Bad News

One thing I've noticed since I started blogging is that people in Blogdom love bad news. They love illness and death. They can't get enough of it.

I first noticed this when I started reading a blog called Confessions of a CF Husband. The story was very engaging. The wife was waiting for a lung transplant when she found out she was pregnant. Her cystic fibrosis was at a critical stage. The couple chose to go through with the pregnancy and their beautiful daughter was born prematurely. But the entire pregnancy was fraught with danger for both mother and baby. Thousands of people commented on the blog every day, they were on television, in the newspaper.

The mother had her transplant and then the baby's development became the story. Week after week we saw that sweet child lying beside her stuffed animal so we could understand how tiny she was and then how she was growing. Again, thousands of comments a post.

Things stabilized. Readership dwindled. The author of the blog expressed his disappointment. But that was that. There wasn't anything heart-wrenching going on. He quit posting except for the now occasional update.

Good news doesn't make good press. Stories of triumph, love and happiness appear on page eighteen of the newspaper. We get to them after we slog through the murder trial updates, the contentious political campaign, the fight between local school board members. By the time we get to the good stuff, if we get to it at all without walking away in a funk, we feel jaded. Who cares about that soldier who came home when we might be entering into another war? What difference does it make that our high school won the championship when the schools are in such abysmal financial shape? So what if they raised a million dollars for cancer research when the real problem is that the pharmaceutical companies are making billions on treating us instead of making us healthy?

On my own blog, I noticed a jump in readership when my father died. It's back to normal now that I'm writing about more mundane issues. There is still bad news I could write about, but I think I'll pass for now. You've probably got enough of your own without looking or reading about mine. And if you don't, you can always buy the paper.

Workshops

I spent part of last weekend in the company of nine fellow writers and author Zelda Lockhart. We got to the heart of things - our hearts - and learned ways to apply it to our own work.

"You need to quit going to workshops and write that book," my sister told me the other day.

I am writing my book and my stories, but I also love the stimulation that I get from this time spent with others.

The problem is that often we receive conflicting information. One teacher says learning the craft is the most important; another says, "The hell with craft." One teacher says a flashback can only be presented in real time while the next one says that is ridiculous.

The same goes for fellow writers and their critiques. One person might love that I said, "O my Luve's like a red, red rose," while the person sitting beside her says it's too cliched. One character may seem flat to a person but the same character may touch a chord that rings so true to another.

There are a million books written on writing. Some call for outlines, some call for prompt writing, one book calls for reading similar writing while another says steer clear of it.

So, I guess the reason I continue on with these workshops is complicated. I choose the techniques that work for me. I garner inspiration from hearing other people read their writing. I get valuable feedback both from the leader and the participants.

In the end, what it all boils down to is that I must take all that I learn, put myself in a chair, grab a computer or pencil and paper, and write.

Oddly, my sister is a workshop leader. Hers are about getting to the heart of one's relationship with oneself and others. Looking at what's preventing us from having our most wonderful life. People come back again and again because they need a little tune-up. If you substitute "life" for "writing" that's why I continue to participate in the writing weekends. To get to the heart of my characters and move out of the way everything that is keeping me from my best writing. And that process can always use a tune-up.

Listening

I am reading a chapter a night from a wonderful little book called Just One Thing by Rick Hanson. The chapters are short - two or three pages - and the author gives practical ways of making small changes with big consequences.

I constantly work on being a good listener, keeping my attention from wandering, restraining myself from interrupting, looking at the person instead of around the room. I'm not great at it, I know. Several times lately I've gotten the message to try to be a better listener. Today Hanson's email contained this chapter from the book. I'm passing it on to others who might need some guidance as I do. I love what he had to say.

The Practice
Ask questions.

Why?

My dad grew up on a ranch in North Dakota. He has a saying from his childhood - you may have heard it elsewhere - that's: "You learn more by listening than by talking."

Sure, we often gain by thinking out loud, including discovering our truth by speaking it. But on the whole, listening brings lots more valuable information than talking does.

Nonetheless, many people are not the greatest listeners. (You've probably noticed this already: at work, at home, when you're trying to work something out with your partner . . .) What's it feel like when they don't listen to you? Or maybe listen, but don't inquire further? It's not good. Besides missing out on important information - including, often most importantly, your underlying feelings and wants - they're sending the implicit message that they're not that interested (even though, deep down, they might be).

