This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

This is going to be a weird one. Something that I set into motion, thinking it was something I wanted, didn’t go through…and made me even happier when it didn’t. So hang with me.

Ever since Michael died, I’ve ruminated over whether I want to sell our home and downsize. I live in a 3-story condo, which will, of course, grow to be a challenge as I get older. But…

I’ve lived here for 20 years, longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere. No one else has ever lived in this condo but us; we are original owners.

This condo is the furthest thing from cookie cutter that you can get. The developer wanted this to be full of creatives, and so each condo was left a blank slate inside. Each owner developed their own floor plan. You cannot walk next door or in any of the other condos here and see my place. Everything in these walls is uniquely designed by us, and, for that matter, IS us.

This is a live-where-you-work condo, so my business, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, is on the first floor. And again – fully designed by me. For my students.

And above it all…I love it here. Love, love, love it here.

It’s been difficult since Michael died. I do see him in every corner. There are times I wake up and swear he is sleeping next to me. If I am sitting in my recliner and movement attracts my attention through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I sit up and look to see if it’s Michael, crossing the street from the bus depot.

Of course, when I blink, whether beside me in bed, or out the window, or anywhere else, it’s never him. But there is, sometimes, the sense of him.

There are days I am comforted by seeing him. And there are days when it hurts beyond belief.

So I began looking at other places. Because I own and run AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop LLC, it likely would have meant putting the entire business on Zoom, as I did during the pandemic. I would lose my classroom. But I looked. Luckily, I have a realtor who has known me a long time, who is a widow as well, and who has so much patience, she makes a saint look in a hurry. We found several that I liked. Places I could picture where I would put my furniture and at least a good-sized portion of the artwork.

Amazingly, one stickler was always, “Where would I put a litterbox?” And an expected stickler was where I would have my writing space.

So I looked.

Last Friday, I found a condo listed that made my eyes widen. It had a two-car heated garage, a first in all the ones I’d seen, and better than what I have – I only have a one-car garage, and including Livvy’s Beetle, I own 3 cars. This had the garage, and two more spaces on the driveway. It had a fully finished basement, with room for me to continue having a classroom, even though I likely shouldn’t, since it wasn’t zoned for business. It was lovely, though I would be able to walk into a neighbor’s home, or any other one in that particular subdivision, and see my own place with different décor.

But one of the pulls of doing this is that with a smaller place, I would either have no mortgage at all, after the proceeds from my place, or I’d have a much smaller mortgage. With Michael gone, I am dependent on just me. Just me. And the studio.

Scary.

So I sat down with my realtor and with Olivia and I put in an offer. At one point during this, Livvy said to me, “Mom, you’re shaking.”

Yes, I was. But I signed the papers. We wouldn’t know until the next day if our offer was accepted.

We went home and I settled into my recliner. Our kitchen island separates the kitchen from the living room, and I glanced over when one of my cats jumped on the counter. But instead of looking at the cat, I looked directly at the back of the island, which faces out to the living room.

When we moved in, we discovered that the builders had left the back unpainted, unfinished in any way. It was just plywood. And I absolutely hated it.

My daughter Katie was getting her Masters in math in Tallahassee at that time, so little Olivia and I flew down to Florida to spend spring break with her. We were out to dinner when Michael sent me a photo.

He’d bought some lovely copper tiles, which reflected our corrugated copper ceiling. And he’d installed them on the back of the island. All by himself. As a surprise for me.

From my recliner a few evenings ago, I looked at those tiles, and I burst into tears.

I tried to argue myself into the new condo. I said all the practical things. I tried hard. But these are the three things I kept coming back to:

• I do not yet need to move because of physical reasons.
• I do not yet need to move because of financial reasons.
• And…I love this place. I love, love, love this place. It is the most Home I’ve ever had.

I tried to sleep on it. But I didn’t sleep. And early in the morning, I got up and texted my realtor. “Please,” I said, “get me out of this.”

She did.

And I felt a rush of relief that just lit me up inside and out. I was home, I’ve been home, I would stay home. I wanted to hug the entire condo.

This is where I belong.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

A few days ago, someone said something to me that I not only never thought would be said, but I also never imagined it being said.

“Well, Kathie, you sure know how to make lemonade out of lemons.”

Cliché or not, it still made my jaw drop.

I’ve also been told recently, “I am amazed about your resilience and power to snap back to yourself after the world fell apart.”

What?

