Home

The church service this week brought me back to my first visit. The music, the talk about forgiveness, the way I teared up, the feeling of being surrounded by love. I thought, "I am at home." I started thinking about home, all the homes I've lived in. Now we live in a house that has grown with us. It started out as a three-bedroom house, our first purchase. We've added on a couple of times as needed, and it has morphed into a sprawling house with a modern feel. We raised our three daughters here, and it is full of their notes and pictures, artwork, old clothes. It holds all the memories of their childhood.

When I was a freshman in college, my family left my childhood home and moved to another neighborhood. Although I never actually lived in this house, for years it held the promise of "home" in the sense that it was where we gathered on special occasions and holidays. My father lived there for over forty years. Although it no longer holds any remnants of our time there, I can still picture each room: the wall of books, the kitchen with my mother's needlepoint, my father's room with the stacks of CDs and his reading pile, the bedrooms my children piled into with their cousins, the dining room table filled with relatives always welcome to our large gatherings.

Most of my childhood was spent in this house, this split level that was the epitome of the post-war housing boom. Our basement with its fireplace where we huddled when the power went out and where I got my first kiss. The cramped bedrooms where we waited for our "roommate" to spend the night out so we could have a friend in. The back yard where we staged plays and played canasta and ball. This house was only part of the setting for those years though. The woods, the streets, the creek, the shopping center and schools within walking distance, our church at the end of the street. The place of tragedy: a neighbor's child run over by a truck, a mother with breast cancer, divorces. Home was chaotic with five children, but it represented a place to come to at the end of the day.

I couldn't find a picture of the house I lived in until I was seven, but I remember the porch where we drew with crayons, the black and white television, the pony that came around the neighborhood, first homework, learning to ride my bike and coming home with my face skinned up from falling. I remember Eddie, a boy I had a crush on. This photograph was taken after my next-to-the-last sister was born. Soon my mother was pregnant again and we moved to the split level.

I was born in a house on Shady Lawn Drive, pre-war construction. I found this photograph of me and my father, taken at that house. It speaks of love.

During the time I was day-dreaming of home, the choir sang a song entitled, "Grace," a contemporary version of the song "Amazing Grace." I was amazed to hear the words, "I shall go home" in their four-part harmony. I carried the thought of going home out the door, driving toward my house where I store all the memories of my past.

Greensboro NC to Greensboro GA

This weekend I went to Greensboro GA with four of my friends from Greensboro NC.  To look at the picture of the five of us, taken by a kind boater, you would probably see five sixty-year-old women.  But when I see the picture, I picture us when we were younger, forming ourselves, being formed by our parents and our experiences.

Out of ten parents, only one of us has a parent left.  One girl is divorced.  One girl is divorced and remarried.  We have children and grandchildren.  None of us has settled far from home; all live in the southeast.  Some have been hit by tragedy.  In short, a typical group of women.

We have so many memories of our time together.  I've known one of the girls since the fourth grade, the others since junior high.  When we gather for these brief weekends, there doesn't seem to be enough time to remember it all; we skim the surface of some of our past while digging deeply into other parts.  We feel free to reveal the truths of our home lives now that our parents are gone.  We don't have to keep secrets any more.  It's freeing!  It's healing.  It is safe and enveloping.

It's morbid, I know, but I've lost a couple of friends in the past year or so, and I can't help thinking that one year we'll get together and one of us will be missing.  I stare into each face on the porch in Greensboro GA, seeing the girl I knew in Greensboro NC, and can't bear to think of it.  Before we say good night on our last night together, we talk about next year, where we'll go, who to invite into our circle of friends from the past, making a future with all of us in it so we don't say 'good-bye,' just 'see you next year.'

Poem for a Cloudy Day

Why I Wake Early

Hello, sun in my face.

Hello, you who made the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips,
and the nodding morning glories,
















and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crotchety



















best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light
good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day

in happiness, in kindness.

--Mary Oliver

(Thanks to Caroline, for sharing this beautiful poem.)