Then turn it around: what do you think they feel like if you don't listen that well to them? Not very good either.

Being a good listener brings many benefits: gathering useful information, making others feel like they matter to you, sustaining a sense of connection with people, and stepping out of your own familiar frame of reference.

One of the best ways to listen well is to ask questions. It makes you an active listener, it shows that you've been paying attention, it can get things out in the open (Mommy, is that emperor parading in his boxers?!), and it slows down emotional conversations so they don't get out of hand.


How?

As a therapist, I ask questions for a living. Plus I've been married a long time through thick and thin, and raised two kids. As they say in medicine: good judgment comes from experience . . . and experience comes from bad judgment. So I offer some fruits of my bad judgments!
· Questions can be nonverbal. A raised eyebrow, a nod to say more, or simply letting there be a bit of silence are all signals to the other person to keep going.

· Have good intentions. Don't ask questions like a prosecutor. It's fine to try to get to the bottom of things - whether it's what bothered your mate the most about her conversation with her friend, or what your son is actually doing this Saturday night, or what your role is supposed to be in an upcoming business meeting. But don't use questions to make others look bad.

· Keep the tone gentle. Remember that being asked a question - particularly, a series of questions - can feel invasive, critical, or controlling to the person on the receiving end; think of all the times that kids get asked questions as a prelude to a scolding or other punishment. You could check in with the other person to make sure your questions are welcome. Slow questions down so they don't come rat-tat-tat. And intersperse them with self-disclosure that matches, more or less, the emotional depth of what the other person is saying; this way they're not putting all their cards on the table while you keep yours close to the chest.

· As appropriate, persist in getting a clear answer. If you sense there's still some problematic fuzziness or wiggle room in the other person's answers, or simply more to learn, you could ask the question again, maybe in a different way. Or explain - without accusation - why you're still unclear about what the other person is saying. Or ask additional questions that could help surface the deeper layers of the other person's thoughts, feelings, and intentions.

· Different kinds of questions are appropriate for different situations. For example, trying to get clearer about a project your boss wants you to do is definitely not like a delicate inquiry into what might help things go better in a physically intimate relationship. Questions about facts or plans are usually pretty straightforward. For the murkier, more emotionally charged territory of friends and family, here are some possibilities:

How was _______ for you?
What do you appreciate about _______ ? What bothers (or worries) you about _______ ? Are there other things you're feeling (or wanting) besides ______?
What did this remind you of?
What did you wish had happened, instead?
What's the most important thing here, for you?
What would it look like if you got what you wanted here? (Or: ". . . what you wanted from me?")
How would you like it to be from now on?
Could you say more about _______ ?

* * *

If your intentions are good, it's really OK to ask questions. Usually, people welcome them. Take confidence in your good intentions and good heart.

Full Circle

I've got some other renovation projects going, but it's time to move on from public planning to other topics. Thanks for being a part of the early re-construction!



All of the wonderful ladies in this photograph are dancing on Glory's side, so I don't mind posting their photograph for the world to see.

I've realized that my friends and I have come full circle with respect to our parents. In the sixties, we said many times, "I'll never be like my parents. I'll never whip my children...make them clean their plates/their rooms...keep them from being with their friends..." etc. etc. And when my children came along, I didn't "whip" them, but I did swat their diapered rear ends a time or two. And although I didn't make them eat all their peas, I did insist for several years on substituting carob bunnies for chocolate at Easter. I watched their friends for signs of drinking or smoking pot. For the most part, though, I did the same as my parents did: the best I could.

And now we're in the same spot. We're saying, "I'll never be like my parents." But this time it's while facing nursing home arrangements, chronic illnesses, long involved estates (I blame part of this on the IRS), Alzheimers and dimentia, lack of forethought into what long-term care costs. One person says that when he dies, his estate is going to consist of a checking account. His children will each receive a check. That's it. Another person asks seriously to be aided in suicide in the event of signs of dementia. One friend curses the parent who didn't plan ahead about where they were going when things started deteriorating as he frantically searches for good care. Still another friend has had to move her mom into her house. Her mother treats her as though she's a recalcitrant fifteen-year-old. My husband dreams of a place where all of the family can live together and take care of each other as we age.

"I'll never put my children through what I've had to go through." I hear it again and again.

