The Art of Being Human

Anyone who has read my book knows I have seen my fair share of heartache and heartbreak. I have been asked more than once how I managed to get through it. So many people have asked me how to get through the really hard stuff. The truth is I am not really sure how to answer that in any real way. Every situation is something I faced differently every time. Even as I write this I am struggling to deal with something big in my life. It is a failure of sorts. Sometimes failure isn't clear cut and obvious. Sometimes it sneaks up on you and hits you later and even then it is not black and white.

I took time off of work to write and promote my book. I just re-read it. I believe it is worth the time it took to write it and it took years. I am not one who believes I am gifted or has the kind of confidence that it usually takes to do this kind of work. I am self deprecating, not because I think it is charming, but rather because I am never satisfied with my work. As much as I like the book as it is I think I could have done better and want the opportunity to do exactly that.

There is a catch. I need to earn money in order to write. Starving artists are only cool when they have the benefit of being young, single and bohemian chic. I am middle aged with four kids, a husband and several animals to take care of. I am lucky to have them and try everyday to remember that I cannot let them down. That is where my problem begins and in some way ends.

My taking time out to write has cost all of us. I have worked for many, many years and we are like everybody else and depend on it to live. I have never had a big career or a job that paid well, even when I worked as a nurse. The truth is I worked two nursing jobs and never broke 30k. That being said, it explains why I worked 2 and 3 jobs most of my adult life. My failure is not being able to support my family the way I would like to. The decisions I have made as far as my work was always dependent on my kids, husband and the place in life I was residing in at the time. I did what I could with what I had. It is neither an excuse or a rationalization, just a fact.
I never finished college and have regretted it most of my life. Maybe if I had a degree...even though I know lots of people, friends and family that have degrees and aren't doing much better than I am. Maybe that has been my excuse. I am not feeling sorry for myself because it is a wast of time and time is of the essence for me. I am just trying to be honest. The kind of bone honest where I sit down and take a hard look at my life to make sure I am on the right track for my family. I say that knowing they come first, not because I am a martyr, but because my loving them is what sustains me, like oxygen. My love and devotion for them and in turn theirs for me, is what allows my heart to continue to grow, expand and open.
I don't regret taking the time to write the book. If I never get to write again, which is highly unlikely, I will always have my book as my legacy for my children, grandchildren and one day great grandchildren. Michael has allowed for that and worked many hours of overtime, so that I could have it. There is no way to repay that kind of absolute love and sacrifice except to work everyday at being a better person and trying harder.
I called this the art of being human because a long time ago I didn't cry for several years. It was considered a form of weakness and wasn't tolerated. I am not talking about my childhood and my parents, but a time later when I was an adult. I held everything in for someone else's comfort level. I was slowly, but surely losing my humanity. I was slipping away from being the kind of person who feels things deeply and responds in kind. I had to learn how to cry again. Once I did the flood gates opened and I cried for months, at the drop of a hat and had a hard time not crying. It took a while for me to lose my steely resolve and icy demeanor. I had to practice being soft, open and vulnerable. The time it took for me to re-learn what should come naturally, allowed me to learn how to take a hard look at myself every once in while and see if I still agreed with what I saw. Learning how to cry and mourn, has given me the opportunity to let go of things that no longer work for me.
Not having an income is not working for my family. The bottom line is, a girl has got to eat. I know there are some folks who think talking money is vulgar. I personally don't. That is not to say that one should go around talking about their money problems to every person they meet. I mean, I think it is alright to be honest about changing your direction in order to support your family and saying so.
What does all this mean for my future? I have not one single clue. My humanity allows my hopeful heart to believe the answer will come at the exact time it is supposed to. I may very well end up a person working in the grocery store who wrote a book once. If so, then I want to take the time now and find a way to be happy with whatever road I end up on. It is another practiced art form, this idea of letting go of our own expectation of what success really means. While I mourn my inability to bring money to the table, my family continues to celebrate the unusual talents that I do have. I have not been able to give them stuff, but I have been able to give them large chunks of me, loving them. For them it seems enough, more than enough, actually. I am still learning how to define my own version of success for myself. On the days I am full of regret, I listen to my family tell wonderful stories of how we have always managed and what a good life they have had, then I just let the tears of joy freely fall from my eyes, as I remember that they will alway be my greatest prize.

Honoring Robert Fickle

Robert Fickle of Columbus, Ohio passed away this week. he was a retired teacher, loving husband and devoted father...and my uncle.

My Uncle Bob was the kind of uncle who teased and talked and taught every time he laid eyes on you. He'd steal your pumpkin pie one minute and then have a serious conversation with you the next. His love of his own family was so powerful, it couldn't help, but spill over onto everyone around them. My Uncle Bob was the one who held my hand when my grandmother, his sister passed away. My children and I were staying at his house. The quilts were warm, the floors creaked in familiar song and Aunt Mary always had a pot of coffee and a piece of pie waiting for us after our hospital visits with my grandma. It was home. That's who my Uncle Bob and Aunt Mary have been to all of our family, they have been our home.

To thousands of high school kids, he was Mr. Fickle, the shop teacher. He was the guy who made them tow the line, supported their efforts and always encouraged them to reach higher. He took his teaching skills home with him. His life as a child was not an easy one, yet he continued to find hope, love and faith everyday he drew breath. He taught that lesson to every single person he came in contact with. If you didn't get that lesson right away, he would patiently continue teaching until it finally sunk in.

