Long Weekend in the Mountains

 Last Wednesday, a friend and I headed up to the NC mountains to do some writing.  On the first day, I used my Gaia IPhone app to choose a card to set the tone for the next few days. Here is the one I drew:

As soon as I saw the symbols, I knew it was the right card.  I would be attending a workshop put on by The Sun Magazine.  The ankh between the trees represents eternal life and plays a role in the fairy tale I would be working on the first part of the week.  And then there was the eye.  Eyes have been showing up for me.  This one signifies healing and protection.  The text on the card identified the background as an "enchanted forest."

We started out on Wednesday and Thursday at the Celo Inn, a B&B halfway between Spruce Pine and Burnsville. 

My room was a north facing room without much light, but it had a desk and a window chair. We had no cell phone or internet service.  It took me a while to get used to not checking my phone. It was nice though, because it allowed me to have uninterrupted writing time in the morning, afternoon, and evening.

Right across the street was a dirt road that went beside a beautiful clear stream.  Each morning, after breakfast at the inn, my friend and I took a walk. Here are some of the things we saw on those walks.

On Friday, the weather continued to be sunny and warm and we started driving toward Wildacres Retreat Center where we were to participate in The Sun Magazine's "Into the Fire" writing weekend. Wildacres sits on the edge of the Pisgah National Forest and is so peaceful and serene.

Saturday morning, the fog rolled in. 

The retreat center's buildings are all made to blend in with the natural surroundings.  This is one of the dorm buildings that also houses the offices.  The rooms were similar to hotel rooms except without television or phones.

                                   
The food was served family style and every meal was creative and delicious.  Fish, chicken, interesting salads plus the regular salad bar - everything was fresh and obviously prepared with thought.

                                      

There were three sessions of classes on Saturday.  I was fortunate to work with our Poet Laureate Joseph Bathanti.  He told us to identify our threshold in telling stories that involve friends and family, deciding what would be too hurtful or harmful to others and what is the writer's story that has to be told.  I also took classes with Krista Bremer, a Sun Magazine writer who has a book coming out in a few months, and the very crazy Doug Crandell.  Doug, in contrast to Joseph, told us to tell our stories no matter what, but to try to involve hostile family members through an interview process too complicated to go into here. (I'm linking to their Sun page so you can read some of their essays if you want.)

There were many impromptu moments of grace, including this one when a woman from the workshop went up to the piano and began playing.  That is Sy Safransky, the editor and publisher of The Sun Magazine listening to her.  I enjoyed learning more about him through his interactions with the participants and from his reading from his "Notebook," a regular part of each issue.

The last thing, at the end of the closing session, Angela Winter sang a travel blessing a capella in her haunting voice, then we all got up to drive down the mountain in the fog and rain, to resume our normal lives.

A Detour During the Writing-est Weekend

I wasn't going to write about my mother.  My father either.  I'd written about him continuously since his death almost three years ago.

Eight women met with writer Carol Henderson this weekend for a workshop entitled, "Those Who Shape Us."  For a while after we firmed up the date, I gave some thought to the people who had had influence - both good and bad - on my life.  I wanted it to be a teacher, for instance Mrs. Touchstone who let us have Toastmaster's Club every Friday in high school.  Or Mrs. Daniels, the choir teacher who chose me to be Becky Thatcher even though Susan Morrison should have gotten the part with her far superior voice.  I wanted it to be someone else's parent, like Mrs. Jeffress, who though gruff and no-nonsense, treated me like an adult.  An adult with some sense when I was neither adult nor sensible.  Or one of the parents who led my Girl Scout troop or MYF or a minister in one of the churches I went to.  Maybe it could be an aunt or an uncle or my grandparents.  Even my great-grandparents who adored me.

But not my mother and father.

Finally, as the date approached, I got a kidney stone which took almost three weeks to deal with.  Then I had to get ready for the workshop, and in all the activity I stopped worrying about the person who shaped me.  The day before we were to meet I made a conscious decision just to let go and see who came up.

It was my mother.

It seems that it has taken the death of my father to bring the fullness of the death of my mother to me. We did exercise after exercise (the writing-est workshop I've ever participated in) and every time, she was the central figure.

I was most moved by the next to the last exercise, where we were asked to revise history, to write to an "I wish I had..." prompt.  And I was able to re-vision the last night I saw my mother in a way that broke my heart but also was incredibly healing.