And finally, one of the writers I asked to read my new novel (release date 2/18/27) and write a cover blurb for it said this in her email, “To write so deeply about grief and not have it feel heavy is miraculous (or maybe it’s just the work of seasoned, talented writer!)”

Me? Really?

Of course, nobody saw me right after my HVAC unit bit the dust on an 89-degree day, just a couple days after my car was totaled in the accident. There were lemons. There was falling into my recliner and staring blankly at the ceiling while tears fell silently down my cheeks and soaked my shirt. And as for miraculous…I don’t even know how to approach that one.

So let me tell you…

In high school, my friends called me by the nickname, “Tombstone”. Why? Because I was always so grave.

My parents called me Sarah Bernhardt and rolled their eyes. For those who don’t know, Sarah Bernhardt was an internationally famous 19th-century French stage actress known for her highly emotional roles, expressive body language, and larger-than-life off-stage persona. I personally prefer to think that I may have been like her because she was flamboyant, scandalous, and didn’t care what anyone thought of her. She flaunted societal norms, did the unexpected, and had high-profile affairs.

But I don’t think my parents meant that.

I wrote about dark subjects, with characters often dying, when I was in high school. My characters generally live now, but the dark subjects remain. When I was in 7^th grade, my parents were called in for a conference because I handed in a short story in my English class. It was about a teenage prostitute who agreed to a gangbang because her mother needed the money. When her mother found out what she did, she freaked, and so my main character ran screaming out of the house and got promptly hit by a bus.

Yeah.

So I’m really not used to seeing myself as positive. Early on in my writing career, I submitted a short story to a literary magazine without reading all of the submission guidelines. The story was returned to me, with a black-markered, all capitals, message on the bottom of the rejection slip. “DON’T EVER SUBMIT HERE AGAIN!” it screamed.

My story was about a woman who was a cutter and went to more and more extreme lengths until she deliberately put herself in a situation where she knew a man would kill her. I looked back at the guidelines.  “Oh,” I said. The magazine wanted literary stories, yes, but they wanted stories with positive endings. I thought about that for a bit, and then shrugged. The woman wanted to die, she died, positive ending.

(And just so you know, that particular story ended up being published in another magazine and anthologized. When I married Michael and my name changed, I returned to the original magazine with literary stories with positive endings. The same editor took every one, and once told me he was always delighted to see a Kathie Giorgio story on his desk. No, I never enlightened him.)

But now…lemonade, resilience, and miracles.

I know exactly where it comes from.

This blog, of course. Or it’s predecessor, really, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, where I challenged myself to write a moment of happiness every day for a year. I defined a moment of happiness, not as a gratitude-type sentiment, but as a moment when I smiled involuntarily. This challenge began in late 2016 and throughout 2017, in a particularly dark period, which I didn’t know would get darker. It started because I was assaulted by a man in a particular red hat, and I made national news. After I started the daily blog, Michael lost his job twice, taking our health insurance with it, Olivia was bullied so badly in school, we had to move her to a new school, and I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

The daily blog taught me a very important thing. You have to look for happiness. You have to notice happiness. If your senses are wide open, and your mind is too, you will find it. You can’t wait for it. You search for it.

I thought 2017 was the darkest year of my life, and that it would remain so. It did earn that ranking, until January 17, 2024, when Michael stepped into the intersection of 6^th and State in Milwaukee, and our world blew apart.

I am so relieved that I didn’t know that 2017 was a training session for 2024, and I’m still in training today.

But those comments I received this week made me smile involuntarily. They make me happy. They are evidence of change and of strength, and always of a mind that is open and ready to receive.

I don’t think I’m a whole new person. I think I’ve always been me, but just perceived differently by others. Which is why I’m still here.

A few weeks ago, when Olivia graduated with her Masters degree, there was a ceremony where each graduate stood and offered thanks to those who helped along the way. By far, my favorite (besides my daughter, of course) was a young woman who got to the microphone, and belted out, “I want to thank ME! I am grateful for ME! I’m grateful for my hard work, my resilience, and I made it!”

I cheered.

And so this week, my moment of happiness is more than a moment. It’s a lifetime. I am so happy I am who I am.

And now I’m going to go be flamboyant and scandalous. I’m going to flaunt societal norms, do the unexpected, and have high-profile affairs.

Well, maybe not all that.

But I will go make some lemonade.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Immersed in a week of multiple offers to bring over a truckload of bubble wrap for me to wear, warnings that I should just stay inside my house and not venture out (“But you have those stairs, Kathie! You have those stairs!”), so really, I’d better just stay in one spot in my home, hopefully in a chair in an otherwise vacant room, and make sure the chair doesn’t have wheels…well, yes, there’s still a bright spot. In fact, there’s a few!