The truth is that just as when we were bumbling through the part of life where we weren't going to be like our parents before, we're going to bumble through this phase too. We're going to go reluctantly to nursing homes where our children may or may not want to come to visit. We're going to wait too long on chronic diseases to make end-of-life decisions and have to depend on our family to make them. We're going to try to put aside enough money to take care of ourselves in old age and leave a little for the kids and come up short.

The truth is, we are going to be like our parents. And we and our families will do the best we can.

Messes are Allowed and It's Okay to Be a Little Late

I am a neat freak. And I hate to be late. Both of these obsessions cause me anxiety.

In this renovation year, I'm trying to let go of things that make me feel stressed or take too much negative thinking time. So I've experimented with leaving dishes in the sink and dirty clothes on the floor (overnight is the best I can do).

I know that I work better when things are organized, but I don't have to run to the kitchen every time I finish a glass of water. I can leave my dirty clothes from tonight and take them with my dirty pajamas in the morning.

Over the past few weeks, it seems I'm running behind more often than not, so I've continually lectured myself that it's okay to arrive a few minutes after someone else. That everyone is late to doctor's appointments sometimes. That the movie trailers will still be running when I enter the dark theater with my buttered popcorn. That we never start class early; instead we wait until everyone is there and they'll wait for me too.

I probably drove my children crazy with my mess-aversion, and I know my husband has suffered from my need to be on time which contrasts with the fact that he's time-challenged. But I'm living inside this brain of mine and the person who has suffered the most is me!

Turning sixty has been an awakening for me. The 'last gift of time' seems important. Worrying about messes and lateness don't seem to fit in to my new life decor.

How I Say Things

This photograph doesn't really match the idea of the post, but I couldn't think of one that would represent this next project in my renovation year.

I am trying to watch how I suggest things to people. Most of the time, in the past, if I felt enthusiastic about something, my "suggestion" to people would start with one of the following:

"You HAVE to read...."
"You NEED to go see...."
You've GOT to come with me...."
You would LOVE...."

Imperative statements that probably leave the listener in a rebellious mood. "I have to?" "I need to?" Well, what if I don't want to, you pushy person?

When I am recommending something this year, I'm trying to rephrase my excitement.

"I loved 'Midnight in Paris.' It had so many interesting characters."

"This author is going to be at the bookstore and I'm excited because the book is amazing."

"I've noticed that you like bluegrass music. The Bluegrass Experience is going to be playing at the Q Shack."

It's taking some work to get the hang of the new way of talking, but I'm getting more in the habit of THINKING before I talk so that's helping.

So let me try it here: Tonight I went to see Adam Johnson, author of The Orphan Master's Son. Hearing Adam talk about North Korea and the writing of the book was fascinating. I wish everybody could see him in person.

I am still working on getting my passion for something to show through, and don't think that statement conveys it exactly. But it'll come, it'll come. Renovations are time-consuming; there are layers to be broken down and rebuilt. This make-over is a long-term project. I want to do it right.

I think I know why I subconsciously chose this picture: the pelican doesn't squawk, "COME SEE THIS SKY." He just sits in front of it, silhouetted against its majesty. And I admire.

Less Is More

A couple of months ago, I wanted to enter a writing contest. We were to choose a photograph and write a story to go along with it. After writing mine, I realized that my four-hundred words had to be cut by one hundred words.

Now you have to be concise to tell a story in four hundred words and the thought of taking out a fourth of them was daunting. But I did it, and I think my story was stronger for the purge.

I've been thinking about how that relates to my communications: email, conversations, letters, etc. Here is a typical conversation between my husband and me:

Me: What would you like for dinner? Do you want to go out or order in? I could cook that tenderloin or we could have breakfast for dinner. What do you think?

Hubby: Um...

Me: You're probably sick of leftovers. Let's see... there's a pizza in the freezer? Would that be good? But we did decide that we'd quit eating so much fatty food.

Hubby: Um...

Who can get a word in edgewise??

In conversation, critiques, and emails, I tend to say the same thing three or four different ways, or even the same way several times.

And one last thing I do: I always say one sentence too much. The last sentence is the one I usually replay over and over asking, "WHY DID YOU SAY THAT???"

In this renovation year, I'm going to try to be more concise. Stop repeating myself. Give people a chance to answer my questions. Write succinctly (and start by taking out every word that ends in -ly).

My husband used to work with a man who had a sign on his desk that pointed toward the person across from him. It said, "GET TO THE POINT." Good advice.