My Uncle Bob was the one who made me laugh for the first time about every bad thing that ever happened to me. After my full medical arrest, my memory was weak and I had trouble remembering people, places or things. The first time Uncle Bob saw me I began telling him how bad it all was for me. "Don't worry, Kid, you will remember the good and the bad? Who needs it? Memories are overrated. You remember me, right? Well what else could you need?" And then he laughed his unique laugh that infectiously grabbed me and had me in stitches before I knew it. During my divorce, he looked me square in the eye and said,"Love doesn't hurt. Do you understand?" "Yes, I understand." I said back to him. His eyes told me more than his words and I knew exactly the point he was trying to make. He was living proof of what a great marriage consisted of. He and my Aunt Mary were married for 50 years and they were happy. They remained grateful for each other and their children every single day. They were each other's best friend. They tag-teamed in and around their lives to serve others. The celebrated each other and their family as often as they could. They never missed an opportunity to say how much they loved each other or all the members in their very large extended family, including me.

Uncle Bob leaned into me and whispered,"Find someone who will be your best friend first. That love never goes away." With that profound message I noticed he had stolen all of my cookies and had quickly gobbled up them up before I could protest. "Thanks," I said as I looked down at my empty plate. "No problem, I am here to help," Uncle Bob began brushing crumbs from his upper lip.

That was my Uncle Bob in a nut shell. His kindness and compassion were completely matched with his humor. I never got one without the other. His love was all encompassing and inclusive. He and Aunt Mary invited everyone over all the time. There was never a time when it wasn't convenient for them. Walking into their house was like residing in a hug.

Plans are being made to bury my uncle. I live in Texas and will not be able to go. My mother, who was extremely close to him is mourning the loss also. I will not be able to comfort her now, either. It is heartbreaking for me that I will not get to say my last goodbye to the uncle, who taught me so many great lessons that helped create the beautiful life I now live. I will do the only thing I can and live the biggest lesson he taught; I will take care of my family here in Texas. I am honoring my Uncle Bob every time I love my family and take of them. I honor him and his life's work by being there for those who need me, and continuing to teach the big life lessons. I will pray for my Aunt Mary and his children and grandchildren. They are so much a part of him, so much like him. My only hope is that someone in their tight band remembers to steal someone else's pie.

You an Be Anything You Want to Be...Or Can You?

Yesterday I received a package in the mail. It was my book back from Barnes and Noble with a rejection letter. I have gotten lots of rejection letters, enough to wall paper a room, but this time it was personal for me. They hadn't even read or looked at the book. They didn't reject the idea of putting the book on their shelves because I am a bad writer, or they had a bad day, or even because they hate the color blue. The rejected it, quite out of hand , simply because it is a POD that is produced by Booksurge, an Amazon company. POD means simply, published on demand. I rather liked that idea, if for no other reason than it saves trees. By not publishing thousands at a time they reduce waste and cost.
After I got the letter and paced around the house mumbling expletives under my breath, I thought about what I tell my kids. I have said to them all of their lives "You can be anything you want to be." Now, I wonder. Barnes and Noble and Borders isn't just rejecting me, they are now rejecting carrying any POD books. Some say it's because of the economy, others say it's pressure from publishing companies and still others have some unique ideas about why the big chains won't carry us POD authors.
I was just in Barnes and Noble last week. My eldest needed a book on French and we went to scope out my competition. Lining the shelves in my genre were some of the most atrocious people published by mainstream publishing companies. One in particular caught my eye. She is a "Real Housewife" and ex-stripper. Another was caught in a sex tape scandal, and still another has been seen, quite literally, without her panties on coming out in public several times.
"That's my problem," I said to my daughter while looking at the "authors" in front of me, "I still wear underwear. I don't have a cocaine habit, and I treat my kids and animals like they matter." "Don't be bitter", she said as she mocked another title. Again and again I saw "celebrities" who could barely speak the English language splashed on the covers of books as if they were the next Pulitzer winner. Don't misunderstand my knowledge of my own limited talent. I am hardly Einstein or Hemingway, but I could really use some encouragement about now. One book was all about how a guy drank and slept his way around different places. A travel guide for delinquents?
My eldest is an artist and a good one. She is an art history major. Her mind retains the most obtuse facts that I, as a mere mortal cannot even begin to imagine. She is brilliant. I know I am her mother, but trust me when I say she is stunning. She has corrected the History Channel more than once. She has been like that since she was a child. She frequently, as of late, questions her major and her future financial viability. I used to think she had nothing to worry about. Now, I wonder myself, what the hell is going on?
I was raised to believe hard work and tenacity would be my greatest assets. More and more convicted felons are on my TV or covering books in some form or fashion. Torture and kill animals? No problem, here's 2 million dollars for your trouble. Now get out there and have a great game! Hang naked off a pole? Excellent, if you sign here we will give you your own show and a book deal, but please for sanitary reasons, use your own pen. Can't find any clean underwear? No problem, if you promise to open wide and say "ahhh" on your way out of your limo we will put you on every cover of every magazine and give you a cut of the proceeds. It really is a win/win.
I can't get an agent because I have never been published before, so no one can recommend me. I can't get published by a traditional publishing house because I don't have an agent. I can self publish, but then I won't be allowed in the national stores which would give the book any kind of exposure. I could however, sleep with a drugged up celebrity ( not hard to find) take a video of it and put it on the web and Tadah! Magically, I will be swimming in offers. Jon, from Jon and Kate Plus Eight's only talent is having sextuplets and twins and being an idiot and he has his own show. If he gets busted for drugs or hookers, he could end up with a book deal and appearances on all the morning talk shows, even more than he has now for just being an idiot..
Am I bitter? Hell yeah, I am. I am an actual writer who writes everyday. I work my butt off trying to get into small book stores, who by the way, have been awsome to me. Plus, I still have a family to take care of. I actually had to take care of my kids all the time without a nanny. Can you believe it? As a single mother, I worked 2 jobs, went back to school and still wrote, with NO NANNY! Or money, but that is for another day. I tell my kids to dream big because they can do anything, while I watch the world promote, publicize and reward the ignorant, lawbreaking and just plain dirty girls and boys. In the words of my daughter, "Gross!"
So, after all that ranting, do I still believe in the American dream? Today is not a good day for me to answer that. I kind of do, but begrudgingly. I know that the average American person is still decent and kind and generous. They are actually the ones who ride above the curve, unlike those we see too much of. So for them and my kids, yes, I still believe. I am disheartened by all the crap that seems to be going on. I have to confess that I am usually the last man standing in times of trouble. I am normally the one cheer leading everybody else on. My kids view me as a total Pollyanna when it comes to dealing with bad crap. For me to even question if the world is going to hell in a hand basket is big. If not for hope, what then?
This is what I am certain of, I know that I believe my readers when they relate to the book and tell me their own stories. I believe that the bulk of us need hope, faith and a little reassurance, so that is what I will continue to try and provide in anything I write. Nice really does matter, even when TV's , radios and bookstore chains refuse to acknowledge it. Am I still bitter? Sure, for today I am. I will go back to getting the kitchen cabinets painted, run the vacuum and make another list of a million things I need to squeeze in for tomorrow. I will remain grateful for the little book stores who have graciously had me in the stores and signing books. I will remember to be gracious back, so they will know for certain how important they are to all of us.