It was an amazing seven hours - eight if you include the delicious meal by my friend, Mark.  I've got a lot to work with and work on, but the hard work was done in a safe place, with other talented writers and one facilitator skilled in helping people deal with their grief.  I didn't know that's where she was going to take me.

.

Empathy is Hard to Come By

My father dealt with bladder cancer a couple of times in his eighties.  I spent quite a bit of time with him during his stays in the hospital and subsequent recoveries. 

One of the things I remember most about these episodes is an expression he would make when I asked him how his doctor's appointments were.  He would pucker his mouth and scrunch up his eyes and go "Shew!"

In that amazing way that the universe has of helping us develop empathy, I've been dealing with a kidney stone for the past couple of weeks.  The stone was a little over a quarter inch and was lodged in my right ureter.  Yesterday, after drinking gallons of water with lemons, eating watermelon and ibuprofen, I finally had it surgically removed.  Now I know what my dad meant by that expression!

There's a very wide gap between sympathy and empathy.  You can only express empathy when you know personally what the other person is going through. Empathy is like the photograph above where it's hard to distinguish between the real rope and the reflection of it in the water. 

When another person is feeling physical or emotional pain, the closest we can come to empathy without actually having the same experience is to put our full attention on their troubles.  Even meditating on it for a short time or inviting them to talk about it and then really listening helps us get closer to knowing their truth.

I'm on the mend now that the stone is gone, but in a way I'm better for having it.  I'll know what someone with similar problems is feeling and will be sensitive to their needs. And if they scrunch up their face when I ask?  Let's just say, I get it!

I did it!

A few days ago I was going through some "stuff" on my desk.  I found a sheet of paper entitled, "Master List."  It is a list of things, written in 2010, that I hoped to accomplish.  Here they are:

Website

Card Sets

Learn some Photoshop

Submit things

Jan's interview

List collectible books

Take negatives to J&W

The list contains something that I checked off quickly - Take negatives to J&W - and things that at the time seemed impossible to undertake - Website, Card Sets, Jan's Interview.

I felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment when I realized that as of the day I found it, I had done everything on the list but the interview.

How did I get it all done?  In the beginning, I told myself that I could do all those things.  And I also told myself that one day I would be looking back with a feeling of accomplishment at the list.  So I began to tackle it one thing at a time.

The list of collectible books wasn't all that hard although my daughter's boyfriend, who is a rare book dealer, tells me there aren't many "collectibles" on the shelf!!

The website and card sets required expertise I didn't have.  So I enlisted the help of a friend.  Little by little, we got the site up.

Beginning in January 2011, I started submitting stories.

And over the course of the past three years I've taught myself quite a bit about Photoshop by using it as a photo editor and design tool.

The interview with my friend Jan Phillips, as I said, hasn't been done. She was looking for someone to do an interview to submit to a literary magazine and said that she was going to use someone she saw more often to facilitate the process. I have never done an interview before and this one felt particularly challenging. I was a little relieved when she went elsewhere!

I think it's time to write another master list.  I'm going to do as before and include some things that feel easy and some things that feel impossible.  I hope in 2016, I will find the list and feel good about all that I accomplished!

Easter

For the past couple of days I've felt kind of low. Besides the fact that I've been dealing with a kidney stone, there seemed to be something emotional going on. I think I've figured it out now.

I saw on Facebook where people were going to be with their families for Easter and it hit me that we don't gather in the spring anymore.  Most of the time we would travel to my dad's house, dresses, white socks and shoes bought at Hecht's for the occasion packed in girly suitcases, Easter basket contents either hidden away in the back of the car or purchased with my sisters once we got to Greensboro. We dyed eggs on my dad's kitchen table and the kids hunted for the plastic ones in his back yard.

We would go to one of the churches we went to when I was young, one that my grandmother still attended, or the new-ish church that we joined when I was an adolescent. It was a reunion of sorts, those visits back to the churches, seeing the people my dad's age getting older, their children with children just like mine.

Then we would go back to my dad's house where he had fixed a wonderful lunch.  Other relatives might join us, just as they did at his house at Christmas.


This is the first year I've felt this way and I  know that it's part of the grieving process.  The part where every day gets easier but the holidays are concentrated sadness. I'm grieving not just my dad's death of almost three years ago, but also the loss of this family tradition that he orchestrated. I'm grieving the fact that my daughters are grown and that our time together is now limited to the Christmas holiday and a couple of visits home and to their towns at other times of the year.