Voids

I'm not good with voids.

When I am with someone and the conversation dies down, I feel an obligation to keep it going.

When my husband and I are in the car for a while and nothing has been said, I ask, "What are you thinking about?" just to say something.

I will give someone a day or two to answer an email and then I'm prone to write and say, "Did you get my email?"

Waiting for rejections (and one day maybe an acceptance letter) on stories I've submitted is torture.

Stop lights, grocery store lines, price quotes, anything I have to wait for gets on my nerves.

This year, I'm trying to be comfortable with the voids. Wait patiently. Sit quietly with my own thoughts. I have to talk to myself all the time - another way of filling the void, I guess - but maybe soon I'll be able to shush that voice up too.

I know when I meditate, it becomes easier to quiet myself during the rest of the day. At night, I take a few minutes to read a poem or an inspirational message, or pick an angel card (written on each of them is one word, i.e. inspiration or trust or compassion) for tomorrow. I reflect on how the word I drew the day before manifested itself in the present day.

Maybe it's all a part of the process of being comfortable with myself. I've been with this person called Mamie almost sixty years. I hope to be able to sit peacefully with her in 2012.

Next week: Less is more (and I don't mean things....)

What's old is new

Definition of RENOVATE

transitive verb
1: to restore to a former better state
2: to restore to life, vigor, or activity : revive

I spent New Year's Eve at a house that is being renovated. The space was exactly what we needed that night: open and messy. I decided that a good theme for 2012 would be "renovation."

Today I embarked the first project of my renovation: Go back to what was working before (see definition 1).

I was tallying my reading list for 2011 and it came to a measly thirty books. Most years I read around forty books. But before the internet and reality television, I used to read at least a book a week. On vacation, I would read a book a day. At work, when I got caught up, out would come a book, and at night I would read myself to sleep. Now? The computer and the television take up way too much of the time I used to read.

See that wall of books in the photograph? My husband said to me one day, "I can't believe you've read all those books!" I replied, "Those are the ones I haven't read." And although that is a slight exaggeration (half the books are books I've read, textbooks, children's books, cookbooks, travel books), there are some darn good books waiting for me on those shelves.

Today I wasn't feeling well and stayed in bed and read. I finished one long book and read an entire other one. I haven't done that in a long time because my writing and photographs take a lot of my free time, but I'm going to make more time for reading. I'm going to quit wasting time on mindless browsing and nosing into other folks' business on reality television and get back to what made me feel like I'd accomplished something: reading sixty books in a year.

We try to discard bad habits - I've purged a few from my life in the past few years - but sometimes we discard a good habit too. And now, I'm going to bed to read. Brooklyn Follies by Paul Auster. I'm starting at the A's....

Goodbye to the old year

It's always good to look back on the old year before we move forward to the new.

At the end of this year, on December 31, 2011, my father will have been dead for a year and a half. I haven't gone a day without thinking about him. My youngest sister and I cleaned out his house, we put it on the market, and now a family with children is making it home. My brother and I worked together doing estate business, and I'm grateful for the time with each of them. My other two sisters had a high school reunion this year, giving the five of us an excuse to meet in Greensboro for a bonus visit.



We realized that there were many questions we should have asked my dad, so we've gone a couple of times to see his sister in a nursing home. She has let me tape her as she told us of their childhood, the loss of their father in his late thirties, and one very disturbing revelation that she had never told anyone.



Inspired by these stories, I have come up with a very intriguing character, a young boy named Eugene. He and his cousin, George, are revealing themselves to me a little at a time, and I'm beginning to think that a novel is sneaking up on me.

I lost two very dear friends this year. The first, in April, was Catherine. I have known Catherine since our children were in preschool. She was a magnificent presence, and her death a real loss. The second was a college friend, Linda. Linda and I took two writing classes together this year where she wrote of her cancer and the loss of her husband with poignancy and, believe it or not, humor. I have her story to remember her by.



We lost a few other friends and family too.

Our business has sustained us, a miracle in this scary economic time.

I ran over our wonderful cat, Chippy, and killed him. But a photograph I took of him was chosen to hang in the new NCSU vet school building, so he lives on to those who see it.



I celebrated six years of not drinking and five of not smoking. I remember thinking when I gave each of them up that I wished it had been a long time. And now it has.