So first off…my car. My poor 2018 Chrysler 300S named Barry. He has been official declared a total loss, and it about killed me to sign the “JUNKED” form today. The car was an absolute mess. The driver who ran the stop sign has been given the dreaded “at fault” condemnation, though from the police report, he tried to say that he did stop, but thought he could get across before I got there, but then, he said, “She accelerated!”

No, I did not accelerate. Please.

I am still incredibly bruised, with more bruises surfacing each day, even today, when it’s been a week and two days. If I was rolled up in bubble wrap, even that would hurt, pressing against me.

To add insult to injury, we suddenly had a heat wave, with our temps climbing to the upper eighties and low nineties for two days. This, after we just had a freeze warning a week ago. And of course, my AC caused trouble. Late at night, I suddenly began to smell bleach. I asked Olivia if she was painting, and she wasn’t, but she smelled it too. I shut the AC off, the smell cleared, and so…today, right now, I have an AC repairman looking at it. The HVAC unit is 20 years old. Sigh…we’ll see.

On Wednesday afternoon, when I walked in to my classroom to teach my workshop, I found a bright red velvet bag by my seat. Inside, a pretty little ornament in red and gold. A horse pranced at the top, and then there was a vertical banner with Chinese symbols on it. “It’s the Year of the Fire Horse,” one of my students said. “This will bring you luck.”

Let’s hope for GOOD luck. I’ve had enough of the other kind.

Later, I looked it up. The Year of the Fire Horse, I read, represents a rare convergence of bold momentum, passion, and transformation. It only happens once every 60 years. It combines the horse’s energetic, independent spirit with the fire element, amplifying traits like ambition, creativity, and a drive for rapid progress.

I could handle that. So I hung it up on my 3^rd floor, an open space that houses my bedroom and my writing space, as well as where I teach when I’m on Zoom.

And then…things happened.

First, right before I went to bed, a Google alert went off on my phone. There was a link to Jim Higgins’, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel books editor, column. My poetry collection, The Birth Of A Widow, was included in a list of his must-reads for this summer.

Yes! The more people read it, the more I can help.

But there was a second Google alert right after it. There was an article with the headline, “Wisconsin Poet Kathie Giorgio Turns Grief Into Action”. It talked about the book, and it also announced my appearance at the Vision Zero Summit on Wednesday, June 10. It’s being held in the Centennial Hall in downtown Milwaukee. I will be offering up a few poems at the convocation at 9:00 a.m., signing books at 5:00 p.m., and participating in a panel with two other authors, Anna Zivarts and Jonathan Stalls, at 6:30 p.m. Vision Zero is a worldwide initiative seeking to eliminate pedestrian deaths by 2035.

Turning grief into action. I’m trying.

So those were the first and second good things. Then came the police report, which found the other driver at fault. It even called me “appearing normal” (I now have it in writing!). This was followed quickly by a call from my insurance agent. We’d been waiting for the police report to come out, and then the payout for Barry could be complete. She said, “I’m so glad you told me about how pristine Barry was! You were right!” Then she went on to list all of the positive aspects of Barry, which added dollars to his worth. “In all my years,” she said, “I’ve never seen a payout this large.”

I’d already done my due diligence, looking up Barry’s CarFax report, and running him through worth estimators. I had my responses up and ready, if I was given a lowball amount more appropriate for a car that was not treated like a member of the family who happened to be a king.

That wouldn’t be Barry…or Semi, or any of my previous cars.

I was braced when she named the amount. And then I relaxed. It was exactly what I wanted. And not only that, it was only a couple dollars shy of being exactly what Barry’s replacement, who is on his way to me from Utah right now, will cost. I will not be returning to a car loan. The new car will be wholly mine.

I found Barry’s “little brother”, my third Chrysler 300 (I had Hemi before I had Barry). He’s a year younger, has about the same amount of mileage, is a stunning bright blue, and has all of Barry’s bells and whistles, as well as some extra bells and whistles. He’s supposed to arrive here between June 1 and 7.

All good things. After getting off the phone call with my insurance agent, I went to look at the little Chinese ornament, and stroked the red tassel that hung from the bottom. “You’re helping,” I whispered to it. “Thanks for reminding me that there is always good in my life. There always is.”

Well…

The AC guy is done. I have to replace my HVAC.