Coming of Age

Mike and I are coming of age right when our children are coming into their own. Just as getting grey hair and still having acne, it all seems very unfair. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful everyday I wake up and my feet still hit the floor no matter what age I am. Still, it's difficult to grow up or grow older when you are surrounded by youngsters that are in turmoil themselves.

The shift that is occurring should be more natural, in my estimation. Hitting the time in your life when you can start making plans for the back 30 of your life should be more seamless. After years of being the maintenance department for kids, animals and home, this should be the time in our lives when we get to kick back a little and take a look around and see what exactly it is we want for our future together. But alas, it is not to be. The kids, house and animals are still the main focus of our attention. Mostly, though, it's the kids. They are at the point where they are trying to figure things out. What to be, where to go and how to get there. For Mike and me, we sit and and listen and occasionally try to guide. Inevitably, they need to find their own way and often look at us as though we have three heads.

We, both, worry about decisions we see as potentially harmful. As grateful as we are that we don't face drug problems, or alcohol abuse and no one that we know of is out having unprotected sex or sex of any kind that we know of, we still have our own worries for our kids. Right now, we worry more because they seem worried more. We are watching our kids deal with big adult decisions at a time when they feel the most vulnerable. They instinctively know that they rule their worlds and whatever they dish up will end up on their plates. It's tough watching your kids wrestle with the decisions of life. As a parent you know the dangers that are out there, big and small. Even if you are lucky enough to avoid the big problems of young adulthood, you still see all the small things that can add up pretty fast. I think of it like using plastic to pay for things. When you are young, you think you are doing the correct math and have enough money to pay for things. You forget about interest rates, fees and sales tax. Before you know it all your little purchases have added up to an inordinately large amount of debt with little to show for it. That is how it gets you, all the small, seemingly insignificant things that can weigh a person down.

Mike and I are having our own coming of age party. We aren't as fluid as we used to be. We are getting to the point where we don't want to have to fix stuff all the time. our bedtime is earlier and yet we sleep less now, than we ever have. Irony seems to rule our world. We are looking forward, but it's with one eyeball pointed behind to keep watch for the kids and house and animals. This is also getting more difficult with fading eyesight.

We are changing so much. The kids are getting more independent everyday. The house is getting ready for it's close up, so it can be sold. Mike, me and the pets are getting ready for a quieter, more peaceful existence. I was wistfully sighing the other day as Mike and I were grocery listing all the things that needed done. "I wish things didn't have to come at us all at once." "I know, Kel, but this is going to be O.K. Once we get the house done..." Michael's voice faded. And then we both started laughing hysterically. Yes, things were going to be alright, but the truth is, just as we finish one project another rears it's ugly head. We are a big family by today's standards. We have people coming and going at every hour of the day. One car gets fixed and another breaks. One child gets answers and another has a crisis. One adult feels great and another suddenly pulls a hamstring while sleeping. It's all just preposterous.

Is it completely unfair that just when my kids become teenagers menopause hits? Yes, it is. Is it absolutely ridiculous that just as Michael and I start getting ready to downsize they all talk of coming home? Absolutely! Is it cruel that although I was able to carry tiny purses the entire time my kids were little, which was no easy fete, that now due to home improvement projects I now have to strap on a purse so large it's akin to a backpack? Without a doubt.