My daughters have had their ups and downs, but they're mostly happy, doing work they enjoy. They were all home for the holidays. I told one of my daughters that when they were small, I used to feel sorry for people whose children were grown. Now I rejoice in their adulthood!



At Christmas, we had three gatherings - my family, my husband's family, and one with friends and family. They went off without a hitch! I think part of that is because my husband has figured out that work is the best place to be when I'm getting ready for big events! When my family came to town, we cooked oysters, just as we used to do at my grandparents house at the beach.



And now, I've looked back. I'm ready to pluck the new year, to welcome the joy and sorrow, inspirations and insecurities, celebrations of life and death that it will bring.

Thanks for riding this one out with me.

Customer Service

This image is in sharp contrast to how I feel right now.

My children can hardly count the number of times that I have embarrassed them in stores because of poor customer service. But it is really important to me, and I think that my husband exemplifies in our business the kind of customer courtesy I want from people who provide services or sell things to me.

There is a rug cleaning business in this town that we have dealt with for as long as I've been working in our business. We have used them for clients and for ourselves. I have never walked out of their store or talked to them on the phone and felt that they gave a damn about me. They have this smug superior attitude. With every interaction, I ask my husband not to use them again.

He continues to use them though because they are the best in town. Slow, but the best. And he wants the best for our clients.

Today I had a billing question for them, and the owner's wife is their accounting person. From the first question I felt put on the defensive, and it went downhill from there. After I hung up I decided to call her back and let her know how I felt.

"Every time I deal with your company," I told her, "I come away dissatisfied with the way I have been treated." At this point I would expect her to ask what did I mean? Instead she launches into an explanation of why she treated me so disrespectfully.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," I said. "I never feel that you care about us as customers." Again, an opportunity for her to make things right, but she said, "Well, you have the right to go anywhere you want. You don't have to use us."

True, I don't have to use her. But we want to use them because they're so good in the field. So I said, "I realize that, and I would like to continue to use you if only I felt that you care about me as a customer." And she said, "We don't care if you come here or not." And then she hung up the phone.

So. There you have it. They really don't give a hoot about us.

Have you ever been in a situation like this? Have you ever sacrificed good customer service in exchange for good service? Their Facebook page asks for reviews. Would it be fair to say, "Good service, bad customer service" on it?

My face is cooling off now; my feelings about not using this company again are even stronger. But I don't want to sacrifice our good customer service because of their bad customer service. What to do?

A Free Weekend

I can't remember how long it has been since I had a weekend with nothing much to do.

I've been off work since Wednesday. My daughter came, we made some wedding plans, then she was off on a side trip before returning home. I did laundry, I bought a few groceries to make it through, I changed my sheets.

I also read a book, caught up on my crossword puzzles, chatted without feeling rushed, went to hear an author at the book store. I visited my mother-in-law who has just moved to a new facility and was happy to just sit and watch the people move through the lobby. I read the Sunday paper today, on Sunday.

And the oddest thing about the whole long weekend were the things I didn't do. I didn't write or edit or submit anything. I didn't plan a workshop or gallery opening. I didn't move my warm clothes up from the basement or organize anything. And most of all, I didn't feel stressed or guilty because I had nothing to do. I liked it. I felt rich with time.

On most weekends, if we're in town, it's because we have a lot going on and this weekend was the rarest of treats. I liked it.

Still Looking Back, but Around and Forward Now Too

Yep, this is going to be about my dad. This week I'm feeling a little emotionally vulnerable. a song can make me cry like a baby. The inability to share some recent accomplishments leaves them incomplete. My daughter's wedding, the holidays, all loom large as they will point out his absence. I ran across a thank-you note and his writing made my chest hurt.

I had him in my life for almost sixty years. And yet there was more to share. More to celebrate. More phone calls, more visits. I wasn't finished being my father's daughter.

We're hanging a new show at the 1880 Gallery at the Long View Center tonight. The reception is tomorrow, 6-9, good food and drink and live music by Tommy Goldsmith. It will be a wonderful night with friends. And Saturday and Sunday I'll spend the day with writer friends, honing a new series of stories -- "Eugene Stories" -- based loosely on my imaginings about my dad's childhood. They're fiction, of course, and I couldn't have written them if he were alive. They're too probing and reveal my thoughts about his mother and his vulnerability as a child.

