where the Olympic torch is lit for each modern Olympics, we paraded through the gateway to the stadium, where athletes competed as early as 2,500 years ago. The marble start and finish lines are still there, begging tourists to pose on them. Demetrios reluctantly allowed us to take photos, but only if we stood at the starting line, as the ancient Greeks would have.

Me behaving like a tourist.

As I watched the Olympics over the last two weeks, I thought of Olympia and the ideas from ancient Greece that live on: that sports can bring people together, can bring peace, at least temporarily; and that competition, which causes us to strive for greatness, pleases the gods.

Valentine's Day in Harlem

2010-02-17T17:55:00.001-05:00

I don’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day. Maybe too many Februarys without a sweetheart scarred me; maybe I find overpriced red roses and prix fixe meals at crowded restaurants annoying. However, as a person in a ten-year relationship, I do appreciate an excuse for romance. So on February 13, Carl and I did some sweet things—saw a movie, relived memories from our early relationship, held hands. But on the 14th, we eschewed all things traditional and headed off to Harlem.

We met Carl’s brother Kenneth, who was visiting from California, at 125th Street and took the A train uptown to The Cloisters, a medieval art museum at the northern tip of Manhattan. From the subway stop we climbed up the winding paths of Fort Tryon park, the icy breeze invigorating as our hearts pounded, not in romantic thrill, but the effort of climbing up to the museum, though the quiet snow-covered park, the views of the Hudson, and arriving at a medieval monastery did have a certain charm.

Once inside my husband asked at the coat check if the museum had anything special happening for Valentine’s Day. The clerk looked even more surprised by this question than I must have, finally saying, “You being here, that’s what’s special.” As if that wasn’t sweet enough, fifteen minutes later, he tracked me down to tell me he had thought of some romantic items on view in the Treasury, including a wooden box depicting the German goddess of love spearing someone with an arrow. Standing in front of that box later, I squeezed Carl’s hand and kissed his cheek, seized by Valentine’s spirit.

We left Medieval Europe and traveled back to Harlem, searching out the outpost of Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, a Syracuse institution, where the brisket and ribs are worth the hour wait, especially when you can watch The Orange on TV. The red bows in the bartenders’ hair, little bottles of champagne on many tables and Valentinis splashing out of glasses were festive without being obnoxious, and the crowd of mostly large family parties was perfect for our own party of three.

Leaving Dinosaur, heavier and slower, though happier, we walked from 131st and 12th Ave, peeked into Grant’s Tomb, continued on to Columbia where some enterprising students had built an actual igloo on the quad. (We peeked into that too.) Onward we marched to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, the largest gothic-style cathedral in the world, longer than two football fields and tall enough to accommodate the Statue of Liberty (without her pedestal).

The size of the building is what impressed me most, though I also loved the rosette stained-glass window and the American Poet’s Corner, which included Edna St. Vincent Millay and this quotation of hers: “Take up the song; forget the epitaph.” Maybe not romantic, but inspiring to this poet.

From there we walked through Morningside Park, up 125th Street, the commercial artery of Harlem, past The Apollo, and all the street vendors with their hearts, teddy bears, and flowers, ending up where we had started.

Exploring New York, visiting museums, cathedrals, parks, wandering down streets known and unknown, feasting on barbeque, sharing it with two people I love—that’s pretty close to my ideal day. What more could I ask for in Valentine’s Day?

Labyrinth, Minotaur, Crete oh my!

2010-01-13T15:23:00.008-05:00

I wanted to go on this cruise as soon as my aunt and uncle mentioned it to me. Greece, Malta, Tunisia, Spain, Portugal, I thought "Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes." It wasn't until I got the itinerary that I learned we were going to Crete, and when I saw that we could tour King Minos' palace, I had to look twice. King Minos, as in the guy who built the labyrinth to house the Minotaur? Wasn't that just a myth?

For those of you who don't remember, King Minos was the guy who thought he could trick Poseidon, the sea god, by sacrificing not the bull Poseidon had sent him, which was exceptionally beautiful, but a substitute bull.

Apparently King Minos hadn't heard any other myths, because the gods always find out when you try to trick them, and they have very creative forms of revenge. In this case, Poseidon made Minos' wife fall in love with the bull, resulting in her bearing its child, a half-man, half-bull--the Minotaur.

Minos had his architect Daedalus construct a labyrinth to house the Minotaur. Wackiness ensued, including children regularly sacrificed to the Minotaur, until Theseus showed up from Athens to kill it. When Minos locked Daedalus and his son in the labyrinth as a punishment for helping Theseus, the clever architect designed wings from wax and feathers so they could escape. What child can forget the story of Icarus, who disobeyed his father, flew too close to the sun, which melted the wax on his wings and sent him plummeting to his death?

The stories swirled through my brain as we drove to Knossos, the archaeological site. The ruins themselves were, especially after the Parthenon, not very impressive--no labyrinth. But walking around the site of Europe's oldest civilization, with settlements dating from 7,000 B.C., I felt inspired as a storyteller, because long after the palaces came crashing down, the stories remained.

Above are recreated frescoes on the palace walls at Knossos.

Below, according to my tour guide, is the oldest road in Europe.

Sailing away from Crete. Pretty, huh?

The Isle of Rhodes

2009-12-28T16:00:00.005-05:00

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.

The Adventure Begins

2009-12-21T13:57:00.005-05:00

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.

Momentum

2009-12-09T11:28:00.002-05:00

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?

A Face Only a Mother Could Love?

2009-11-02T15:50:00.003-05:00

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!

Step by Step

2009-10-30T12:25:00.002-04:00

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.

The Flyin' Narberthian

2009-10-27T15:56:00.003-04:00

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.

Two Julies and Julias

2009-10-16T13:22:00.002-04:00

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.

I Wrote A Book

2009-10-07T16:46:00.002-04:00

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.

The Open Road

2009-09-01T17:35:00.000-04:00

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.

Top Five of Summer

2009-08-27T11:11:00.002-04:00

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?

Vocation All I Never Wanted

2009-07-20T16:06:00.002-04:00

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.

Life Goes On

2009-06-30T14:08:00.002-04:00

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.

Things Left Behind

2009-06-15T15:52:00.002-04:00

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.

Post Mortem*

2009-06-08T14:49:00.002-04:00

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.

Grandmom

2009-06-04T13:57:00.000-04:00

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.

The Dreaded Critique

2009-05-20T14:55:00.001-04:00

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.

Surfing in 50 Degree Water

2009-05-11T16:06:00.002-04:00

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.

Nalu

2009-04-28T22:23:00.002-04:00

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.

Another Little Rincon of My Heart

2009-04-17T16:38:00.002-04:00

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.

Swimming Lessons

2009-04-02T15:01:00.001-04:00

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.

Goodness, Guidance and Gifts

2009-03-25T08:57:00.002-04:00

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.

BFF

2009-03-15T11:18:00.003-04:00

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.

Celebrate Your Life

2009-02-26T17:11:00.002-05:00

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?

Standing at the Edge of the Unknown

2009-02-20T09:02:00.001-05:00

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?

Don't Think, Just Do

2009-02-03T21:08:00.002-05:00

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.

Disney Hangover

2009-01-28T13:44:00.003-05:00

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.

Crossroads

2009-01-13T14:07:00.001-05:00

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?

I Pity the Fool

2009-01-02T09:55:00.003-05:00

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!

I Love New Yor-or-ork

2008-12-16T16:28:00.004-05:00

My love affair with New York has been long, and like any long-term relationship, full of ups and downs. But right now, I feel like we're on our second honeymoon, The City and I. It all began when I was little, the first time my parents brought me to their company’s annual meeting in Manhattan. We stayed at the Marriott Marquis, right in Times Square. With all of New York City at our feet, nothing compared to the crazy spaceship-like all glass superspeed elevators, like something out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. But I also remember Rockefeller Center, the Christmas tree and decorations, ice skating. I remember FAO Schwartz, ribbon candy from Fannie Mae, an exotic pizza place called Sbarro's.

The affair continued in my teen years when I set off with two friends for a day trip to New York. We took Septa to Trenton and NJ Transit into the big city. We went to the top of the Empire State Building, to Macy’s, to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. We posed in front of the bull on Wall Street, a hand on each of the bull's butt cheeks.

And then I was ready to commit, to take the relationship to the next level--I moved it. Three years I spent living in the Bronx, exploring all five boroughs, and when college was over and I moved to California, I left feeling I had unfinished business, sure I would be back. We were on a break, but not breaking up I told myself.