One morning I put a phone call out to my mom for reassurance that all would work out just as I had hoped. "It all just feels like too much. It's unfair." I whined at my mother with hands open for her large dose of wisdom and unconditional love. Mom immediately breaks into a fit of the giggles. "No one told you life was fair." Mom says while continuing to laugh. "Thanks for nothing."I say, moping. "If you want sympathy, just ask, but know this is all part of life. You'll survive. You always do. I love you, by the way." "How did you manage all those years when everything was jumbled up?" I ask with a new found respect. "What choice did I have? You do what you have to do and get on with it." Mom says, as a matter of fact. "I guess so, but how hard was it on you? Did you resent having to deal with everything at once?" I ask. "Look, Kel, things continue to change all your life. Enjoy where you are today, because tomorrow it will all be different anyway." Mom sighed,"It all goes so fast. Don't be such a hurry." "Thanks, Mom. I love you." I said holding the phone as if I were hugging my mom. "I love you, too. Now don't you have a ton of work to do? Get busy and call me later this week and let me know how things are going." With that I hung up the phone and knew my mom was feeling the distance between Ohio and Texas as much as I was. I felt better about where I was and how I was going to get through it all. I thought about my mom all day and how much I loved her. I worked my butt off on the house while our kids traipsed in and out all evening long with papers for me to sign, phone calls for me to make and appointments to be verified. Mike worked even harder putting in a 16 hour day at work, calling in once to check on how we all were.

We are in the grips of a full throttle metamorphosis. From a place of gratitude, I am going to call my mom and tell her how I am painting the kitchen cabinets and that the kids and Mike and me are just fine.

Baby Boy

My son turned twenty yesterday. He is considerably taller than I am. He has bigger hands than mine now. His voice is low and holds more of a dad tone than a son tone. He is a man in just about every way, especially the way he loves his mother.

I remember the day, and following weeks after, he was born like it was yesterday. It is the double edged sword of being mom. The memories are so crisp and clear that it's easy to forget oneself and think your child hasn't really grown up. But then birthdays come and go and they get taller and stronger and one day no longer look up to you like they once did.

Yesterday we celebrated the way he requested, with tacos and cake. I sacrifice my arteries for him once a year. He doesn't particularly like celebrating his birthday, but he does it for me since I am mad about celebrating my kids any way I can. He wished me happy birthday as well. That has sort of become his thing on his birthday, wishing me happy, too. He is kind to me throughout the day checking to see if I am alright. I see him as more man than child because of the way he treats me at 20. We are passed some really ugly teen years and I watch him begin to make sound decisions without my guidance. I remind him to do things only to hear it was done a week ago. He walks up to me bending down to hug me and kisses my cheek. "Mom, I know what I have to do. I promise I am being responsible."

I see it, but I know in my heart I will remind him anyway. I am his mom, and am prone to hanging on to my kids probably far too long.

The day my man-child came into my life was an adventure. I was with Christy who was only 19 months old at the time, watching their father play softball. It was a rare double header day, so I packed for the long haul. I had just gone to the hospital for blood tests for a planned c-section. My son had/has no sense of direction and was attempting to try and come out fanny first. I was supposed to have him the following Friday. During the break between games I noticed I had what I thought was indigestion. I noticed that my indigestion was coming about 10 minutes apart. "False labor", I thought and kissed Danny goodbye and took Christy home. Once home, I was pacing back and forth. Danny's sister had come over to watch Christy, so I could go back to the game and watch Danny play. I called my mom who told me to call the doctor. The contractions were gaining strength and coming 7 minutes apart. Of course, I was told to go to the hospital. Danny's sister packed Christy into the car and headed for the field where Danny was playing left field. We yelled out the window "Dan Foley, you are having a baby!" Danny rushed to the car and told his sister to take me and he would meet us there.

People were cheering as we drove off into the summer night to deliver our son. Christy, quite content in the backseat of her aunts car, gazed out the window. I turned back and smiled at her and she had the biggest grin on her face. Once at the hospital I kissed Christy goodbye and sent her home with her aunt. Dan met me in the foyer and got me a wheel chair. The rest was just prepping me for the c-section.

Little Danny came out perfect and whole and screaming. Once in his father's arms, he became quiet. He closed his eyes and slept as I got packaged up for the recovery room. Danny was always the first to hold the kids after they were born. I always had c-sections and was tied up being put back together.

Yes, I remember it all like it just happened. I remember the peace of the moment when I was propped up in the recovery room and I fed my child for the first time. I remember the way the weight of him felt in my arms and the smell of his newborn head. When I close my eyes it is as if I am still there in that exact moment.

Some nights I creep upstairs quietly and check on my children while they sleep. They all have long legs and brilliant minds and ever expanding hearts. I watch the innocence of them that remains. Morning comes soon enough and I here the herd of elephants upstairs. Great thumping of large feet and heavy steps shake the house. Showers run, stereos blast, TVs drone on, cell phones constantly buzz and computers beep. The sleeping giants are no more.

Throughout the day I watch them when they aren't looking. I see the babies they once were deep inside the faces of the adults they have become. Once in a while they catch me looking. "What's up?" they ask. "Nothing, I was just looking." I say with love. "Cut it out. It's freaking me out!"they retort.