Look at him here with his sisters and mother. The first sister was full of spit and vinegar; the second had secrets to hide; their mother was tough because she had to be. Now look closely at my dad, his smile; he seems so innocent and vulnerable. A boy who lost his father at twelve or thirteen, a father who wasn't all that loving to begin with but was all he knew about being a son.



Grief is like labor: even if you've experienced it, you forget how painful it is. And like labor I'm birthing something new, these stories. It's a way to stay in touch, I guess.

The Envelope Please...

This notebook represents my eager attempts to get one of my stories published. It has charts, sticky notes, submission requirements for close to one hundred publications, a list of all my stories and where they are in the revision process. I put it together in a few days, thus avoiding the more important work of writing the stories.

I've submitted thirty-five times. I've received twenty-three rejections. Not encouraging, is it?

When we applied to colleges, remember how you waited and waited for your mail? And how the small envelope meant rejection and the large one meant you had been accepted? In the manuscript submission process, it's just the opposite. The big envelope means that your story is being sent back with a form letter that mostly says, "Thanks, but no thanks. Don't despair. Keep putting yourself on the line."

This weekend I was out of town with my dear friend, Nancy Olson, from Quail Ridge Books. When I got home, one of those large envelopes was on the counter. And it was from the magazine where I most wish to see my work published.

I opened it up and there was the best of all rejection letters! A personal note, thanking me for the submission, full of compliments, stating why they couldn't publish it (I understood), and asking me to send more work! I was as thrilled by that rejection as I would have been by an acceptance letter from another magazine.

That's all it took to rev up my energy again.

Getting something published is competitive, intense, and nerve-wracking. Not to mention hard on the confidence and ego. But I've marked "no" on my chart next to that submission, and am looking for the piece that will move the manuscript reader that sent the personal note. The perfect story is listed in that notebook, I'm sure.

PS The writing workshop with Louise Hawes is full but there will be another one in November, this one focusing on character development, with the wonderful Kim Church. Stay tuned for details.

Writing Workshop Opportunity

Workshop with Author
Louise Hawes
October 8 and 9, 2011

Place: Private Home in Raleigh NC

Time: 9-3 each day

Details:

This workshop will be for serious writers with works in progress (novel, short story, personal essay, non-fiction). Each person will submit twenty pages to Louise and the other participants. These twenty pages will form the basis for the workshop experience.

The workshop is limited to eight people. Cost is $150 which includes lunch both days, drinks and snacks. Cash or checks only.

If you are interested, please let me know by email: mamiepotter@gmail.com. I will send a registration form which you will return to me via email with the twenty pages you would like to work on over the weekend. After all participants are committed, Louise will email everyone the work to be reviewed and suggestions about how to read and think about the pieces prior to October 8.

Deadline for registration is September 25, 2011. This is firm so we have time with the 160 pages or so!

Here is a link to Louise’s website if you’d like more information about her: Louise Hawes

Please email me if you have any questions.

Scottsdale AZ But Our Minds Were in NC

This past weekend my friend Elizabeth and I went to see her mom and sister in Scottsdale, Arizona. We stayed in a beautiful hotel, The Scottsdale Resort. I don't believe I've ever had a finer experience with a hotel. The staff was accomodating in every way imaginable, all the amenities were either free or reasonable, and it was convenient to where we had to be.



Unfortunately, there was something going on back in North Carolina (and up the east coast): Hurricane Irene. Elizabeth and I would get up in the morning, grab our coffee and start reading or watching the television for news of the storm. I have daughters and other family at various intervals along our eastern border and I was in touch with them too. Elizabeth was talking to her husband often as they live in Pamlico County in NC.



The news was everywhere and the challenge was to separate the hype from the reality of the situation.



Meanwhile in Scottsdale, things were hot and brown. One hundred fourteen degrees all three days. My favorite expression of the weekend when we walked outside was, "Great! The heat's on!" I've never experienced heat like that. Is dry heat better, as they say? I can only say that anywhere that you are so hot the sweat dries as it pops out is too darn hot!



We tried to distract ourselves. We had drinks in the cabana where cool mist sprayed on us periodically.



We swam in swimming pools.



We had manicures and massages.



We took an early morning hike at a nearby park.



Modern communication methods were a blessing. In Elizabeth's town, there is an online news site, and she was able to follow day by day what was going on. However, it was very distressing for her to scroll down and see her house and office being flooded.