I need to start a new tradition for Easter. But this weekend I'll remember the old ones. It's all part of the healing.

The nays have it

Since January 17, 2011, I have sent out my stories ninety-eight times.  I have gotten a "yes" six times.  I have withdrawn stories (because they were accepted elsewhere) three times.  That adds up to eighty-nine rejections.

In a normal week, I get one or maybe two, but last week I got five of them.  One of the rejections was for a story that I really thought would be accepted by a magazine that I really want to be in. I was feeling pretty low.

In our writing group last night, I shared my frustration.  Our teacher was already planning to talk about revision with us. I've heard it again and again: A writer must be good at revision.  A writer must LOVE revision. But I have a deep dark un-writerly secret: I'm just not that into it.

I have a fertile imagination (confirmed by my teacher last night) and write story after story.  I have talent, I think, and a rudimentary understanding of the craft of writing.  I could learn more, no doubt about it. But every time I look at the stack of stories that I have waiting to be turned into something wonderful, I turn away.

Every writer says at one time or another, "Why the heck am I doing this?" And I said that last week.  Why am I wasting time putting these stories on paper if nobody will accept them?  But that is not the question.  The question is why am I birthing these stories and not nurturing them until they're grown?

When I get a rejection, even if it's an automatically generated email, I always write back, saying thanks, re-affirming that I have confidence in my story and will submit it elsewhere, letting them know that I will submit to them again too.  I do believe in my writing, in the stories that bubble up and beg to be written.

So I'm going to make a commitment to revision. I'm going to take each story and groom it until it's the best that it can be.  I'm going to start reading more books about the craft. I'm going to deepen my characters and spruce up the landscapes. I'm going to study subtext so there are more layers to my plots and people.

Otherwise?  What the heck am I writing for?

Pointing Fingers

Michael Moore says in one of his recent emails: 

"....I have a prediction. I believe someone in Newtown, Connecticut – a grieving parent, an upset law enforcement officer, a citizen who has seen enough of this carnage in our country – somebody, someday soon, is going to leak the crime scene photos of the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre. And when the American people see what bullets from an assault rifle fired at close range do to a little child's body, that's the day the jig will be up for the NRA. It will be the day the debate on gun control will come to an end. There will be nothing left to argue over. It will just be over. And every sane American will demand action.

"Because the real truth is this: We do not want to be confronted with what the actual results of a violent society looks like. Of what a society that starts illegal wars, that executes criminals (or supposed criminals), that strikes or beats one of its women every 15 seconds, and shoots 30 of its own citizens every single day looks like. Oh, no, please – DO NOT MAKE US LOOK AT THAT!"

He goes on to describe what the shooter's gun did to those children.  Horrible beyond comprehension.

I ask you this:  Do we have to look at something like that to know that it's horrible, to realize that we cannot continue to allow young children to be killed either purposely or accidentally by the guns of adults?

I keep having this image of people sitting in a circle.  One represents the media.  Beside that person is a representative of the mental health profession.  Then a teacher, then a parent, a gun-owner.  And at the end is a politician. Each of them is pointing a finger at the person beside them, absolving him- or herself of the responsibility and of taking action.

I say that in the middle of this circle should sit you and me.  And we should go around that circle one by one and ask, "What can we do to make a difference in your arena?"  How can we influence you, Ms. Politician, besides waiting another three or four years until we can vote you out or re-elect you?  How can we help you, Mr. Dad; how can we support you as a parent?  Teacher, what do you need that you're not getting from us? Ms. Movie Producer, what is it going to take for us to convey our dislike of the mounting violence in the media; or if we can't stop it, how can we stop it from being available so readily?  Mr. Therapist, how can we help raise awareness about the things you see that can be changed? Mr. and Ms. Gunowner, what rules do you think are reasonable to protect our children?

On May 28, we're bringing some people together in a town meeting who can hopefully help us ask these hard questions. In doing so, our goal is to have every person walk out of the bookstore armed with tools for change.  

Please stay tuned.  

Spiraling

I've got to get some clarity on a few things. Monday I woke up at four a.m. worrying about my week ahead.  I had lunches and dinners with friends, a program on the bookstore to present to a civic organization, taxes and bills to pay at work, a workshop to get ready for, a women's group meeting, reading to do for a book club presentation.