In the quiet of the morning I remember my children with my eyes closed and my mind retelling me every detail of the moment they entered the world until the very moment I am in. My kids have no idea why I am reluctant to let them always be an adult around me. The do not have the vivid memory of their birth. But every mother knows what I am saying. Every mother has the ability to sit with her eyes closed and have exact recall of the moment when her heart loved somebody more than life, that she just met for the first time.

It's Tool Time

I have always had an affinity for tools. I love hand tools, power tools and home improvement. My dad used to take me with him to the hardware store, where I was promptly allowed to get a giant gumball from the machine inside. I believe this was my dad's attempt at shutting me up while he walked around looking for what he needed for whatever job he had to do at home. I loved going hardwaring with my dad. He didn't talk much, until it came for time to start a home improvement project. He groused about having to work on the house, but secretly I think he enjoyed the process and took a great deal of pride in his work.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I am more like my old man when it comes to houses. I love working on and improving my house. I can do dry wall, finish carpentry, minor plumbing and tile work. I have re-plastered, replaced and repaired my houses all my life.

I married a handy guy. I had to. I didn't actively require it, but I can't imagine having somebody in my life who couldn't fix stuff. Michael can work on anything motorized. He is definitely a car guy. His dad was a contractor, so he is a house guy, too. This a rare breed only found deep within the middle class in the Midwest. If your a coastal gal, you might be out of luck.

Mike and I are a team working in tandem on our houses. I will say, we only have disagreements during this process in our otherwise very peaceful home. Once we get the plan together, though, things go along smoothly. When they don't, we are at least able to laugh about it.

We have a plan. We are acquiring the proper tools for the jobs ahead and we will be working mostly alone, tagging each other out for bathroom breaks and meals.

I know why so many folks don't like the home improvement stuff. It's dirty, uncomfortable,expensive and time consuming. I personally, like doing things ourselves. I like the satisfaction I feel when I have a job done to my specifications. I love the design process. I could stand in Lowe's or Home Depot for weeks and never get bored. The work is hard and we usually fall into bed exhausted after a full day of toiling over the latest project. The pay is crap, but the rewards are priceless.

Mike and I spent the other day in a stone place looking at granite, travertine and marble, oh my! We began the start of the next project. The trusty notebook came out and we began planning the how's and what's of where we go from here. We look at each other hungry to get started on the newest, latest job. We know when it is done how we will feel long before we ever start. We understand each other's need to do things ourselves. We feel completely in sync for that moment, right before we start to argue about who picked out the better tile.

"The Times They Are A Changin'"

I have been listening to Bob Dylan, who I must admit has never been one of my all time favorites. I have always liked his lyrics, but I was never crazy about his voice, until now.
Things in my life are shifting, changing shape and I am required to try and at least keep up. I have had a lot of things change suddenly on me, so this is not a new feeling, but it's not a comforting one either. Change is hard. I realize this is neither prophetic or profound. We all know that change of any kind is tough to deal with. I am not an exception to any big life rule, especially this one. The one thing I have going for me is the ability to hang on. I am an expert on seeing things in the distance travelling towards me and getting a firm grip on myself, knowing that I need to hold on tight. It is the gift that keeps on giving. I am in the throws of that kind of life change.
I am the first one to admit that I am not my house, my job, my income or my social status. Having never had much of a status or income helps drive that point home for me. My house, well that is another story.
Back in 1994 I walked out of the house I owned with Danny in order for us to straighten out the mess that had become our marriage. I moved into an apartment, squeezing the 4 kids and I into a cramped, but peaceful space. I didn't know it at the time, but I would never move back to the house I helped Danny build for our family.
I bought my own house after our divorce, but a mere mile away from Danny's house. He stayed in the house he and I shared and we shared custody of our kids. His parents lived maybe a 1/2 mile away and the situation worked really well until the day he died.
Eight years ago I put the house I bought for myself and my kids up for sale in order to buy a house that Michael and I could start our lives together in. I was hesitant to do it, but knew in the end it was all for the best. My house was old and needed work and Michael wanted to spend time with me and the kids, not do house repair with his extra time. Fair enough, I thought, so I moved to a newer house with the love of my life to begin our lives as husband and wife. We had our wedding reception at our new home. We carefully and lovingly made our house our home with the intention that we would be there for years to come. I pictured myself rocking my grandchildren on a rocker on the back porch.
2001 brought a terrorist attack that would change the airline industry forever. It was only months after Michael and I had gotten married. For a few years after that we watched his company try and come back from the terrible ordeal. Rumors were flying that things would be closing and people would either be laid off or have pay cuts. In 2004 we decided to start really looking hard at our options. It had never been in the plan to move to the corporate headquarters in Houston, but it became more and more apparent that it might be what was best for Michael and the career he has had for the last 25 years.
Michael and I worried about the kids. My children have had to move more than their fair share, although I will admit there are plenty of other kids who have had it much worse. Painfully, we told the kids about the new house we would be moving into. The upside was they for the first time would all be getting their very own rooms. The downside, of course, was that it was 1,200 miles away from everything and everybody they have ever known. We made the trek to Houston and settled in. We painted, replaced and fixed, so that our house would soon become our home. We have lived in our beloved home for five years and we love where we live. Michael, the kids and I have put our blood, sweat and tears into this home, just like we have every other house we have ever lived in.
The kids are growing up and out at this point in our lives. Michael and I sit in our big nearly empty house and listen to the silence that now surrounds us. Things have once again shifted in another direction. Mike and I feel torn about trying to keep a house that we clearly don't need anymore. Part of us wants to stay and enjoy the fruits of our labors. Part of us wants to move on to the home we will retire into, with less to clean and keep up.
After many heartfelt discussions we have opted to downsize. I never picture myself moving out the houses I own. Not once have I bought a house with the idea I wouldn't be staying and yet I find myself time and time again packing boxes and memories getting ready to move my heart and my family to another place.
Right now Michael and I have heavy hearts about leaving another house we worked so hard on to become our home. We love our neighbors, like we always have, and wonder what it will feel like to pass the house when someone else takes ownership of it. I don't imagine I'll drive down our street anytime too soon after we move.
The optimist in me is already on the hunt for the next big adventure in home ownership. I dig real estate and am scouting neighborhoods that will suit our new purpose. I am not at all looking forward to the physical move and saying goodbye to the house we moved across the country into. It is the house where we all grew up, the kids and Michael and me. But time has moved on and now we should at least try and keep up.
Bob Dylan's song "The Times They Are a Changin'" fits this time in my life perfectly. I thought I would share some of the lyrics so you could see why.
"Come gather round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you
Is worth savin'
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a changin'."