The last morning we were there, we had a wonderful brunch at the hotel. We smiled for the cameras, but I know Elizabeth was anxious to get home and see what had happened to her hometown. They are in the process of cleaning up and assessing the damages, as are thousands of others. There wasn't much she could have done while we were out of town, and I hope in some way that the trip was a diversion from what she faced on Monday morning.



On the plane going home, my IPod played Let It Rain by Luciano Pavarotti and Jon Bon Jovi. I began to cry, Pavarotti's beautiful voice the catalyst. Once I got home, I looked up the lyrics. They seemed fitting for the weekend of the storm and the time with Elizabeth's family.

Last night I had a dream; that there would be a morning after.
Long days, sunshine and peace;
Long nights of love, forgiveness, and laughter.
Maybe it was just a dream, but it could be reality.
Children are like planting seeds, you’ve got to let their flowers grow.

Fà che piova, (Let it rain)
Fà che il cielo mi lavi il dolore (Let heaven wash away my pain)
Fà che piova (Let it rain)
che sia la pace il nome d'amore (That peace would be the name of love)

Keeping Up

A few months ago, my sisters and I sorted through the things my father saved for us in a big trunk. We made piles for the five of us. Report cards, letters, articles, scrapbooks. Drawings by our children. As we piled it all up, something became ridiculously apparent: My pile was very, very tall. And from there it became less and less until my youngest sister was able to fit hers in a large baggie.

Today I was looking for a photograph to post on Facebook of my daughter's birth thirty years ago. I pulled out her baby book. There were all the details of her length and weight, every present she received at every shower, her first words. All neatly gathered in the "Baby's Book." And I know that there isn't a book like that for my other daughters. There are photographs, lots of them, but the baby book went the way of time alone with my husband when the two of them came along.

I wish I had kept up my detailed record-keeping. Some people do (my sister is one) but I just let the time slip by without documenting the firsts and the dates.

I'm sure if I were to go back and look at my pictures, I'd find that there are many years when only a few photographs were taken. Important events like graduations and recitals got noticed, birthday parties and holidays were over-photographed. And there might be a few looks and attitudes, outfits and behaviors that are better off ignored through the camera lens.

I remember the over-arching themes of their lives and I've saved lots of artwork and a few report cards. I've got their letters and application letters and essays. Newspaper articles with their picture yellow in a cabinet. A few outfits remain in their drawers--t-shirts I think they'll want though they say they don't--clothes they'll eventually have to go through and decide about. Baby quilts and cross-stitched nursery rhymes are stacked in the closet.

There will be more than enough for them to go through. I just wish there was more. Our memories are short, and we are short-sighted about what we'll want to remember.

Writing Here Again

I've been stymied about what to write here because I said I was finished with my dad's story, and it's still very much on my mind. Yes, a year and some weeks later, I'm still thinking about him so much, sad, physically sad that he's gone. We closed on his house on Monday, another chapter of our lives closed with the signing of the papers.

But finally I had an idea for a post that didn't have to do with him.

I wrote about randomly sending out cards and letters to people whose names you chose from the phone book or newspaper. Cards with inspirational quotes or nice sayings. And then I started thinking, "What if the letter goes to a spouse who thinks his or her partner is having an affair?" What if they don't think that but because they got the letter, they start worrying that it might be so? And on and on my brain went, turning something that I at first thought was a good idea into something I had to reject because of unintended results.

Did I defeat my ideas with misgivings? Or did I stop myself from doing something that could have serious consquences beyond my intentions?

There are a lot of things going on beyond my control right now that effect us and our future, our children's future too. I rack my brain for ways that I can empower myself and stop hopelessness in its tracks. Sending out messages of hope to people felt at first like something that might ripple and make small differences. But then it didn't seem like such a good idea.

What are you doing to give yourself some control over what is going on in the world today? How do you keep from walking in your door at night and living in your little world, protected from the chaos outside?

I need some ideas and direction here. Will you pass yours on?

Final Thoughts on Grief

July 1 marked the one year anniversary of my father's death. For many months, I've justified my sadness by saying, It's only been three months, six months, eight months. Now a year has passed and it feels like my feelings should have changed.

One of my sisters said something the other day along the lines of, Now that a year has passed, his death doesn't really mean anything to other people, or maybe it was, People might not understand that I'm still grieving now that it has been a year. I replied that for the most part, people had forgotten Dad's death the day after the funeral.