I looked back at the little ornament. “Well, you’re keeping me real too. That’s all right.”

And it will be. Which just made me realize that I finished reading a novel today, while I was eating lunch. The final line: “It’s okay.”

And it is.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Here’s where you can see the list: https://www.jsonline.com/story/entertainment/books/2026/05/27/38-new-books-for-summer-reading-in-2026/89741342007/

And here’s the other piece:  https://www.prlog.org/13148370-wisconsin-poet-kathie-giorgio-turns-grief-into-action.html

Me with The Birth Of A Widow.

 

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Well…well…

We almost had a third week where I didn’t write a Moment. I was in a car accident this past Tuesday. I was driving through a 4-way intersection, where I did not have a stop sign, but the cross street did. Someone on my left barreled through his stop sign. He was suddenly right in front of me and I plowed into his passenger side front and back doors. I was not speeding, I was only going about 15 mph because this was in a large parking lot for an outdoor mall. But the impact was huge. All of my airbags deployed – from the steering wheel, the side airbags, and Barry (my car) had knee airbags as well. I am pretty sure he’s going to be declared totaled, and I am basically a bruise from neck to toe. No broken bones, thankfully, but man, I am really ugly and in pain right now. I still haven’t gotten the police report, but I can’t imagine I would be given the fault here.

So…I’m not exactly in a joyful mood.

BUT…rewinding the week a bit…

First, that afternoon, before the accident, I had my yearly exam with my oncologist. I am still free and clear of breast cancer, and I am now 9 years out.

YES!!!

And rewinding a little further…

My daughter Olivia graduated last weekend with her Master of Science in Art Therapy. I’m sure most of you know that Olivia is on the autism spectrum. Michael and I were originally told, when she was 3 years old, that she would likely never talk, and she may only see us as bumps on a log. I never understood that phrase, because she NEVER saw us as bumps on a log. And at that doctor’s appointment that day, she played at my feet while the doctor told me all these awful things. Each time, she tapped my shoe, and when I looked down, she beamed at me. She was telling me she was just fine. When she did begin to talk, she talked with a college-level vocabulary.

And she talked, and still talks, a LOT. Michael used to sit and listen and occasionally yell out, “Period! Period!” to get her to end a sentence.

And Olivia’s journey just took off from there.

She attended college and grad school with scholarships and grants for her academic and artistic achievements. Dean’s List student. Graduated with her Bachelor of Science in Art Therapy  summa cum laude. She’s a gifted violinist and a gifted artist. She’s writing her first novel. And she landed a job in her field a few weeks before her Masters graduation.

She’s amazing. All four of my kids are amazing. I could be a contestant on Wheel of Fortune and truthfully say, “My kids are incredible!”, unlike most contestants.

The last time I watched her graduate, Michael sat beside me. This time, my sons were with me. I watched Olivia beam as she walked across the stage, beam just like she did as she played on the floor at my feet the day I was told she would be mute.

Not. A. Chance. Look at her go!

And now, for the first time in 37 years (my oldest child is 42), I don’t have a child in school. That feels very weird.

To be truthful, my whole life feels very weird right now.

I was a wife, but now I’m not.

I was a mom, and I’m still a mother, but I’m not sure what my role is anymore.

I used to move around my condo, patting my cats, Edgar Allen Paw and Muse, but now I pat Oliver and Cleo. I used to have a dog, but now I don’t.

I used to talk to my friend Leslie every Thursday, but she died on the operating table the day before Thanksgiving. That every-week hour is still empty.

The publishing industry is being fully rattled by the onset of AI, and I have no idea what’s going to happen.

And now Barry. Who I know is “just a car”. Just a material thing that gets me from here to there. But for me, my cars are beloved. They’ve all had names, genders, and personalities. Barry was – still is – a Chrysler 300S. The 300 was a car I admired from a distance for years and thought I would never be able to own. Now I’ve had 2. Barry is so named because of his color (berry) and because if he could talk, he would have a voice like Barry White. I always felt that his classic, powerful lines and his muscular appearance protected me.

And he did protect me, this past Tuesday.

That’s a good Moment too. Even with the loss.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Well, again, not really.

I am not going to be able to post today, I’m sorry. I just found out that a good friend has pancreatic cancer, and I am just spinning. I know there are things in my life that make me happy, I really do. But to post today would feel dishonest and disingenuous. I just can’t.

I will pull myself together and be back next week. For now, I need to let myself be sad.

The “despite” is just too hard today.

Positive comments and virtual hugs welcomed.