Just A Moment, Please

Today is Sunday and for the most part I try not to work on Sunday. I work weird hours 6 days a week and on the seventh I like to get caught up on sleep, cleaning, cooking and seeing where the day takes me. Today the day took me to the grocery store.
I got up early like I always do, well before the sunrise. I looked at the cupboards and although they weren't bare they needed some staples in order for me to be able to cook for the rest of the week.
I got ready to go to the grocery store around 5:45 AM. The store opens at 6:00 AM and I like to get there as the morning crew begins their shift. I love my grocery store employees. Over the years I have gotten to know their faces and they always greet me with a smile on their faces, even at such an early hour. I leisurely stroll through the isles checking out what is new, or on sale or what I might feel like cooking that I haven't in a while. I am never in a hurry that early in the morning and beyond the workers the store is usually empty. It's peaceful and I love going well before the rest of the city wakes up.
This morning as I walked through the produce section casually watching the employee spray vegetables and align fruit, when I noticed out of the corner of my eye an elderly couple also shopping. They were also not in any hurry either, enjoying the quiet of the store. I pushed my cart over to the bananas and the gentleman motioned for me to go ahead of them. We giggled at our momentary dance trying to make way for each other. I moved my cart to the side and looked for the right size bunch of bananas. I watched through my bangs the couple touch each other's hands, consult each other on purchases and plan their weekly meals together. They were sweet to each other. The showed each other kindness and respect and I couldn't take my eyes off of them. The woman looked over at me while we shopped in our respective corners and said, "It's nice shopping this early isn't it? It's so peaceful." I nodded my agreement and went on my way, fearful they may think of my watchful eyes as intrusive.
A few isles further into the store I passed them again. "Did you find your cereal, Sweetheart?" the older woman questioned the man. "I did. I already put it in the cart." The woman walked to his side and kissed his cheek. Again, I found myself distracted by their love and staring. I bowed my head and hurriedly pushed my cart to several isles away to give them their privacy. I really felt good by what I saw. It warmed my heart to see such love between two people shown in such simple ways. They cared for each other. They were tender to each other. I felt like I had witnessed something really wonderful between these two. A simple trip to the store. That's probably all it was for them. But for me it felt like something deeper, more meaningful. To witness true, real love between two people seems rare these days. I have watched more than my fair share of sarcasm, condescension, and often times bitterness. That is part of the reason I started shopping alone in the wee hours. But this felt unique and beautiful. I felt lucky to have been there to witness these people and their devotion to each other.
I ended my trip before they did and checked myself out of the store with one of my favorite cashiers. He and I joked around and had a little fun before I packed all of my canvas bags and headed for the door. I was loading up my car in the light of the sun rising slowly, when I noticed the older couple coming out of the store. He pushed the cart while she gently touched his back as they walked to their car. He spoke and she laughed. I got into the driver's seat and felt a real sense of gratitude for the moments I got to share with them. It reminded me of when Michael and I get to shop together. I always laugh and smile when he goes with me. Kissing in the produce section is not new to us. I always miss him when he isn't with me. My life is infinitely more fun when Mike is there to share all my little moments.
It was a lovely morning full of warmth and hope. I watched their warmth and I hoped that Mike and I would always feel about each other the way they seemed to.

The Book and I are on the move

This is a picture of the book at Plymouth Rock. A friend of mine took my book on vacation. Tom, having a great sense of humor has a photo diary of the book seeing more sights than I ever have.

Today it's my turn. I am on my way to Port Arthur, Texas to the book store Read All Over.

This will be my first official book store signing. I have done other signings, but not one at an actual book store. Today is the store's grand opening. I am very thrilled and excited to be included. I have never been to Port Arthur, so I am looking forward to going. Mike and I are trying to see as much of Texas as we can while we are here.

The radio station Q94 will be there at the grand opening, too, so this should be really fun!

I was thinking of how this all got started just over a year ago. Last July I sat down and started writing and looked up around January to send off the first draft to the editor. When I started this I had no idea how to publish or market a book. I didn't even know if I could really write one. I had never done any of this before and here I am going to my first signing.