But after a year on the West Coast, I had changed. I told New York it was me, not it. I settled in Philly, tried to keep up an affair with NYC, going to visit what seemed like every month for years. But like any long distance relationship, the distance took its toll. Time between visits grew larger and larger. I felt I didn't even know New York anymore.

Then this summer, I felt a taste of that old infatuation again. After a long weekend in August, attending the U.S. Open, staying in my friend's gorgeous West Village apartment (the same friend who planted his hand on the bull's butt cheek fifteen years ago) I wanted more. Suddenly New York had the old draw, the hypnotic appeal that lured me there in the first place. I just wanted to be in it.

A brief visit in November was just a tease. Only time to drive by Louis Vuitton, Tiffany's, Bergdorf's--places I've never visited, but in my new rosy view of the city added to its appeal. More, I needed more! So we returned last weekend. Visited some of my favorite places--the New York Botanical Gardens, where we saw the miniature New York, made of botanical materials for the Train Show (pictured above). We ate on Arthur Ave, at Ann and Tony's, one of my favorite Italian restaurants, and walked Fordham's campus, providing me some visceral memories of what it was like to be 18, 19, 20, 21 in New York City.

And then we ventured to an unknown part of New York, somewhere I'd always wanted to go--Coney Island.

What's happening in Coney Island on a Sunday morning in December? Not much. A handful of people walking on the beach and boardwalk. An icy wind blowing from the sea, stinging my skin through my pants. Sea shells mixed with broken glass and cigarette butts on the sand. Horseshoe crabs. Growling Rottweilers guarding amusement parks behind barbed wire. Boarded up windows. A sign that says "Shoot the Freak Paint Ball - Live Human Targets." A tree decorated with plastic bags. Customers in the original Nathan's Hot Dogs at 9:30 am.

I was surprised that it was a beach. I didn't know the Atlantic Ocean came right up to New York City like that. Do people lie on the beach there? Swim in the water? Surf? I don’t know. But I left with even greater love for New York. Because where else can you find Coney Island? What other city has so many places, so dear to me, and also an endless variety of new places to see and explore?

Me and New York. We're totally back together.

Talking 'Bout the Big D

2008-12-09T20:07:00.002-05:00

No, I don't mean divorce. Or Dallas. Discouragement is the one. I've been in a funk of discouragement over the book for the past 10 odd days. But progress is being made. First of all, I had a good work session today, the first really satisfying one since the discouragement set in. Second, I'm feeling hope and optimism work their way back into my heart. And third, I've been much calmer than usual about this round of discouragement. Less panicky. Less resistant. I've been through this several times at least with the book, and so I guess I'm learning to ride it out. I know I lived through the last few times, and afterwards I still wanted to write in general, and more specifically the novel, so maybe I'm developing some faith. Learning to accept all parts of the process, the smooth riding parts and the bumpy ones. Not that it's comfortable. It's not. But I have some tools now. I have some things that I know work, that I know help. Here's my list:

1. Artist dates--I do more than usual, and I do better ones than usual. Last week I had a French party complete with a French film, an almond croissant, and a glass of the beaujeaulais nouveau.

2. Walking. Walking really helps. Literally putting one foot in front of the other. Gets me out of my head, into my body, provides a change of scenery, food for my senses, and somehow just helps things to settle out, my thoughts to untangle, my heart to quiet.

3. Talking to Claire, my novelist friend. She provides encouragement, insight and empathy. What a gift.

4. Being extra nice to myself. This means sleeping in. This means little treats like M&Ms, this means humoring whims, any little thing that may lift my spirits.

5. Reading Julia Cameron. I'm not currently working with The Artist Way or any of Julia's books, but I'll look in the index, under say, discouragement. Her words are often just the medicine I need.

6. Seeing friends, especially ones who make me laugh, which come to think of it, is all my friends.

7. Going to my job. Yes, this helped enormously over the last week. Because I couldn't feel productive in my writing, it really helped to feel productive in another area of my life.

8. Basking in the light of my Christmas tree.

9. Moving things around the house.

10. Cooking.

What are your strategies for dealing with discouragement, or just a good old fashioned funk? I'd love to know.

Maybe coming out of discouragement is like getting over a migraine. At first, I just feel the absence of pain, then each day I get a bit less foggy until I feel back to normal. I may not be quite at normal yet, but I'm getting there.

Giving Thanks

2008-11-30T17:04:00.002-05:00

Obvious topic, I know, but a good one.

Here is my stream of consciousness list of things for which I am grateful:

1. My in-laws, who sure know how to party down at weddings.
2. My upcoming trip to Disney World
3. Christmas
4. Advent
5. Thanksgiving
6. My Grandmom Wade
7. My Grandmom Owsik
8. Stuffing
9. Gravy
10. Cranberry sauce
11. Champagne
12. Earth, Wind, and Fire
13. Manhattan
14. The Bronx
15. Mike's Pizza
16. Writer friends
17. My novel
18. Pat Rogers, S.J.
19. Any rockin' dance floor
20. My 1997 Cadillac Catera
21. River Side East hot dog stand in Elmwood Park, NJ.
22. My four nephews and two nieces
23. My buddy Julian and his awesome dance moves
24. New friends
25. Old friends
26. My new tv
27. My repurposed armoire, now holding our new tv
28. My warm and cozy house
29. My little collages that decorate my house
30. My cozy bed
31. Feathers to wear in my hair
32. Black sequin clutch purses
33. A 15 year old dress that still looks good and still fits
34. Weddings
35. Choirs
36. Trumpets
37. Funky dresses on Manhattan girls
38. Brothers and sisters in law
39. Chihauhaus
40. Maggie the puppy
41. Cousins that feel like siblings
42. Brothers
43. Parents
44. Narberth
45. Beaujeaulais nouveau (sp?)
46. The Metropolitan Museum of Art
47. The New Yorker
48. Fordham University
49. Suzy Lutjen O'Connor
50. Mermaids

What are you grateful for?

Comparing Myself With Myself

2008-11-20T14:12:00.002-05:00

Today my writer friend Claire asked me how the book was going. "It's going really well," I said. "I had a great writing session today, I feel very excited about the scene I'm editing." I was full of enthusiasm. Then I said, "Well, but it never feels like enough."

Which is true. No matter how much I work on the book in a given day, it doesn't feel like enough. As I kept talking I realized that all this time, I've been comparing myself with other writers, like Cormac McCarthy, who goes to an office, and works an 8 hour day on his novels (at least according to his nephew, who told me this.) Talking to Claire today I realized that I have been beating myself up all year because I don't follow the McCarthy schedule. (And I hated the only book of his I've read!)

My dirty little secret is that on days I don't have to go to my job, I spend somewhere around two hours working on the book. Some days I have two two-hour sessions, some days, when I'm really feeling it, I'll work four straight. But on an average day, about two hours is what I spend writing and revising, with maybe some research or administrative stuff in addition. And, I guess I can count time I spend thinking about the book while walking and time for Artist Dates to refuel my imagination, so maybe add a few more hours a week for that. And if I'm being very generous with myself, I would count time I spend meditating, food shopping, preparing meals, and generally taking care of myself so that I can write. And then if you add in the time I spend reading, and writing this blog, I guess I get a lot closer to a full-time work schedule.

Even still the (inner) critic says, "Well, maybe the book would be done already if you spent eight hours a day on it." When the critic speaks I look for the fear. In this case, I'm afraid that I'm wasting time. That I'm not finishing fast enough. But when I look at these fears rationally, I see that I'm not wasting much time, just a normal amount, and that fast enough is a relative term. I didn't finish fast enough to prevent me having to go back to work, but that's okay. And if I'm still not done in a few months, when this job is over, I'll get another job. ("In this economy?" asks the critic. He's such a downer.)

What I need to do is let go of the outcome. Let go of my worry about what will happen to the book when it's done, and just keep taking my next small step. The book is incubating in my mind and heart and soul, and it responds much better to small and gentle goals than to me screaming at it to hurry up already.

So maybe it's okay to only write for two hours a day, at least for now. Maybe slow motion really will get me there faster. I need to stop comparing myself to other writers and do what works for me. If I compare myself now to myself of a few years ago, now I write almost every day for at least an hour. That's a hell of a lot more writing than I used to do. So I'm making progress. I need to remember that there are many different paths to the same place. And I think if I can muster up a little more faith and a little more confidence, I'll be more productive, even if it is only for two hours a day.