It is the dearest of friends who are compassionate about how long grief lasts. One friend called me on June 29, his birthday. Another sent a note around July 1. I am so grateful for their remembrance.

Advice for friends of those who lose loved ones: Mark the day of the birth and death of the dead person and contact your friend on those days. You may not think about it again until you see it on the calendar, but your thinking of it then will be meaningful and touching.

My brother sent me this blog post on grief yesterday. I'm excerpting a few passages; you can read the entire post from the link if you wish.

Grief is like a serious injury. A person with whom I have a bond is gone. That bond has been severed, leaving a deep and tender wound. It hurts. It is sometimes hard to find relief. I have to do what I can to relieve the pain, clean and dress the wound, protect it, and give it time to heal. I must adjust my life to allow for it, and it’s a damn inconvenience, I’ll tell you. Whether or not the person who died “is in a better place” doesn’t change any of that. Grief is not selfish, but grief is about me.

I often compare grief to losing a limb. If my leg were to be amputated or lost in an accident, my life would be irrevocably altered because of that loss. I simply could not live the way I did before. Furthermore, it would hurt. It would be hard to come to grips with my new reality mentally and emotionally. I might even think that God had treated me unfairly. I would be forced to accept new assignments from life—to heal, to rehab, to learn new habits and ways of getting around, to learn what new kinds of support I will need from those around me. Perhaps I will get an artificial limb and learn to do even more than I could before I lost my leg. Perhaps I will develop the desire to help others who have gone through the same experience. Who knows where this road will lead? All I know at the moment is that I’ve taken a turn somewhere and I’m not in Kansas anymore.

An illustration like that helps me grasp what the grieving process is like. If it’s accurate, I think you can see how much we underestimate the length, breadth, and depth of the grieving experience.

- A loved one dies and the company gives you two or three bereavement days. Then it’s back to business as usual.
- Your friends come to the funeral and call for about a week and then you don’t hear from them. The cards stop coming a few days later.
- Your family has to return to work and all their other activities, their visits become less frequent within a few weeks, and within a couple of months they can’t understand why you haven’t gone through dad’s things yet, and why you refuse to talk about selling the house. What’s the matter? Why can’t you get over it and move on?
- No one, not even your pastor, understands why you don’t want to come to church. They forget that you and your husband sat in the same seat for years and did everything in church together. Being there without him just doesn’t feel right. And if the congregation sings that song you both loved, you’ll have to leave because it hurts so much. The children’s ministry coordinator doesn’t get it when you say you’ll have to stop teaching indefinitely and pressures you to reconsider. There are few who can grasp the feeling that it will do you worse to come to church than to stay home.

Thanks for listening. It has meant the world.

Time Goes By

In June I ran over my cat and made it through Father's Day and my father's birthday without him. June 10 made twenty-eight of my mom's birthdays since she died. Today is my friend Catherine's birthday, and her family is celebrating without her too.


My youngest daughter and I shopped for wedding dresses and talked venues and caterers and guest lists.

My middle daughter's cat got run over and died.

My oldest daughter is working things through.

I attended a week-long workshop with the inimitable Zelda Lockhart where I explored some of the family lore in fiction. I visited my friends in Oriental and made a sale of some of my prints and cards to one of the local galleries. I submitted more of my stories and went to my writing groups. I hurt someone.

I went to my boat one weekend, relaxed and did some summer cleaning, had dinner with friends. They'd missed me and I was so happy to be with them.

On July 1, I had a photography exhibit entitled, "The American Experience" with four other people. I took down a photograph of my deceased cat and replaced it with a photograph of a boat in Oriental Harbor. I dedicated my photographs to my dad. Some of his last words were, "I love this country so much."

I'm putting together some amazing writing workshops and already have people signing up for October and February of 2012. The one with Jan Phillips is full and people are still calling.

I've seen some things that appeared to be signs, like this cloud (what was the earth thinking?):



and this word on my floor (which a friend said is the Sanskrit word for "fear"):



I've spent too much time on Facebook and reality TV shows and not enough time on the stacks of books and movies that stare at me every time I walk by.

I've been to my home town and put flowers on my parents' graves, met with the accountant, visited with my brother.

A red-headed woodpecker eats sunflower seeds and finches of every color fight for perch at the thistle seed. In about a week I'll have a jillion tomatoes.

Live goes on.