If you ever feel frustrated and want to know if dreams come true, just give me call. I will be more than happy to walk you through how a dream turned into an idea that turned into a career that turned into me getting to do what I love and meeting new people and travelling around.

The secret? Never give up, never give up, never give up.

Knock, knock, who's there?

I am in the process of trying to get an agent. What I mean is I write a "query", no, not a small gay boy, but a request for the agent to look at my work. It means I have to have no ego, yet act like I have a legitimate reason for them to want to review further what I have to offer. It is basically me asking for rejection, which I receive now on a daily basis. It is the equivalent of an emotional root canal.

I picked this door for the image of this blog because it represents antiques and I am starting to feel like whoever ends up with me will have to do the same. I am for most purposes a bit of an antique. I like my age, because I would not have the same calm presence or grit to do what I do now. Youth doesn't like to beg, but age understands the need for it now and then.

I am in the process of knocking on every door. Screw what is appropriate for now. I have to bet on shear odds. I have to not only knock on every door, but practically push my way in. If I get so much as an inch I will definitely shove my foot in the doorway until someone gives me my shot. It is the way of it in all things. My oldest child, an artist, whose knowledge of art history blows me away, will talk of the political ramifications of trying to get one's art sold. It isn't for sissies. College graduates tell harrowing tales of mass rejection in the job market except for those who simply don't give up. Persistence is the key to success in every field. Writing is one the fields, where everybody knows how difficult it is to break in. A writer must be willing to to work everyday at "breaking in" and stealing their opportunities.

I am the Phyllis Diller of writers. She was another one of those 20 year overnight success stories. She raised her kids and began her career in earnest when her family was grown. I relate to the idea of doing what you have to do in order to do what you want to do. I knew even as I wrote 10-15 years ago that I had to wait until the time was right, not just for me but for the rest of my family. So here I am trying to get my lead zeppelin off the ground.

I know I did the right thing by waiting until my kids were on their own or nearly so. It hasn't been easy waiting, wondering if I will ever get the chance to be the writer I think I can be. The ticking clock looms large over my head, as I try and compete against people half my age with twice the stamina. The advantage I have is practiced patience. Youth is driven, but impatient, being reward based. I am a mother of four. The only reward I will ever get is seeing them get to live their dreams. That experience makes all this knocking, and begging and rejection look like a cake walk.

'Cause I Gotta Have Faith

O.K., so quoting George Michael right before I talk about my having faith may not seem like the most appropriate way to go, but I had to start somewhere. I tend to believe we listen to music and take away what we want anyway, so why not use George Michael?

Lately, in the last several months my family and I have been hit with some pretty weird and wonderful stuff. On one hand we have had to battle some the strangest, time consuming crap I think I have ever seen. On the other hand some really amazing things have happened and I am bowled over by the magnitude of how wonderful it all is. I live smack dab in the middle of a dichotomy.

Recently, I have been ill. I had what started out to be the flu and turned into cellulitis. My arm had a large, red, hot spot on it that seemed to grow before my very eyes. I knew, as a nurse, this was a potentially dangerous sign, so I called the doctor and got myself seen. Normally I would not want to rush in, but I couldn't help but feel this was a sign that things had the potential to get ugly. Sure enough, it was what I suspected and I was put on antibiotics. The very next day my other arm had two new spots with the same symptoms. I held off making another panicked call to see if the antibiotics would take care of the situation. I figured another 24 hours wouldn't kill me, or at least I was hoping. Staph infections don't spread that way, or so I thought. I had no entry spot that we could find and the whole thing became a medical mystery as to why I had those particular symptoms and where it originated. I could have panicked. Maybe I should have panicked. This was certainly a situation that called for it. Instead, what I did was call on my friends and family to pray for me.

The doc pulled out a giant capsule of antibiotics from her arsenal to fight this big, bad bug, while I pulled out my own big guns. As a retired nurse I am all for medication as needed. I wasn't going to just pray my way out of this. My mama didn't raise any dummies, however I also knew I had things at my disposal I could call on to help my sorry situation out that were bigger than anything Western medicine could offer.

I am not religious, per say, I am faithful. I go to church to practice what I know to be true. But church is something I take with me all the time. "When two or more are gathered in My name...it's church." Just as I had hoped, my peeps came out in full force and threw my name up to the heavens and here I am on my way to being healthy again after about 3-4 weeks of being laid out.

Most medical folks, who live long enough, see things that can't be explained by science. I know I sure have. My current outcome might be explained away by some who refuse to see the bigger picture of what having faith can do for a body as well as a soul. While I am very grateful to have the antibiotics needed to help combat whatever this strange anomaly was, I am more grateful for the loved ones in my life who prayed along side of me for a cure. I believe it was the combination that has allowed me to heal.

Several months ago I met a woman who was interested in my book and possible work outside just writing. I described the book's premise about gratitude and how my faith guided me through things. "Ooooh, the mainstream folks won't like the religious connotation to your work, so avoid that if you can", she said to me. Then she said "Think of what your hook is. What is it that you can teach through your writings that will work in a professional setting."