Old is Made New

I just got back from Greensboro doing some family business and while I was there, my brother and I rode by my dad's old house. They had done so many improvements to the outside of the house: an iron fence, a potting shed, french doors to the den. They had painted the outside. There was a paper tulip on the front door, obviously made by a child. Topiaries framed the porch. The yard was green and the driveway had been power-washed. The house looked lived in again.

The house is being loved by another family, and we're moving on with our lives without my dad. A year and three-quarters later I still think of him every day, still miss him like crazy. But seeing his house alive again with that family cheered me up.

(My brother took the photo. Thanks, Bro. <3)

A Day Off

I usually take Wednesdays off. As soon as I wake up, my mind starts sorting through the opportunities the day holds. The constant battle between the things I want to do and those I need to do begins.

Today, here are some of the choices:


I have boxes of photos, papers, and books that I brought from my dad's house. I need to sort through and organize them.



Most of the drawers in my house look similar to this one. It's weighty on my brain, all the junk that we keep. I could clean out a few of them at a time.



My planters have weeds and a cat flourishing in them. It's time to plant the garden. My husband does most of the heavy work, but I could go buy plants for the garden and flowers for the deck.



Laundry. Always a chore, um, I mean choice. The grocery store too. Sweep up the plant droppings that come in on our shoes in the spring. Wipe the counter, empty/fill the dishwasher. Clean out the old food in the refrigerator.



An email comes in telling me of a writing contest. I could write a new story, edit old ones, research literary magazines, submit to them. I could go through the 10,000 photographs on my computer and delete the ones that aren't that good - be ruthless, my friend Jan Phillips says.



So it's 11:00. I've talked to one of my sisters, one of my friends, and one of my daughters. I've checked mail and run through facebook. I've listened to a few songs by the amazing Joan Osborn on YouTube. I've done two loads of laundry, printed out a photograph for a writing contest, taken the pictures you see here. If I count the laundry as a 'need' and the phone calls and blog post as a 'want' I think the morning has been a balanced success.

Now to eat some lunch and think about the hours of the afternoon. Should I go see my mother-in-law, sit quietly listening to music with her? Should I go to the gym? Tackle something from the list above? The possibilities are endless, and that makes me happy.

High Dive

This is probably the biggest "Can I Do It?" moment of my blogging career. Aaaaaah...whoooooooo (me taking a deep breath).

For several months I have been working on a website where I could share my photographs and cards. Thanks to my dear friend Patrice Cherry the website is complete.

I'm nervous. This is like standing at the top of the high dive and looking down. It seems a l-o-n-g way down to the water. Will it sting when I hit? Will the water be warm or cold? Will people be laughing or clapping when I surface? Can I make it to the ladder at the side, pull myself up, and hit the ladder to the board again??

There's only one way to find out. Please visit my new website, MamiePotter.com. Take a look around. Give me some feedback and if something strikes your fancy, buy it.

Aaaaaaah.....whoooooo. YEEEEEEE HAAAAAAAAAA....

Hurry up...no, slow down...

Since I turned sixty in January, I seem to have this conflict going in me all the time: Hurry up/Slow down.

I need to hurry up and accomplish things like get my work published, sell my cards, de-clutter my house so my kids won't have to do it, travel everywhere, experience new things. I'm mature, but not too old to still be daring. I've still got my brain (although I am forgetting things and have a little more trouble recalling details). I'm in pretty good shape physically and have started working out several days a week.

And yet I need to slow down too. I don't have to lead a discussion group on every great book I come across. I don't have to organize trips for everybody or plan the family gatherings if I don't want to. I don't have to do laundry every time it peeks over the rim or wash the dishes before they hit the sink. What if I only had a year to live (like a couple of my friends); what would I slow down to do?

I'm stuck between feeling urgency to get things done before it's too late and giving myself a well-deserved rest. On my day off, I look around my house and think of the drawers and closets full of stuff that needs to be given or thrown away, and then go to the deck and sit in the sun doing nothing.

My life has never been about being balanced; I've always gone ninety miles an hour. Maybe it's time to find the right balance between hurrying up and slowing down. Taking up and giving up in equal proportion with a little discernment about what really makes me excited. More of that subtracting and adding, I guess. And I've always been good at math.