Encouragement from Dead Authors

2008-11-14T13:52:00.001-05:00

“Well, I tell you these things to show you that working is not grinding but a wonderful thing to do; that creative power is in all of you if you give it just a little time; if you believe in it a little bit and watch it come quietly into you; if you do not keep it out by always hurrying and feeling guilty in those times when you should be lazy and happy. Or if you do not keep the creative power away by telling yourself that worst of lies—that you haven’t any.”

The above quote is from a book called If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland. I came across it in my attic last week, and found myself standing in that dusty sunlit room, absorbed into its pages for so long that Carl wondered what had happened to me and came looking. My parents bought this book for me when they came to visit me in San Diego in 1999. We went walking at the beautiful park called Embarcadero, down on the water, but still close to downtown. There’s a small book store there, the kind with floor to ceiling shelves, stacks of books haphazardly arrayed and a coffee bar squeezed into the middle of the chaos. I’m sure we spent a happy hour in there, (my mom and I could easily pass days in bookstores in complete contentment) and we left with several purchases, including If You Want to Write.

I had determined in 1999, while living in San Diego, that I wanted to be a writer. But then, in the upheaval of moving back to Philadelphia, getting my first real job, my first real apartment, and generally trying to grow up, writing got lost. I kept a journal, off and on, I wrote poems here or there. I even took a writing class where I worked on some short stories. But then I found myself in law school, my creative writer in some sort of coma.

Thankfully, the bar exam was just the horrible impetus I needed to start my novel. I stole sweet hours from my studying to conjure up characters, to name them, to begin to write their story. And then I got a job, and let the novel rot in my computer, untouched for two years.

Since I’ve started working on the novel again, I’ve often felt bad about the lost time. If I had started seriously writing in 1999, how much further would I be now? I know regret is pointless, and beating myself up is unhealthy, but it has been hard to shake a feeling of loss over all that time I could have been writing. This week, I found some comfort in another book, a biography of Jane Austen where I learned that she had a seven year period when she didn’t write at all, after she wrote her first three novels, before any of them had been published. As I tried to figure out my own fallow period, I wondered about Jane’s. Why didn’t she write for all that time? We don’t know, maybe Jane didn’t know, but knowing that she had a long dry spell with writing makes me feel better about mine.

I am grateful to Jane Austen for her beautiful work, for inspiration, for her courage, persistence and faith. And I am grateful for having found Brenda Ueland’s little book, not just for the wisdom and encouragement contained within its covers, but also for the memory of that sunny afternoon in San Diego, absorbing love from my parents, a long way from home and a short way from adulthood.

In My Tribe

2008-11-04T15:02:00.006-05:00

I've been thinking over the past few weeks of the tribes to which I belong. For example, I was born an Owsik. See evidence of this in the above pictures. There is no mistaking the Owsik profile, shown on my brothers and dad in the first picture, and myself in the second. There was a time when I hated my nose, but now, I love it. I love that it marks me as part of my tribe.

Another of my tribes, the lawyers, I tried to escape, but they have pulled me back in, at least somewhat. I've accepted a job at my law school, which feels very different than working at a law firm, but is still is within the tribe. How has this tribe marked me? Well, I read almost everything before I sign it. I am overly cautious and skeptical, some may say paranoid. And yes, very very competitive, which to be fair, was part of me before I joined the tribe.

The tribe I am happiest to belong to this week is the Philadelphia Phillies Fan tribe. The marks of the Phillies tribe? We spell everything with a "ph" instead of "f," making us "phans." We boo as passionately as we cheer, yes, even our own team when they deserve it, and we are pessimistic to the point of despair.

But when we were up 3 games to 1 in the World Series last week, and we were playing Game 5 at home, with our ace pitcher on the mound, even we, who had been disappointed so many times before--we are the team with 10,000 losses--we began to believe. The city was covered in Phillies red that day. The air smelled cleaner, people everywhere smiled at each other, said things like, “We are gonna do it tonight!” The optimism was palpable.

And then the rains came.

They played 5 1/2 innings in the pouring rain, only to have the game suspended once it was tied. And there it was. The familiar sense of doom. Once again our team would collapse, disappoint. We had been foolish to hope for anything else. For two days we held our breath. I didn't discuss the game with any of the other super phans, too scared that we had jinxed it with our uncharacteristic optimism.

And then, in a strange, very short finish, they won. In Game 5, part 2, at home.

I may still be in shock. I watched the champagne spraying, the smiles, the near-riots on Broad Street, all the while not sure what this unfamiliar feeling was—it was the feeling of winning.

On Friday I went to celebrate with my tribe, which included the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen at any event in Philly. And sure, some were imposters, just college students looking for a reason to get drunk in daylight, and I did at times fear a death by trampling, but it was worth it. I had to thank the team that, at least for right now, has made Philly feel like winners again. It's been a long time.

Is it too much to ask that my Democratic tribe take back the White House tonight? I think not. Winning is something I could get used to.

Leaning Into Change

2008-10-26T16:42:00.002-04:00

Some changes by their nature are sudden and drastic, but where possible, I think leaning into change makes sense. I went back to work last week. There was no leaning into that change. I knew it was coming, I courted it in fact, but it was still a shock to the system. Going from working for myself, making my own schedule, working as much as I wanted on my writing, to working for someone else, on their agenda, away from my house and my writing, well, it was a lot of change to try to absorb in a week.

So in retrospect it probably was not a great week to try to attempt any other drastic changes, like trying to turn my standard American diet into a 75% raw foods diet in hope of curing a recurring health problem. I tried to take small steps, but before I knew it I had spent all afternoon yesterday reading, researching, list-making, and visiting health food stores. By early evening I felt completely overwhelmed, even before someone rear-ended my car.

At least I had the sense to recognize I needed a break. I came home and did some yoga, and then spent today resting and regrouping. And thankfully, while I was out walking today it occurred to me that this was a change I could lean into. Maybe I can’t get to 75% raw foods this week, but I can pretty easily increase the amount of fresh fruits and veggies I eat. Throw in some more nuts and seeds. Work slowly toward the goal.

Which brings me to my writing goals. My fear with going to work for someone else is that I will lose focus or momentum with the book. To combat that, I set a goal of working for two hours on the book in the morning before I left for my job, and I did that this week. But though I am proud of my dedication and discipline, I am suspicious that here too I am pushing too hard. I picked up one of Julia Cameron's books (yet another fairy godmother) this morning and read her thoughts about setting reasonable goals for our work. She says to figure out what amount of work I can accomplish daily without drama.

This was a needed and gentle reminder that as I make room for this new job in my life, I may need a period of time for adjusting to my new schedule, my new set of responsibilities and expectations. So maybe this week instead of working for two hours in the morning on my writing, I’ll try one hour, and see how that feels.

We want change, we need change, but maybe there is only so much change we can handle at any one time. Hopefully, as I get accustomed to my new job, I will find time and energy to make sure the book continues to move forward, steadily, at a pace I can sustain.

Fairy Godparents

2008-10-17T12:12:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, I was feeling a little overwhelmed, a little down, a little tarnished as I waited in line at the Corner Bakery for my coffee fix, briefcase in hand, preparing for another day of working on the book. As I walked to the counter to place my order, I turned around and saw two ladies that I know—Suzy and Sylvia. And I mean ladies. These women are beautiful, older than me, but not old, oh no. They are thin, stylish, coiffed, handsome. And though I’m sure they’re not always together, in my mind, they’re a pair. They ushered me over to a table to have some coffee and conversation with them and after just 30 minutes, I was a new person. Shiny and enthusiastic, optimistic, excited about my book, my life, and the future, anxious to get to the computer to work, which I did, happily and productively for the next several hours.

Later, when I was telling Carl about my day, I said they were like fairy godmothers, appearing out of the blue, and giving me just what I needed—some warmth, some encouragement, some wisdom, some laughter.

Which got me to thinking about the many fairy godparents I’ve had over the years. There’s Louie, who not only helped me find my first job as a lawyer, but gave me countless sincere and effective pep talks, boosting my spirits to counter the horrors of a long and disheartening job search.

There was Carol, my faithful friend, secretary, and confidant. Who listened, and empathized, but also pushed me to address issues that needed addressing, from my lack of organization to my health problems. It was Carol who started the ball rolling that helped me to regain my health which then allowed me to look at my life, see what was missing, and start following my dream of writing.