I walked into the kitchen and started getting a little crazy talking about it all to my husband. I even got off on worrying about what is going to happen to all my stories that are waiting for revision: Is someone going to have to finish them after I die? I asked.  He's mostly calm and objective so he just listened. He didn't say, WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF? or tell me that I was making too much of it all.  His serenity was no match for my madness though.

At work, we met with our computer person and insurance person.  Both of them seemed stressed.  At dinner my friend was talking a mile a minute and that's not really like her.  All day I kept running into people on overload. I wondered if my stress was contagious.

I started thinking about ways I could eliminate the parts of my life that stress me out and increase the time spent on what I love -- writing mostly and getting groups of people together to learn things.

I know the things that take up too much time with not much payback.  I justify them in all sorts of ways but I'm realizing that the bottom line is they aren't making me happy.  As my friend said at dinner the other night, we're too old to be doing things that don't fill us up.

I'm doing the Deepak/Oprah 21-day meditation challenge.  Yesterday I meditated at the end of the day and realized that it helped some. Today I decided to put the meditation first in my day.  We were told that we innately know what is right for us.  I'm going to tap into that intuition for a few weeks and see what floats to the top. Not so deep down I know what those things are.

Thinking About Myself

Things I've been exploring about myself:

1. I've noticed that a lot of times when I'm talking to someone on the phone, we talk over each other.  I think it's me that's the problem.  When someone makes a statement and pauses, I step in.  Nine times out of ten they're not finished -- maybe talking a breath or thinking about what to say next?--but I take the silence as a cue to continue the conversation.  It doesn't happen with everyone, but it happens consistently with several of my friends.

2. When someone talks to me about a situation where I see both sides clearly, I will often take the opposite view from them, playing devil's advocate. By bringing up the opposite viewpoint, I might come across as unsympathetic or even antagonistic.

3.  I am too eager to solve other people's problems.  Again, because the answer seems clear to me, I want to give the person advice.  The other person doesn't always want my advice.  Sometimes, when told that, I will give my advice anyway.

4.  I 'pre-worry' much too often.  What-if statements come up in my conversations at least once or twice a day.

I think being more conscious of my behavior will help me quit doing these things.  Or quit doing them so often.

At sixty-one years old, I thought I'd have it all figured out by now. Shoot, I'm just beginning to be aware. I've got a ways to go before it's all figured out! I'm going to be gentle with myself.

(We are working on our panel discussion about guns, mental health issues and the media...stay tuned!)

A Short Post

Postcard from PostSecret.com website

One of the things I look forward to each week is the new post from PostSecret.  People mail in their secrets on postcards.  I've used quite a few of them as story prompts quite successfully.

This particular card stood out a few weeks ago.  I thought about how often we give others a pardon while beating ourselves up for past mistakes. 

TV: From Problem to Solution

Last night I watched a program on Adam Lanza, the young man who did the Sandy Hook killings. Adam had numerous mental health problems. His mother had guns. Hi mother taught him to shoot guns. He was disenfranchised, moved from school to school, classroom to classroom. He played violent video games. He had few friends. His parents were divorced and he had cut off ties to his father or older brother. In short, he exhibited every warning sign that we're told to look for as parents and educators.

Adam's problems were deep and complicated. The solutions are too, but we have to start somewhere.

Yesterday this article from the LA Times was in our local paper.  Here are a couple of quotes from the article.

"A study conducted by the University of Otago in New Zealand concluded that every extra hour of television watched by children on a weeknight increased by 30 percent the risk of having a criminal conviction by age 26."

"'Young adults who had spent more time watching television during childhood and adolescence were significantly more likely to have a criminal conviction, a diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder and more aggressive personality traits compared with those who who viewed less television.'"

The solutions to this problem were simple:

1.  Limit children's television time to two hours or less. (Even this seems excessive to me.)
2.  Limit the programs they watch to educational or non-violent shows.
3.  Make television watching part of the solution (programs that promote positive behavior) rather than the problem.

Maybe these are small early steps that parents can take toward the prevention of violence in at-risk children. It made sense to me.

If you have a child in the home, how do you handle the television?

Most Loved

(I'm posting in-between times this week because I missed last week. I promise to get back on the Wednesday schedule beginning next week.) 

Today I'm sharing the first draft of a piece I wrote today in honor of Valentine's Day.  It's a little longer than my usual post, but I hope you'll stick around to the end. :) 

It's all too easy to think of February 14 as Lovers' Day instead of Day of Love. Maybe my words will inspire you to think of the day when you felt the most loved.