I have spent months throwing a prayer up to God asking if it was possible to separate out the faith aspect in my life to create teachable moments. The irony of me praying for a sign, or guidance how to take God out of the equation of my story made me laugh. I believe God has a sense of humor, so I was certain He got the joke. There is no teachable moment in any of my stories that doesn't include my faith. Without my faith in a higher being, I got bupkis by myself. I haven't done anything alone to get where I am. God has either intervened directly or through others to help me throughout my entire life. I have had more than a few miracles in my day, that prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that a greater being than me has taken control when I was completely at a loss.

I realize that there are those who stand in judgement of everybody who doesn't think like they do and that puts people off of religion. I have had my share of run-ins with those who would condemn me before they were sure where I stood. I am secure in my relationship to the Big Guy so I just let them go. My faith has never been about earthly stuff or people, so the idea that a human could squash it isn't in my realm.

I can't separate out my faith from who I am, anymore than I can separate out my eye color, height or love for music. It is a part of me. It is as much a part of me as the way I sneeze in threes, or laugh inappropriately when things get too heavy. I may never have a career that can be a one size fits all, mainstream type where I can shed my faith like an overcoat. I have considered what not letting go of my "religious" life may cost me. The truth is, giving it up for any length of time, for any reason, I think has the higher price.

I sit here typing, being very grateful for the opportunity to feel healthy. I thanked God this morning for all my friends and family who covered me in their prayers and helped pull me out the clutches of the bad bug. I will take every last capsule of the antibiotics, so that chemically I am doing all I can from my end, but I will continue to say "thanks" for the blessing I have gotten from wrapping my faith around me.

Sleep?

Shakespeare said,"to sleep perchance to dream." In Hamlet he speaks of the fear he has in death and that his permanent sleep will not give him peace. Hamlet was truly a tortured soul.

I am an insomniac as of the last 5 years. I feel a little like

Hamlet when I am unable to sleep enough to allow my body to recover from the days events. The nights I do sleep, I have bizarre dreams of people either that I know and do not act like themselves or of people I have never met. My dreams are often as confounding as my life is, so they bring no solace to my mind.

I am acutely aware of how important sleep is to the mind, body and soul. Children only grow when they sleep. Bodies do most of their healing during sleep. Prayers are often asked and answered in the twilight of one's sleep. As a nurse I encouraged my patients to rest, to sleep as much as they could in order for them to heal faster and stronger from whatever it was that ailed them. As a massage therapist, many of my clients fell asleep on the table. The sweet relief they felt from being cared for by tender, knowing hands allowed them to surrender to the peaceful tranquility of the moment. To sleep is to trust so much in the moment that the body, mind and soul is able to let go completely and fall into another place. Sleep is so important that the lack of it destroys the body and the person, quite literally, one night at a time.

Back when I was a single mother I didn't get but maybe 3-4 hours sleep in a 24 hour period. I was exhausted all the time. I would day dream about sleeping. I would cry from frustration of how tired I felt. I told myself if I ever got the chance to sleep again I would revel in it. I would take long naps, go to bed early, sleep in on the days I could. I would happily plan my sleeping and treat my bed as if it were my very best friend. Back then it nearly was.

I am able to get up when I want. I work at my house so I can wear what I want, do what I want, when I want as often as I want. What I want more than anything is to sleep. Here I go again, living sleep deprived at a time when I am the master of my destiny. I don't have the worries and responsibilities of young children, or a patient load that weighs me down. I have a beautiful room and bed that lay in wait for me to rest my head and sink away into the abyss of thoughtless meanderings. No such luck. I am awake at 3 or 4 in the ,every morning, writing either on paper or on the computer taking care of business on little to no sleep, with a cup of coffee in one hand, my bifocals sliding down my nose and a very tired pup on my feet.

I have set a goal for my middle aged self. I am going to try and do the very things I have lectured all of my patients about. I don't get enough outside activity to make me really tired. I sit when I work, and spend much of my day doing paper or phone work. It's hardly heavy lifting. I do eat right. I don't do fast food, and I take my vitamins so I can level out the chemical part of me. I worry. I know it's futile and solves nothing, so why waste my time on it? Habit, I am sure. My mind races through my head picking and pulling at what I am sure will be the demise of the family on any given day. I grocery list my chores, the ones I don't like to do therefore put off until things become drastic, I gather all my insecurities and concerns and magnify them to 1000 times their normal size so I can scrutinize all the things I shoulda, woulda, coulda. I play this game with myself for hours until exhaustion takes over for a few hours and I sleep so hard, I can't focus for hours when I do wake up.

I am giving up all the things that are preventing me from sleeping. I know to say I won't worry is very different from not worrying, however if I don't at least try to get rid of it, it will become me, and I will become it. I will exercise during the day because when I don't I feel almost sick. I will reward my hard working body with warm baths, chamomile tea and 6 uninterrupted hours of peace. I will forgive me every night for the things I couldn't get to or got wrong, so that my mind doesn't feel it necessary to carry it around all night. I am making a plan to surround myself with all things peaceful. Life happens, I get that, but life stuff doesn't have to be shouldered like a yoke all day, every day. I pray, for me and my family and everybody else I can think of. My big plan includes me letting go and letting God. If I could fix it myself I wouldn't be praying about it, so why not let God handle it and forget about it. He doesn't need the likes of me getting in the way. I will continue to eat right, but more than that I will eat what I know will help my cause. Being goal oriented it helps me to calm down about a quandary when I make a plan. I will write down all the things that will promote my cause. My cause? To sleep perchance to dream.