And of course, my archetypal fairy godmother, Margarita, my host-mom in Mexico. I could fill a book with what Margarita meant and means to me, and indeed, a character based on her appears in my novel, but for now, suffice it to say that she gave me unconditional love and support from the get-go. She gave me a home when I was in a foreign land. She gave me a family when I was a world away from mine, feeling like a lost orphan. She made me soups and teas when I was seriously ill, willing me back to health. She tried to teach me to cook, as hopeless a prospect as that seemed at the time. And maybe best of all, she showed me that my fumbling Spanish didn’t matter, that I could connect with people, in a real and powerful way without elegant language.

I believe that each of these people were brought into my life just when I needed them, and I am grateful for my ever generous Higher Power for seeing what I needed and providing it. Remembering the gifts of these relationships bolsters my faith that I will continue to receive what I need, that with each challenge comes the support needed to survive it, and even to flourish.

Who are your fairy godparents?

An Attitude of Gratitude

2008-10-11T11:15:00.005-04:00

Is attitude (pronounced add-ee-tood here in Philly) everything? For a summer girl such as myself, fall has always been difficult. I hate saying goodbye to the beach, the warmth, flip-flops, days that last until 8 pm, barbeques, fresh berries and tomatoes. But this year, rather than focusing on the loss of summer, I'm trying to see the gifts of autumn. Like my rust colored 3/4 sleeve jacket and my brown suede boots. Or the shock of a crimson-topped tree, or a flash of tangerine in the distance, just enough to bring me out of my head and back into the moment.

In search of autumn treasures I went yesterday to Longwood Gardens, one of my favorite places in the world. Boy do they know how to celebrate fall. Artfully arranged squashes of all shapes and sizes--butternuts with necks like swans, squat green and white speckled acorns, pumpkins almost big enough for Cinderella's carriage. A wall of mums of the truest yellow. Marigolds of toasted sunshine. Ornamental spiky peppers of red, yellow, orange and green. Nature's gifts were so dramatic and gorgeous and abundant it was almost too much.

This particular fall has brought with it the need for me to make some money. This was hard to accept at first. I had hoped I would finish the novel and sell it and never have to work for anyone else ever again, but that is not how it has worked out. Here too I am looking for gifts. I am grateful that the book is progressing so well and so steadily, and that I often have faith that it will be finished whenever it's meant to be finished. These are two incredible gifts.

As for the job itself, I welcome the opportunity to make some money, to have more structure, more socialization, a change of scenery, and the chance to use parts of myself that have gone unused at home writing. I think the right job will provide some balance that I need in my life, and actually help me finish the book, and not hinder it.

One more small example of searching for gifts: the gift of waiting in line. Rather than feeling angry and frustrated and impatient (as I usually do) I've been trying to feel gratitude for a few moments to just be--a few moments when I don't have to do or say anything.

Looking for the gifts changes my attitude, which in turn allows me not only to accept my life, but to enjoy it much more, and to move through it as a happier and calmer person, which may be the greatest gift of all.

The Sporting Life

2008-09-30T19:17:00.005-04:00

Here it is, the long promised surf video, shot and edited by the talented Carl. I have improved further since we shot this footage, but I love how this video captures me just on the cusp of standing up. My first shaky steps. I also like how it shows me wiping out, getting tossed off the board, and almost colliding with both cool, experienced surfers and young children. That's what surfing was like for me right up until August of this year, when finally I figured out how to stand up and stay up on the board.

"Whatever you think you can do or believe you can do, begin it. Action has magic, grace, and power in it." Goethe

This is one of my favorite quotes. Not just because I think it's true, but because it's so optimistic, so encouraging. I had always wanted to surf, and in spite of being out of shape, and not a great swimmer, and quasi-afraid of the ocean, I dared to try. And I succeeded! This ranks up there with some of my proudest accomplishments, along with learning how to speak Spanish, passing the bar exam, and writing a novel.

Rediscovering and reclaiming my inner athlete has been one of the best gifts of the past year. I unearthed her, first for surfing, because it was an itch I had to scratch, and then for swimming to help the surfing, and then for tennis, to help research the novel. Along the way I remembered that sports were a huge part of my life until I was fifteen, when I decided I was an intellectual and not an athlete. I'm glad that I've finally realized I can be both. Why choose?

Finally, I can't let the week pass without shouting out my Fighting Phils! October baseball two years running in Philadelphia--I'm not sure this is my city anymore. My awesome parents took me to game two of the playoffs last night, where we handed Milwaukee a second defeat with an incredible grand slam from Shane Victorino. I've never been part of an event where such passion was displayed--by the crowd. The cumulation of 28 years of hope for the Phils was fully present last night as we screamed, shouted, taunted, cheered, and yes, booed. One thing I love about sports is watching people dig deep into their talent and determination to perform under great pressure. I love watching people rise to an occasion. Our Phillies did that last night, and I got to share in the love with my parents and 46,000 other rabid fans. What a joy, what a blessing.

Go Phils!

The Next Small Step

2008-09-26T09:39:00.003-04:00

12 Step circles have a million helpful phrases, but the one I've been using for the past week is "Just do the next right thing." This is a simple concept, but for me, who often makes things harder for myself than they have to be, I find it hard to believe that something so simple could work.

But this week, faced with an overwhelming amount of work to do on the book, and not knowing where to start, I gave it a try. After calming down, working through my consuming panic about NEVER finishing through long walks and reassuring words from Carl, writer friends and others, I came back once again to just doing the next right thing.

I chose one of the many problems I identified while reading the manuscript, just one, and then tried to think of the smallest possible thing I could do to address it. The smallest step forward. The problem was the role of a particular character in the book--if he is necessary, and if so, why, and how my protagonist feels about him. It's a big issue that needs to be decided for the book to move forward. My smallest step was to look at one scene where he appears and see if it rang true, if it made sense. Once I decided it did, my next small step was to brainstorm how that scene would affect his relationship with the protagonist. And that small step led me to realize what their relationship was like in the first half of the book and how I could portray that. And that small step helped solve a problem that I thought was completely unrelated.

All of which gave me a lot of hope that by just progressing one small step at at time, any remaining issues with the book will be resolved. And isn't that the only way to proceed anyway?

I have also rediscovered/remembered that it greatly helps if I come up with a few possible small steps for my next work session, and write them down before I stop working for the day. That somehow eases my mind, and allows me to jump in more easily the next day.

I have applied this idea in other areas of my life, from my job search, to structuring my day, to selling my car, and it really seems to work. So if you're like me, and occasionally feel overwhelmed and don't know where to start, try taking the next small step, or doing the next right thing. Let me know how it works out.

Overwhelming Myself

2008-09-19T11:03:00.002-04:00

I hate to brag, but overwhelming myself may be the thing I do better than anyone. I can overload on reading, on tv, on food, coffee, email--you get the idea. Even in this I am an overachiever.

This week I overwhelmed myself with my own book. I was trying to read it is smallish chunks, so I could absorb and digest what I was reading. But on Wednesday, with the pile of papers growing smaller, I couldn't resist plowing through to the end. And then I just felt paralyzed. Like what the fuck do I do now?

I wandered around like a zombie that afternoon. A saleswoman in Ten Thousand Villages said five cheerful things to me and received only grunts in response. I went to Penzey's Spices and sniffed my way through the store--tried to tell the difference between Turkish and Mexican oregano, tested to see if hot pepper flakes would burn my nose (answer no) and spent a good five minutes inhaling the comforting scent of vanilla extract. I don't think anything else smells as good. My fog started to lift when I went to see my Artist Way group, where I talked about my creative struggles to sympathetic ears, and got the excellent suggestion of taking the next day off to let what I had read wash over me and sink in a bit.

On that advice, I was extra nice to myself yesterday. I bought an almond croissant from the patisserie, and decided that it's impossible to be anything but happy while eating such a thing. I had lunch with my grandmom, and then ventured over to the Tyler Arboretum to see their tree house exhibit, comprised of seventeen or so tree houses. My favorite one consisted of hammocks strung all over with an invitation to lie in different ones to see various perspectives of the same group of trees. Rocking gently side to side I understood why Mexicans use hammocks to lull their children to sleep.

And then today, with great trepidation, I ventured back into the book, with what I thought was a small and gentle goal of simply reading the notes I took as I went through the novel. After reading the first half of notes, and making more notes on them, I knew I should stop. I had enough to chew on, to think over. But I kept going and am once again overloaded.