Most Loved

Hopeless.

That word circled my mind as I listened to my friend talk about her love affair with a married man.

On a trip they took to the coast, lying in bed in a hotel room overlooking the ocean, he told her he adored her. 

“He adored me,” she said, her face pink with love, a small smile unable to be contained.  “No one has ever told me they adored me.”

I think now, this week of Valentine’s Day, of the time when I felt most adored.

We sit on a flowered sofa, my great grandparents and I. There is cake; it is my first birthday. My great grandmother stares straight into the camera, a forkful of cake on its way to her mouth. Her head is wrapped in a scarf and the ties hang over her ample bosom. Black socks and shoes angle on the floor over her bare calves. Her glasses reflect the flash of the camera.

My great grandfather and I are the stars of this photograph though. I am leaning into my great grandmother, a smile lighting my face, my hands playing with each other in that way that children have when they’re so excited that even their hands get into the action. My feet are in motion too and there’s a tiny circle around one of them—from the flash? Today with my new-agey spirituality I might say it’s an orb, an energy ball, a symbol of angels or spirits.

My great grandfather leans away from us, pipe in hand, plate with a slice of cake in his lap.  Black suit—his Sunday suit?—over a tie-less white shirt, hair thick and silver. He stares down at me with the most delight. He adores me, his first great granddaughter on her first birthday.

Their last name was Brown and that’s the color I associate with them.  The brown sugar cookies she used to make, the first thing we’d smell when we walked in their house.  The brown walls and floors, worn with many footsteps, a few blackened places still remaining from a fire that caught up in a bedroom.  The brown boats my great-grandfather used to make.  The print in their kitchen of the little girl holding a brown hen that they always used to say was me.

Of course I don’t remember that day of my first birthday.  But in my father’s things we found many jewels, including old negatives.  The photographs must have been long sent to relatives or put in albums or cleaned out of drawers because we never found them.  At the time I was taking a darkroom class. My own attempts at black and white photography were mediocre so I took the old negatives into the darkened concrete room of the community center to discover the treasures they held.  When I put this negative in the light and saw the three of us on the flowered couch I knew that this was no ordinary occasion, not just a birthday, but a moment in time when I was truly loved.

I understand now, looking at the photograph on my desk, the reasons that my friend doesn’t want to give up this feeling of being adored. I feel lonely for the moment captured on the couch, a moment that I cannot remember.  I don’t blame her for wanting to hang on to it, this unabashed admiration of her lover. I can’t tell her to let it go.

She's Kidding, Right?

In one week, this

and this

and this

and these are just crimes that have to do with schools.

There is also this and this.

I could go on.

And today I read this?  Seriously, Kay Hagan? You're on the fence because you might lose your seat in Congress?

We have a chance to influence our Congresswoman. Your voice (and eventually your vote) will matter. This has got to stop.  It's insanity.

Finally, please watch this.

Watching

The year my oldest daughter turned thirteen, these were the top five movies:

Forrest Gump
The Lion King
True Lies
The Santa Clause
The Flintstones

Included in the list of PG-13 movies that year was one about a young boy witnessing a murder involving the Mafia, Sin and Redemption, Ace Ventura, The Shadow.  For the most part, I could tell whether a movie was appropriate for her, and there weren't that many inappropriate movies for a thirteen-year old.

In 2012, the top five movies were:

The Avengers  (Trailer)
The Dark Knight Rises (Trailer)
Hunger Games
Skyfall
One of the Twilight movies

All of the above movies were rated PG-13. I wouldn't have wanted my daughter to see any of them, with the possible exception of Hunger Games.

Parents have a much harder job these days keeping an eye on their children's habits.  The child can be watching a suitable television show, but the commercials are full of violent trailers for movies or later shows.  They can access pornography and violence on the internet; they buy first person shooter video games with their allowances, bypassing any parental oversight.

And the electronic babysitter is easy.  In a home where there is a single parent or two working parents, it is understandable that after fixing dinner, overseeing homework, carpooling to school and sporting events, after a long day at the office, that the parent might want to read or watch television and be alone.  And a quiet occupied kid is a good kid, right?

This is one extreme, the tired parent who just wants to rest at the end of the day and lets their child self-occupy.  What about the parent whose kid stockpiled ammunition and guns in the basement? What the heck is up with that?