Rocking Chair

Sometimes lately, since my dad died, I feel lonely. I don't exactly know how this loneliness is related to his death, but it is somehow.

The other night I spent some time thinking about it, and I put my mind to what would make me feel better. This beautiful photograph of my grandfather and me came to mind. I remember sitting in his lap while he sang "Red River Valley" and I felt so comforted.

A few days ago, I was missing my dad like crazy after accidentally (are there accidents like this?) playing a message from him on my voice mail. In my workroom, I have a rocking chair that was my grandfather's, and I went down and sat in it and rocked for a while. Again, I felt comforted.

I have lots of people around me, physically and symbolically, so it doesn't make sense that I would feel alone. I'm pondering it from the vantage point of the rocking chair.

Open Windows

On a morning like today in the 1950's and 60's, our windows would have been wide open. Few of us had air conditioning and it was so refreshing to go through our day and night in the fresh air and occasional breeze that came through our screens. At the beach, in the height of the summer heat, ceiling fans circulated the steamy air, cooling our sweaty faces and sunburned bodies.

I don't feel free to do this anymore.

This week alone, I've gotten notices from our community watch about vans of people selling magazines and steaks, several break-ins, cars stolen from driveways. One neighbor told me that thieves used her ladder to break in an upstairs window.

I don't want to live in fear. And I wonder if there's more crime or more dissemination of information.

When crime is in your neighborhood, every person becomes suspect. The teenager with his cellphone taking pictures. The car full of faces you don't recognize. An untidily dressed walker.

I want to get up in the morning and push my windows up. I want to see the slight wind ruffling my curtains. I want to hear the birds in the bush making a fuss.

I want spring to come into my winter-worn rooms and autumn to take away the heat of the summer. I want to leave my house open when I drive away for a few hours and come back to find it as I left it.

People only steal things like TVs, I tell myself. They aren't interested in the pictures or pages of short stories or family videos. They might take a ring or my camera full of photographs or a jar full of coins. But it's only stuff.

And yet, I leave on an errand or to go to work and reluctantly close the windows and lock the doors. It's one of our greatest losses, I think, the ability to leave our windows open.

Cleaning Up

“Sim­plify your life so that you do not try to fill your time with more than you can do. Start by list­ing your activ­i­ties. Then prune the list, strik­ing out any­thing that is not truly nec­es­sary and any­thing that is not beneficial.”- Eknath Easwaran

A few months ago one of the elderly members of my family went from being able to get around pretty easily to sitting slumped in her chair every day in a fog. After a consult with her doctor, he took her off all her meds and started adding them back one at a time. Now for the most part she is chatty and mobile.

That's sort of what I'm doing with my life right now. I felt burdened with some of my obligations and obligated about some things that were feeling unproductive. Basically I have stopped everything and am adding things back one by one.

What I've added is working out at the gym, setting up a web site (link to come soon), concentrating on my photography rather than my writing for now. What I've deducted is most of the things I do at night. I've found that I'm not as energetic late in the day as I used to be, staying up until all hours of the night. Now I want to do things mid-morning through the afternoon.

I'm also taking a break from all the outside things I did with my writing. I quit both my writing groups and have put more workshops on hold. This is the one thing I'm feeling a little uneasy about. I have quite a few stories that are one revision from being finished and I have a stack of places to submit. Until I get those out of the way (in my brain) I'm going to have a hard time concentrating on the book I have in mind. I know that I can add a group or put together a workshop if I need it though.

I'm increasingly aware of this "last gift of time" that I'm being given. I want to make the most of it, and figuring out what making the most of it looks like is hard. Almost weekly I hear of someone with weeks or months or a year to live and I find myself contemplating what those words would mean to me. Not morbidly, but just thinking about what would be important and what wouldn't matter. And trying to put those conclusions into practice now.

The adding and subtracting I've done so far feels right. I've got challenges but not too many, creative endeavors that don't feel like work, and time. I'm content and that's enough for now.

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)