Why is it so hard to stop? To not only know when we've had enough, but actually walk away? I'm not sure. I think it feels like if I know what's there, I'll be able to control it somehow. The everlasting struggle for control. Or maybe it's the impulse to finish. If I read more, do more, then I'll finish faster. Which probably is the opposite of the truth. If I go slowly, at a sustainable pace, I work more quickly. If I overwhelm myself, it takes time to recover, regain some perspective and then get back to work. So for today, I'm done with the book. Writing about it helped, and my next step is a long walk. If you see me wandering with a glazed-over look, now you know why.

Return of the Blog

2008-09-12T15:56:00.003-04:00

Ah, readers, a whole month has passed--longer--since I've posted. A few people (not even my parents) told me that they have missed my blog, which made me happy, not that I've been delinquent, but that people noticed.

What to say about August? Once I get my act together I will post a video that will explain August better than my words could. So you'll have to wait on that.

What I will say is that I took two whole weeks away from the novel, which I had not done since I began working on it in earnest last April. At first it felt good. I needed a break from it. But after a week I began to really miss it. And to feel somewhat at sea. Like the one constant for the past year has been the novel, and without it I didn't quite know what to do with myself.

I cleaned out closets, I busied myself trying to sell my car (which is a great little Corolla if anyone is interested), I started looking for a day job in earnest, I caught up on food shopping, cooking, correspondence, and generally just tried to get my life in order. So now that that's accomplished, I'm trying to get back into good habits. Like working on the novel in the morning, and writing a blog posting once a week.

My writing project this week has been to print out and read the entire novel start to finish. I have of course read all of it in sections, but never all the way through. And although I've found some alarming errors, holes in plot and problems yet to be resolved, it feels like a miracle to read a book that I wrote. Little old me.

Here's hoping that someday, in the not too distant future, you, and many other people, will be reading that book too.

Look for weekly posts again, now that I'm getting back on schedule (usually Friday afternoons.)

It feels good to be back!

Yoga for the Mind

2008-08-01T15:17:00.001-04:00

Although months can pass without me writing a poem, inevitably an image or feeling will be too much in some way, forcing me out of logical prose and into poetry.

Last week, haunted by a situation I badly mishandled, I worked on a poem I had begun about it years ago. I used to think that poems sprang to life fully formed, but now I know that a first draft is just a seed that must be tended, nourished, pruned. So I spent time editing the poem, finding solace playing with the sounds, textures, and rhythms of the words. Not only was I able to comfort myself by creating something beautiful, but also I found the poetry work primed my writing mind, allowed me to open up, relax, get warm and receptive.

I often say that writing has saved my life, and I believe that. Writing gives me a place to put stuff I can’t put anywhere else. Today, when I feel overwhelmed by sadness, anger, or grief, I use it in my writing. This might not take the feelings away, but the act of creating works some kind of transforming magic. Maybe it’s like how trash becomes compost that nourishes crops that feed us. Bad feelings, mixed with creativity become food for the soul. I don’t know how it works, I just know it does. But don’t take my word for it--find your creative outlets and use them!

Anchored

Trudging
up the hill
I saw you
ahead—
hopping
step to step
light-footed, loose.

I stopped,
trapped between
dread of your stone wall,
and my far-fetched
hope for a breach.

Upward
you skipped,
never
looking back.

The morning mist
swallowed you whole—
your name
lodged in my throat,
regret
an iron veil.

Routine and Change

2008-07-23T22:25:00.003-04:00

It's good to be home. I've been away for most of the past month, and am actually leaving again tonight for a few days. I think this is how the summer will be. And though I am grateful to spend so much time at the shore, the disruption of my routine has made it hard to work over the past month. I've been working on the book, but not as hard and not as productively as I do when I'm at home, in my routine.

But this week at home has been the most productive week I've had in a very long time. When I mentioned this to a friend of mine she said that maybe I needed to shake up my routine for it to regain its power. It hadn't occurred to me that my super-productive week could be a result of the disruption of my routine, but maybe she's right. Maybe like moving 81 things in my house, physically taking myself to different places, seeing different faces, and creating new structures brought fresh energy to my old routine, reinvigorating it. I like the idea that surfing, playing tennis, hanging out with my husband, with old friends and family actually helped my work.

I certainly have renewed enthusiasm this week. Maybe routine and change are yin and yang of each other. I need routine and structure, but after a few months of the same thing, I had lost some enthusiasm for the book. Now, having moved around so much, struggled to get into a routine and get to work, the passion is back. I couldn't wait to get back to my humdrum routine, to my comfortable and inspiring office, to my house and my friends and my kitchen.

One of the best changes of the past month has been my progress in surfing. I'm actually standing on the board and staying up there! Amazing. My ability to learn how to surf after the age of 30 makes me think I can do anything. Like, I don't know, finish a novel?

Showing Up

2008-07-04T10:51:00.002-04:00

I feel proud of myself this week for showing up for my life. To me, showing up means living in the moment, seizing opportunities as they arise, using my talents, remembering my values and priorities and making choices based on them. How to show up differs day to day and moment to moment.

This week, showing up meant capitalizing on a few precious days to work at home before we leave town for another two weeks. It meant pulling out and piecing together the thoughts my subconscious had worked out about the book while I was taking a break last week. It meant looking at the overall structure of the novel, and using my new understanding of my protagonist to make sure her behavior is consistent with her personality. It meant using my enthusiasm for editing while it lasts.

It also meant physically showing up in Ocean City to see my grandmom. It meant ignoring my internal critic screaming that I’d never finish the book (he’s such a drama queen), having pizza with my clan, riding the ferris wheel, stealing a few minutes alone with Grandmom, passing an hour sitting on the porch.

On Wednesday, showing up meant ditching my work for a few hours to surf while the surfing was good. It meant staying in the ocean, in spite of getting smacked in the face with a wall of seawater by the first wave I tried to catch. It meant paddling out again and again in spite of my bruised pride (and body) that wanted to give up. It meant staying aware and open so I could learn the lessons that came, see my growing comfort on the board, feel my growing understanding of the ocean.

The amazing thing about showing up is how much more joy I feel, and how much less worry. Concentrating on whatever I’m doing or feeling in the moment blocks out obsessing about past or future. None of us knows how many more days we have but we do know that we will never have this day, today, again. So shouldn’t we all try to show up for whatever days we have?

Thank you to everyone who read the review of my blog on Philadelphia Stories and posted comments, and the many kind emails and postings you’ve been sending me recently. Your support is a huge reason why I’m able to show up!

Careful What You Wish For...

2008-06-25T16:45:00.003-04:00

You just may get it. My last entry about shaking things up has me feeling a bit chagrined, as I now long for my lost routine. On Saturday one of my dearest friends got married (congratulations Kara and Mark!) As maid of honor, I spent lots of my time and energy last week preparing for and participating in the festivities, which were gorgeous, filled with love, joy, dancing, and even Irish singing.

My routine continued to be subjugated by a trip to the shore on Sunday, to celebrate the end of the school year for Carl. I intended to work while we were there, but alas, I left all of my book materials at home in Narberth. Rather than cut short our time or drive home, I decided to take a few days off from writing and editing, but was able to do some research. And now, having just got home from the shore, I'm preparing to leave again tomorrow for another short trip, this time to Williamsburg.

All good things, these diversions. The question is, how strict can or should I be with myself? Structure helps me, so on Friday I made a schedule for the summer, assigning days off and working days and setting daily work goals. Then, having left my computer at home, was unable to meet my work goal for the first three work days on the schedule, which has my inner critic up in arms. Critic: how are you ever going to finish the book if you spend your days surfing, lying on the beach, and reading? Me: I'm taking care of myself, I'm resting, I'm researching. Critic: Whatever.

What to do? Forcing myself to write doesn't work well. I know this. And although I mourn the lost writing days, I believe I needed a break, and it was good for me, and will therefore benefit my work. So maybe I need to stay a little flexible with the structure and goals. If I can set aside my morning hours for writing, wherever I am, I should be able to meet my daily goals. And if I take advantage of days when the work is going well(ie exceed my goals), I'll be able to make up for a day here or there when I've decided to play hooky at the beach.

As long as I'm doing things that are nurturing, like surfing, or reading good writing, or exploring a seashell museum, or celebrating a rite of passage with a dear friend, I think taking a break is just fine. Necessary even. But I am looking forward to getting back to my routine for a few days next week, before leaving for yet another trip to Lake Ontario.

On another note, my blog had its first review! Check it out at the website for Philadelphia Stories! Yay press coverage!