We still owe it to our children to parent them as long as they're at home.  We can't let them have all the choices because there are way more bad choices--even in what they watch on TV and do for recreation--than there were when my kids were teenagers.

A friend with two teenage boys said to my husband, "It's not like it was when your kids were young." And she's as right as can be.  It's not. The job of parenting is harder than ever, but it's the job we take when we decide to be parents.

If you are the parent, please weigh in on how you deal with the issue of overseeing your child's movie, computer, and gaming time.  How does your child react to any restrictions you place on him or her? Have you ever taken action in the form of letters of protest to television stations or movie theaters? What affect do you see violence having on your children?

And let us know what kind of support you need from those of us who aren't in that battlefield.  Are there ways we can get behind these issues with you?

Remember: This is a conversation.

A Long Foggy Road

The promise of my last post of 2012 has left me feeling like this road: foggy.

Since that post:

- I've read articles about violence in the media and I've paid a lot of attention to the fact that even as commentators like Jon Stewart ridicule the gun fanatics, the commercials on his show are 75% guns and explosions.

- I've watched as the gun proponents blame the mental health people who blame the media.

- I've read articles and listened to stories about Obama's gun proposals, heard the contentious nature of the debate, felt the iron stances of both sides.

- I've watched the Newtown families as they banded together to make change. I saw this family with NC connections talk about the loss of their beautiful daughter, Catherine.

- I've talked to friends and family about my frustration with finding a simple solution and with my inability to write one word here about my thoughts.  A friend said, "You can't change the world; you can only work within your sphere of influence." One daughter said that if my promise felt like a burden then I shouldn't do it.

And now I'm trying to get my mind around what is possible.  Is it realistic to think that I'm going to change Richard Burr's mind about gun control?  Is the motion picture industry going to listen to my pleas to stop rating for money and begin thinking about who should be seeing the violence they're selling? (See this article that ran in our local paper.) Are video game manufacturers going to stop and think about the desensitization of young people toward violence and change their ways?  Would improving mental health services help? Is it possible to form a lobby that would counter the NRA? Picket? Boycott? Write letters? Donate money? Raise money?

It all seems overwhelming.  I'm going to do two things for now.

First I'm going to take a few minutes every day to just sit and put my attention on the fact that one of the overarching feelings in this country right now is fear.  I'd like to ask you to do the same.  If you pray, pray.  If you meditate, meditate mindfully on it.  If you don't do either, just take a quiet moment or two to consider. What are we afraid of and how can we instill a sense of safety in our homes, communities, schools, and country?

Second, I'm going to keep looking for opportunities to make a difference. I'm still going to ask for some guest bloggers, and if you want to volunteer please do. I'm going to work on that town council.

In the meantime I am going move on to other subjects in this blog until I gain some clarity on what direction to take.  I welcome your conversation; I want it to be a dialogue.

I'm pondering the post

I'm thinking about what to say and will post before the week's end.  Thanks for your patience.

Casting About, Eyes Open

When I looked through my camera lens and took the picture above, I failed to see what looks like an elf's face on the far right of the wood.  I had to open my eyes to the details of the print before it came alive.

This is what has happened to me since my last post of 2012.  Well, that and the flu, which gave me a lot of television/newspaper/magazine time.  I've opened my eyes to anything that will shed light on the reason that we are having more crimes like the one in Newtown.

Today I'm going to briefly list some of the things that I saw, without comment; detailed conversations (please talk back) will come in later posts.

First there was this comic in my Google Reader:

There were articles in the newspaper.

1. One event from Columbus, Ohio, has made quite a splash in the press and on Facebook, about two high school football players who are charged with raping a 16-year-old girl. Last week, an unverified video was released showing one young man laughing about the accuser.

2. In an article discussing the biggest problems our new governor faces, mental illness was #6. "North Carolina's decadelong mental health reform effort has, by most assessments, failed with mentally ill people crowded into adult care centers, local hospitals, and county jails, or put on the streets because there are not enough community facilities." - Rob Christensen,  The News and Observer, January 6, 2013.

3. In the entertainment section, there was a note that "Texas Chainsaw 3-D had overtaken "The Hobbit" (see my earlier comments about The Hobbit here).

There was a conversation I had with a friend about how he and his children went to the movies over the holidays.  The violence in the movie was offensive to him, but not to his children.

There was the mother sitting across the table from her young son at Whole Foods.  He chatted animatedly to her while she checked her phone.