Shaking Things Up

2008-06-16T15:47:00.002-04:00

Last week, as my 32nd birthday approached I was feeling a little down. My annual tradition of gathering friends for a night of dancing was supplanted this year by a visit to the Barnes Museum and brunch at Blush, both lovingly arranged by my husband. And although I looked forward to these activities, as the day approached, I couldn't help but feel sad remembering the days in our early twenties, when staying up until 4 am and dancing into the wee hours was a regular activity, not just reserved for special occasions. I realized the last time I had tried to go dancing was November, and only two other people wanted to go. Something had shifted without me quite noticing. What was it?

Well, for one thing, although I love to dance, I no longer love staying up past midnight. Sad but true. Now my drinking is limited to a glass or two of good wine. My friends and I are older, most of us married, some with kids, many living in the 'burbs, where a night in the city is more than just a walk or a cab ride away. I guess many things have shifted.

Faced with this reality, I needed an alternate, something I could do to scratch my dancing itch. And so, I worked up my courage, and went to the hip-hop dance class at the Koresh Dance Studio that I'd been longing to try for years. Fear of looking or feeling stupid had kept me from going to the class, but last week, my need to do something new involving dancing won out. So on Friday I found myself in a questionable outfit, in the dance studio on Chestnut St., dancing hip-hop, or my version of it, having the most fun I'd had in a long time. As I walked out of the studio I realized that I was now one of those dancers I had envied for so long, and all it took was a little planning, some courage, and a crisis about my birthday.

Also this week I began a program in which I move nine things in my home each day for nine days, to get stagnant energy moving again. I love this idea because it is so manageable, and yet, after three days, has created some lovely changes in my home, including the long long-overdue unpacking of my wedding china. (Maybe it will all be unpacked by our fifth wedding anniversary!)

Trying new things and rearranging old things has brought some great changes in the past few days. In my 33rd year I plan to continue to shake things up, because as scary and uncomfortable as change is for me, so much good comes from it--new friends, new activities, new sources of joy and pleasure.

Now I'm off to unpack more china and practice my dance moves, but not at the same time of course.

Reunited and It Feels So Good

2008-06-06T18:27:00.002-04:00

The romance is back -- for me and my novel. After some rough times, we’re honeymooning again. I’ve been working away, happily lost in the world I’m creating, hardly noticing my fingers as they type. I leave the computer with reluctance, long to return to it when I’m away.

This is not always the case. Some days, I’ll do anything to avoid the computer. Suddenly I have to clean the blinds, hang a shower curtain, prepare a three course dinner. If I drag myself to the computer, I may produce something, but it’s a painful process, and usually not very fruitful.

Now if I could just figure out what makes the difference between a happy writing day and a forced one. For the past week I’ve been experimenting with quitting while I’m ahead. I committed to a manageable goal, 1,000 words written or edited a day, and once I have met that goal, have let myself quit for the day. My inner critic protested of course. “But you only wrote 1,000 words! What about editing? What about research? What about finishing by September 1? The book will never get done at this pace.” I told her to shut up and wait for the results.

After a week I’ve found that if I stop when I still have creative energy left, I am happier for the rest of the day, and anxious to return to work the next morning. I’m left wanting more.

So now I’m thinking that maybe I need to monitor my creative energy the way I do my physical energy. Over the past year I’ve learned how to eat to keep my blood sugar levels steady. I notice when it’s getting too low, and generally prevent that from happening. If I can learn to notice my creative energy levels, recharge preventatively, and quit before I’m dangerously depleted, I hope to have a steady supply available for the book and other ventures.

I guess I’ve done a good job this week, because I’m already planning a tryst with my book some time this weekend.

Shout out to my parents who celebrate their 38th wedding anniversary today! They are an inspiration in keeping the romance alive!

Creator v. Editor: The Smackdown

2008-05-30T18:55:00.001-04:00

Today my novelist friend said writing a book was like raising a child, because just when you learn how to handle a 10 month old, you have to learn how to handle an 11 month old, and just when you figure out one aspect of novel writing, a new challenge appears.

This has certainly been true for me. In writing my first draft, I edited what I had written the day before, then wrote at least 1,000 new words. But since finishing the draft, I’ve struggled to create reasonable daily goals for editing, and without them find it hard to feel satisfied, know when to quit for the day or to measure my progress. Also vexing is learning how to both create new work and edit existing work, tasks that use different parts of your brain and require different kinds of focus and energy.

In thinking about creating and editing, I have discovered a few things. My creator likes to work in the morning, as close as possible to waking, while in her pjs, before I talk to anyone or think about my “real” life. The creator likes to believe that nothing matters but the world she is creating, and this is easiest before the world interrupts. Having realized this, I’ve been writing new work first thing in the morning, consistently and easily meeting my daily goal.

Still I struggle with my editor. In fact, I had begun to hate and resist the editing process. But this week I remembered that I love to edit other people’s writing. I love getting a piece of work and tearing into it—rewording, excising and rearranging until it’s as strong as it can be. So if I love to edit, how can I learn to love editing my own work?

First, I’m going to pretend that the editor and creator are actually two different people. I’ll schedule separate sessions in which I will either create or edit, but not both. When editing, I will play with words, rearrange, and delete, but when I see a gap, I will merely note it for the creator, who will come back to work the next morning and fill the hole when she is ready. (She’s an artist, you know, you can’t rush her.)

I hope that with separate and reasonable daily goals for my creator and editor, and more of a separation of tasks, I will make more progress, feel better as I go, and love both the creator and the editor, each of whom I need to get the job done.

Kind People Rule

2008-05-23T15:14:00.007-04:00

This blog entry would have been called Mean People Suck if I had written it anytime in the previous two weeks, during which I encountered vicious and sneaky meanness masquerading as help. This nastiness created doubt—in myself and my work. Julia Cameron says that for an artist, entertaining the first doubt is like an alcoholic taking the first drink. If that’s true I went on a doubt bender.

Thankfully, today I finally feel free of this nasty web of negativity. But getting my optimism and good spirits back wasn’t easy. I had to acknowledge to myself that I was hurt. I had to be extra kind and gentle with myself. I had to (gasp!) ask for help, and then accept it. To reaffirm my faith in humanity, I’d like to share a few examples of the kindness that has helped me to heal.

1) My Artist Friends

They listened, sympathized and encouraged. Then they invited me to create a collage. Making any kind of visual art intimidates me, but with my friends there, all working quietly, I dove in, ripping out pictures, playing around with them, immersing myself in the moment. The result was a beautiful collage, full of life and color that literally brightened up my house, and by extension, my mood. God bless the artists!

2) Leslie, Owner of The Bead Garden

Encouraged by my collage experiment, I visited a bead store, to try to make something out of three small white shells I found on the beach. They already had perfect little holes, as if God had intended them to be worn. I’d never made a piece of jewelry, but the idea enchanted me.

The store itself was magical-a place where pretty shiny things get made. Beads of every size, shape, and color glimmered at me appetizingly. Sparkling glass beads from the Czech Republic covered an entire wall in garnet, tangerine, amber, dusty rose. Sea treasures gathered on another—smooth pebbles of coral, spiny shells. Turquoise, rose and purple marbles called to embrace my wrist, dangle from my ears.

Leslie looked at my shells, listened to my ideas, made suggestions. Together we picked out flower coral, chocolate-brown beads, and silver wire to complement the shells. I strung it, Leslie fixed on the clasps and voila—a necklace was born! I raced home to my writing, wearing my treasure and bursting with creative energy.

3) Kathy, Beautician and Friend

I stopped in to Eterna Bella to buy some moisturizer, and received a rousing pep talk (in Spanish!) about how yes it hurts when people are mean, but we have to learn from the experience and sigue adelante (keep moving forward.) Kathy knows my book is going to be a success, and gave me solid reasons to support her belief. I left with a huge boost of energy, morale, and gratitude.

With the help of these and many other kind people, I’m back on the wagon of optimism and faith, and I intend to stay there.

O Ye of Little Faith

2008-05-02T17:24:00.002-04:00

That’s me. A Doubting Thomas. I’ve always related to the story where Thomas didn’t believe Jesus had risen until he saw him, until he put his fingers in the wounds. I myself am slow to belief, quick to demand proof. That may be a good quality for a law career, but how about for a life?

While waiting to see my holistic healer last week (I know, I know, I belong in California), I read an excerpt from The Call, a book written by Oriah. The book began with a poem with the following lines:

“Remember- there is one word you are here to say with your whole being.
When it finds you, give your life to it. Don't be tight-lipped and stingy.

Spend yourself completely on the saying.
Be one word in this great love poem we are writing together.”

Intrigued, I skimmed through the chapter where she elaborates on this idea. What I gleaned is that each of us has one overarching lesson to learn in life. And that once we learn it, or as we learn it, we can teach it to others. The word is the thing that encapsulates this message, the thing we would entreat people in the world to do. Oriah’s word was “rest.”

She said one way to find your word was to look at where you have really struggled in life; to see if there was one lesson that we really struggled to learn, some mistake that we repeated over and over.

As I’ve thought about this over the past week, I decided my word is “trust.” My lack of faith is what gets me in trouble: my shaky faith in any kind of higher power, my lack of faith in humanity, in myself, my talent, my intuition. Faith does not come easily to me.

But here’s my new realization: just because it doesn’t come easily doesn’t mean I can’t have it. It just means I have to work harder at it than other people. So that’s the good news. It’s still possible. And maybe (dare I even wish this?) maybe once I finally learn the lesson, my faith will be even stronger for having been tested so severely. A girl can dream, huh?

So over the past few days, as I’ve been panicking about throwing a party for 60 people in my small home, and getting ready for my first writer’s conference, when I find myself anxiety and doubt-ridden, heart racing, breath shallow, overwrought, I’ve begun gently saying to myself, “Trust.” Just the word. And miraculously, it works. I get a small reprieve from my fear. Even if it comes back 30 seconds later, for a short time, I enjoy the belief that I am good, safe, and loved. That I am enough. What a gift.

Trust.

Make Art! Make Art! Make Art!

2008-04-16T16:35:00.002-04:00

So said Glen Hansard, the winner of Best Song for the movie Once, in his acceptance speech at the Oscars this year. I loved the film, loved the music, loved the story of how it was made for $160,000, found by a vacationing Sundance employee, and catapulted to huge success. Great inspiration for all us struggling-artist types.

Closer to home and even more inspiring for me is First Person, a film directed by my friend Ben Herold, which premiered at the Philadelphia Film Festival last Sunday. I will disclose here my awe of Ben’s vision, courage, and cojones. But putting that aside, his film is a powerful, beautiful, stop-your-heart, challenging work of art (that incidentally won Ben the Philly Film Festival’s award for best new director.)

Just as amazing as the film is the story behind it. Ben was involved with a program that helped Philadelphia public school students make it to college and had an idea to follow a group of the students through their junior and senior years of high school, documenting their educational progress. I don’t know much about what is involved in making a film, but I know it takes a lot of money, time, people and expertise, none of which Ben had when he came up with this idea. But he began it, feeling his way and figuring it out as he went. And with lots of help, perseverance and good old-fashioned chutzpah, he created an incredible piece of art.

First Person is not just about the six kids featured, or Philadelphia, but the challenges that face our children, our education system, our neighborhoods, cities and societies. The film raised many questions for me. Like what is the difference between these kids and myself? I grew up within miles of these children, and my life couldn’t seem more different. Why is that? And what can we do to make sure that we don’t lose the potential, the talent, the gifts that our children have to offer? When bright, ambitious kids end up failing out of school, working at McDonald’s, or God forbid, in jail, we all lose. What can we do to change this? How do we support our teenagers to keep them from falling through the cracks, from giving in to the temptations that surround them to devastating effect?

Big questions, I know. One could feel overwhelmed by such questions. And I think the answers are different for everyone. Some of us can give money (right through the First Person website - check it out!) Some of us can give time, talent, love. Some of us can and should make art.

Art? you ask? Yes. Because as shown by both Once and First Person, art challenges, provokes, makes us feel and think, shows us new perspectives, introduces us to people, ideas and circumstances we might not otherwise see.

Thank you, Ben for making your art and sharing it with the rest of us. None of us knows the good that we do, the ripple effects our actions have. None of the creators or fans of First Person know how it already has or will continue to affect people. But I believe it has already greatly impacted many lives. And that is a beautiful and inspiring thing to witness.

Feathering My Nest

2008-04-04T17:13:00.003-04:00

Nesting is not an instinct of mine. A friend of mine bought a house a few months ago, and already it looks beautifully homey—pictures on walls, bright pillow arrangements, knick-knacks artfully displayed.

In comparison, I moved into my house three years ago, and my walls remain mostly barren, the home lacking much indication of who we are. Now, in my defense, having bought our home from my Great-Aunt Minnie, who God bless her, hadn’t done much to it since the 1970s, it took three years to transform the kitchen from a superfund site (see photo!), repair plumbing, replace ceilings, remove wallpaper, paint the entire interior and put down new carpet. So when in February we finally completed our initial work plan by having the floors refinished, maybe I just needed a break.

But recently, my lack of a comfortable work space began to bother me. And perhaps my vacation, where we stayed in other people’s homes for 12 nights straight, elevated my need to have a little corner of the world all to myself. So this week, I finally finished fixing the wall in my office. Then I set out to create an artist’s altar for myself, one of my assignments from The Artist’s Way. The idea is to have a place that belongs solely to me, a place filled with things that inspire me and lift my spirits.

So after a week of work, I now sit at my brand new desk, looking out my front windows at the dogwood tree that is just beginning to think about blooming. To my left are two curvy glass vases that fit into each other like puzzle pieces, one a deep pink and one carnation. To my right is a magenta candle, lit, in a black ceramic dish. On the windowsill are two fuchsia frames—one for a photograph of hot pink tulips and one for a card I received when I left my job that says “Sometimes you just have to close your eyes and go where your heart takes you.” In either corner sits a new lamp, one short with a long, narrow pink shade, the other a floor lamp with a multi-colored shade covered in circles, stars and flowers.

And sitting here, well, it feels like home. My very own writer’s home.

What I have learned is that we get back what we give out. So having put energy into my work space, through physical work, thought, time, and money, my work space is now giving energy back to me, through inspiration, comfort, motivation and joy. Pretty good trade.

3 Cities and a Funeral

2008-03-27T17:24:00.003-04:00

We’ve been gone for 11 days, flying first to Oakland, California, then Portland, Oregon, then back to Philly, then hopping in the car to drive to Syracuse. I’m thrilled to be a)back in our quiet house in Narberth, b)writing again, c)not having to drive or fly anywhere for the foreseeable future. Before moving forward, allow me to recap our trip.

Part 1 – Sophia

I love the Bay Area, and have logged a lot of time there over the years. Every time we visit I fantasize about moving there. About waking up every morning to the sun shining on the Bay, surrounded by calla lilies and birds of paradise. California has always been magical to me, first in my imagination, and then in reality. It was where I met my husband, and is closer to my ideal in temperament, temperature, and philosophy than the East Coast has ever been. Is it my spiritual home? The fact I would even think or write that sentence may answer that question.

But the highlight of this trip was my niece Sophia. She is 11 months old, and we have that instant chemistry that is so rare in human relationships. For whatever reason, we instantly understood each other. Love at first sight. Her little face made me smile every time I saw it. Above is a picture so you can understand what I mean. I didn’t know someone could be goofy at 11 months, but she is. What a ham. She’ll do anything for a laugh. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why we understand each other...

Part 2 – Suzy and Barry

Suzy and Barry are my dear friends from college. Suzy was my roommate, and Barry was her boyfriend, (now husband). Suzy and I also had that rare, love at first sight experience. We used to speculate if we hadn’t randomly been assigned as roommates freshmen year if we would have found each other and been friends. The answer, of course, is yes.

Suz and Bar saw me through one of the roughest times of my life. I hope everyone is so lucky to have friends who can just be there, at your ugliest, neediest, saddest, most pathetic moments, without pity or forced cheer. What an amazing gift. Thankfully, that period of darkness is long behind me, but these amazing friends are still in my life.

In a weird cosmic twist, at the same time I was leaving my law career and embarking on this writing journey, Suz and Bar were making some drastic changes of their own, leaving New York after thirteen years, changing careers, and moving to Portland, Oregon. It was great to see them in their new environment, to see the changes and to know that whatever changes life has in store, we can always reconnect, using humor as our home base. And food, of course. Who knew they had such amazing barbeque in Portland, Oregon? Suzy and Barry deny that played a role in choosing Portland, but come on, guys, I know better.