There was a conversation I had with an African-American woman about the culture of the angry white male.  She pointed out something I hadn't thought about: White males are now a minority in this country.

There was talk and more talk about guns.  Our guns, the guns or lack thereof in other countries, the hoarding of guns and ammunition, our right to bear arms and what it means.  There was the idea of building a strong anti-gun coalition to face down the gun lobby, the idea of barring politicians from taking gun money, the discovery of gun legislation buried in the Obamacare bill.

On Sunday morning, I happened on Oprah's Sunday morning show.  Marianne Williamson was her guest, and she said three things that struck me. I want to end with them (I paraphrase):

1.  We must have a shift from ordering things along economic principles to humanitarian principles.

2.  We can't wait for the majority; a small group with a radical idea can make change.

And most important in my mind:

3.  When an adult female feels threatened, or when "her children" are threatened, she will not stop until she has remedied the situation.

Can WE Do It?

Final thoughts as the year ends:

Last night I went to see The Hobbit.  It was not The Hobbit of my teenage imagination. It was violent and gory and to the young children in the next row, I imagined, the stuff of nightmares.

"How did you like the movie?" my husband asked as we exited the theater.

"I couldn't stop thinking about those small kids behind us," I said.  It was totally distracting.  Every fang, every scream, everything flying from the screen in 3D seemed too much for them. And if it wasn't too much for them, if they weren't sensitive to the horror, that was even more distressing.

I talked for a few minutes about the way the motion picture association and movie makers manipulate movies and ratings to gain the most profit from them.  How parents don't preview movies, ignorantly send their children to see things they shouldn't see. I would have probably sent mine to The Hobbit with a babysitter or gone with them from reading it years ago.

I don't do war movies, but I love war novels.  When I read, I am limited by my imagination whether innately or deliberately.  In movies it isn't like that.

I came back to those children in Newtown and the boy that killed them.  What can I do? I keep asking myself, feeling small and helpless in the face of the media and their lust for money, the gun people with their powerful lobbies and big money, the decreasing funding for mental healthcare.  What can I do? I asked my husband.

"You have a blog," he said.

Yes, I do have a blog.  I've posted every week in 2012 and fifteen hundred people have read my posts.  Not a huge amount - I know bloggers who have that many visitors in a day - but that's fifteen hundred people I think are thoughtful and concerned.

I go back to the title of this blog: Can I Do It?

In 2013, I'm going to ask CAN WE DO IT?  I'm going to do research about the big issues that surround tragedies like Newtown and find ways to make small changes that will have a big impact. I'm going to put together town meetings at my local bookstore. I may ask people to guest write; my daughter who was a schoolteacher has strong opinions.  I'll post at least twice a month about what I've learned.

In the theater, I found myself thinking, "In my day...." and it made me feel old.  But the truth is, in my day, nobody came into the schools and shot classrooms of young children.  The worst you faced in the theater was people spitting on you from the balcony.  There weren't any malls, but I could ride the bus downtown and spend the day window shopping with my friend and come home with nothing worse than clothing lust. I want some of that back.

I hope you'll be an active participant in this undertaking. There's real power in the WE of CAN WE DO IT?

A sense of safety for everyone.  Prosperous in the ways that count. Working to change what's not working. Lucky in '13.  My wishes for us in the coming year.

Christmas 2012

I've spent a lot of time with friends and family over the past few days and hope all of you have done the same.  I continue to think of the families of Newtown and others who have lost loved ones during the past year.

I plan one more post before the end of the 2012.  Talk to you then.

Love and peace.

RSVP

Next week I want to get back to my last post about the doctor and the soldier, but not tonight.

I've thought all day about what to write here.  It seemed ridiculous that I would post about anything except what happened in Newtown last Friday.  And yet I couldn't think of a single pithy thing to say.  I've looked in the faces of those children and adults who were murdered that day, I've cried like all the rest of us. I've felt helpless, blamed guns and video games and lack of funding for mental health just like everyone else.

I decided to turn to you. I wonder if you would comment here about how you feel changed by what happened and if you feel called to take any action on a personal, local, or national level.

I'll go first: I'm going to see if our local bookstore will help me put together a town meeting to discuss how we can work on the local level to make some changes.  I'm going to educate myself about the issues.  I'm going to keep looking at the faces of the brave people who died trying to prevent deaths and the children who could not be saved.

And now you....RSVP.