Part 3 – Gramps

My husband’s grandfather died while we were on vacation. What to say about Gramps? He was father to 12 children, grandfather to 41, great-grandfather to 26. Yes, those numbers are correct. I am honored to be one of the spouses who married into his tribe. He attended daily mass at his beloved parish church, Most Holy Rosary, and I’m told he especially loved the stained-glass windows. During the funeral mass, the sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the window with words from the Hail Mary, and I knew that Gramps was still with us.

My favorite thing about Gramps was his wit. He left behind hundreds of jokes, one-liners and stories. My favorite recent example was from just last week, lying on his deathbed, apparently unconscious. He woke up, looked at his daughter and asked if any mail had come. She asked if he was waiting for something. He said, “Yeah, I want my check from George Bush.”

God bless you, Gramps. Thank God you passed your humor on to your children and grandchildren, and apparently, the lovely Sophia. His legacy of laughter, love, and family will live on and on.

A Return to Love

2008-03-12T15:18:00.002-04:00

I just re-read a collection of love poems I wrote about my husband during the first flush of our relationship. Poems are the easiest way for me to capture intense emotion—having to be linear and logical inhibits the deepest things I feel. The poems capture the fear and uncertainty of new love, but also the awe, the wonder, the radiance.

I read A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson a few months ago. One of my favorite concepts of the book was the idea that the early phase of love—the honeymoon phase, when all you see is your lover’s perfection, is not an illusion. Rather, that image of your loved one is actually the truth. That is who they really are, in all of their God-given perfection and wonder. The fear, the doubt, the ennui, the annoyance, that creeps into every relationship over time is the illusion, the world getting in the way of divine love and goodness.

Do I buy that? I don’t know, but I like it. I’d like to think that my husband is truly the man who inspired crushing love and devotion in me all those years ago. And that the person who leaves his coat on the couch, his piles of schoolwork all over the house like a dog marking his territory—that person is the illusion. My focus on the idiosyncrasies that make him sometimes hard to live with, or my perception that he fails to meet my expectations, that is the world obstructing my ability to see him as God does, perfect just the way he is.

I still have glimpses of that first, perfect person. Fairly frequently. Sure, it’s easiest when he’s sleeping (because then he can’t mess it up by doing or saying anything.) But also, sometimes I am overwhelmed by affection, just seeing him reading in bed at night. Or slumped on the couch watching tv. Or running in circles around the kitchen island with his nephews. He is still my shooting star.

Below is one of the poems for your consideration.

Santa Barbara Mountain

Crossing the retreat grounds
the nighttime air caressed me—
cool, fresh, clean.
My eyes turned amazed
toward the heavens,
to the moon as bright as the sun,
and stars twinkling against a velvet blanket
that wrapped me in beauty
as I lay on the grass to moonbathe.

I imagined us meeting there—
the breeze scattering my hair
against my face,
the crickets our only witnesses.
You look into my eyes
and silently offer me your heart.
It is that simple.

The spark of a shooting star
tore me from my reverie
just as your form emerged
from the shadows.
Did you see my vision?
I waited in tense anticipation,
a lifetime
before you flashed
through my vision again,
another star trailing
across the sky above you.

You both disappeared,
leaving me
awe-struck.

Support-Key Component of Bras and Life

2008-03-05T14:59:00.002-05:00

I have been overwhelmed since my blog’s debut with postings, messages, and words of support, which got me to thinking about the myriad words of encouragement I’ve received since I decided to leave The Firm to pursue writing. Something about this change I’ve made inspires the best in people, and they freely share it with me. Maybe it’s like how I feel about my friend Ben, who followed his heart and made a documentary film—I want him to succeed, because his success helps me to believe that I can too. (And because he’s awesome—check out the website for his film, First Person, which will debut at the Philly Film Fest on April 6! http://firstpersondocumentary.org/) Or maybe like the Oscars. My Diablo rant notwithstanding, seeing so many dreams come true is inspiring. If for them, why not for me?

Whatever it is, the support is a huge booster for me, readers! Sending out an email about my blog was difficult for me, felt like that icky self-promoting I loathe. But then I thought that maybe instead of self-promoting, it was sharing my work. And that maybe, at least some of you would actually want to read my work. That in fact, many people have asked me how the writing was going, and actually wanted to know.

So I swallowed my fear and my pride, sent out an announcement about the blog, and lo and behold, was inundated with encouragement. Hooray! Thank you to everyone who posted comments, sent emails, or otherwise reacted. I know, intellectually, that I have many friends and supporters, but your words about the blog made me FEEL the love and support. For that, I am very grateful. So often I choose to suffer in silence, when if I just asked for help it would appear. Why do we do that?

My adventure of the past few days, regrettably, was struggling with some nasty flu/cold/virus type thing. I used to think that getting sick was my body’s way of slowing me down. But body, I must ask you, how much slower can I get? For months now I’ve been sleeping 8 hours a night, eating well, exercising pretty much daily and doing work that I love. Still, I fell to the Super Bug. A-ha! But another thought occurs. Being sick requires that I ask for help! Ok, Universe, I get it. I should ask for help when I need it, share my work when I need feedback, ask for encouragement when down. Lesson learned. Ya. So can you clear up this ickiness now, so I can get back to work?

Stay well, readers!

I Hate Diablo Cody

2008-02-28T15:00:00.001-05:00

For the two of you who haven’t heard of her, Diablo Cody wrote the movie Juno, and just won the Oscar for best original screenplay. And I don’t really hate her, but I am seething with jealousy. Not because of the million dollar shoes she supposedly wore to the Oscars (which apparently was just a publicity stunt by the shoemaker), but because she has the success I want. I know that’s petty and awful. But Julia Cameron says jealousy can help us figure out where we want to go by pinpointing what we envy, and planning a step we can take toward having that for ourselves.

So what do I envy about Diablo? Her success, her deal to work with Steven Spielberg, and her Oscar, certainly, but most of all, her ability to say her work is good enough, to let it go, and to promote herself. Juno may not have been perfect, was not the best screenplay ever written, but she finished it, and got it made into a movie, a movie that I must admit (begrudgingly) was really good, funny, and yes, well-written.

In other words, I am jealous that Diablo overcame her perfectionism. How can I do that? One step is this blog. If I can finish one little blog entry each week, let it go, and share it with others, then maybe someday I’ll be able to do the same with poems, articles, and the novel.

Paul Gardner said, “A painting is never finished. It simply stops in interesting places.” Julia Cameron, my fairy godmother, writes in The Artist’s Way, “Perfectionism is a refusal to let yourself move ahead.” And then, “Perfectionism is not a quest for the best. It is a pursuit of the worst in ourselves, the part that tells us that nothing we do will ever be good enough—that we should try again.” I just laughed out loud at myself as I struggled for five minutes over how to use ellipses in the above quote. Ah, perfectionism, my constant companion.

Just yesterday I thought about re-reading my novel from the beginning again, rather than continuing to move forward in writing and editing. Thank God I read Julia’s words about perfectionism, which convinced me to keep moving forward in faith. Because right now, I need to get through the second draft. I hope and believe that once I do, the beginning will sort itself out.

So thanks, Diablo. I might not be a stripper, an Oscar winner, or even a paid artist (yet), but I’m doing the best I can, learning and growing and getting better every day. Is a screenplay my next project? Maybe. Who wouldn’t want to wear million dollar shoes?

Anything for Material

2008-02-12T22:30:00.004-05:00

Seven months ago I left a prestigious, high-paying attorney job to write my first novel. This blog will document my journey in creating both a novel and a writer’s life. So far I've completed a draft of my book, and a handful of essays and poems. Along the way I’ve collected adventures, lessons, friends and teachers.

One great discovery: writing is an excuse to do things I otherwise wouldn’t do. Like take a surf class, work at a florist for a day, study Italian, make collages, take swimming lessons from an Albanian champion swimmer, swing on the swings by myself in the middle of the day, and befriend all kinds of unlikely characters, from the Colombian beauticians who wax my eyebrows, to Tony, the Sicilian chef who promised to teach me how to make pasta. In the service of getting material, it seems I’ll do just about anything. (Hence the title.)

And while I’m using material as an excuse to try new things, I’m learning all kind of lessons. Like how to be more open to the flow of life, when to push through barriers and when to stop, and the importance of accepting gifts, especially when they are unexpected. I have become more gentle with myself and am discovering what this self wants, what she loves, what she hates. I’m learning that the perfect really is the enemy of the good and finding the joy in doing, creating, participating in the process.

I look forward to the surprises, efforts, and failures that are sure to follow. Because if we're not making mistakes, we're not doing a good enough job of living. You hear that, Oprah? That's what I know for sure.