See you next week.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Well, actually, this week is pretty miserable. I have a back rib that has had a habit of falling out of place at very inopportune times, ever since I was 32 years old. It fell out a couple weeks ago, and I’ve done three visits to my lovely chiro, who pounces on me to put it back. It obeys, and then after I’m clear of the chiro office, it sneaks back out again.

I woke up today barely able to move. I can’t put my right arm out in front of me without it causing my back to go into such an intense spasm, it squeezes my lungs. My left arm can’t go behind me without the same result.  Consequently, typing is very difficult.

So I’m going to skip this week, as every other word I type is accompanied by a shriek of pain. Instead, I’m going to post a favorite from the original year of this blog, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. In 2017, I challenged myself to write this blog every single freaking day. I didn’t know at the time that my year would be hit with my husband losing his job twice, my daughter would be so bullied, we’d have to move her to a new school, and I would be diagnosed with breast cancer. Hey, when I take on a challenge, the challenge takes on me!

The result, after the year, was my book, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, A Collection of Spontaneous Essays. I’m going to post my favorite one here today.

Here’s to a Moment of Happiness tomorrow!

8/17/17

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Today, I realized that, in the middle of all this hot mess breast cancer, I forgot my daughter.

And in that realization, I just wanted to wave the white flag and fall to my knees.

My daughter and I walked her schedule at her new high school again today. School starts tomorrow. It was partway through our walk-through that I realized.

“Olivia,” I said, “what time does school get out?”

“3:05,” she said.

When I had to work with the Cancer Center to set up my 20 days of radiation, I gave them a window of 1 to 5. My writing time. My meditation time. But radiation needs to be done. I worked it around classes. I worked it around clients. The majority of my appointments were set at 3:30.

I forgot about Olivia. I forgot about school.

For a 3:30 appointment, I have to check in at 3:15. There is no way her final bell can ring at 3:05, she can pack up and run out, and I can get her home and then be at the Cancer Center by 3:15.

And it was about then my overwhelm valve blew.

Oh, this week. What a dose of reality. All along, I was told radiation was easy. Just lay down for ten minutes a day. Meditate. Take a nap. Simple!

It’s not easy.

Every day, I face that machine. Every day, I lay there while everyone else runs from the room to avoid what the machine is doing to me. Destroying unhealthy tissue and healthy tissue to make sure that unhealthy tissue can’t come back. And every day, I have to face, for ten minutes, this new reality. Cancer invaded my life.

Every day, I walk under a sign that says Cancer Center. And I see people wearing baseball caps and head scarves. People who look like they would wisp in a fan-breeze down the hallway if the nurse didn’t anchor them by the arm.  I heard one woman coming before I even saw her – her breathing sounded like she was underwater. I heard her breathe past me and I heard her breathe down the hall.

I tell myself every day how lucky I am.

But then today, I realized I forgot my own daughter in the middle of this hot mess breast cancer.

The technician came to get me. Her name is Denise. She started to say, “Hey, Kathie, how are –“ and then I looked at her. In an instant, she was holding me, rocking me, and I just completely blew apart. That’s not something I do. The other technician came in and hugged and rocked me from behind and I became the stuffing in a huge comfort sandwich. My own Orange Oreo, though I was wearing gray.

When Denise asked me what was wrong, I still couldn’t find my voice. I just motioned around the room. And she said, “It’s just all this, isn’t it.”

Yes. Just all this. And then I said, “I forgot my daughter! How could I forget my daughter!”

And I was sandwiched again. There was no hurry. There was no glancing at the clock, even though I’m sure I messed up their schedule. There was just soothing and comfort and compassion and care. And lots and lots of kleenex.

And then they left the room so I could be zapped. I watched Xappa move around me and hum and I felt remainder tears roll from the corners of my eyes, over my temples and into my ears. I thought of the woman with the drowning lungs and I wondered if that’s where her tears went.

As I was helped off the table, Denise said, “You didn’t forget your daughter. You never ever would. You’re just full to the brim right now. It will get better. This will be over. You’re okay.”

And she hugged me again. Which was just what I needed. That hug pulled me back together. At least for now.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I’m late again. I’m sorry!

It’s been an incredibly busy week. I’m following my usual teaching schedule, but I am also focusing on the launch of The Birth Of A Widow in a couple days. There’s excitement, of course, but there’s also a lot of anxiety. Will people come? Will I choke up or cry during the reading?

Years and years ago, I believe with my first book, The Home For Wayward Clocks, I was asked to appear at a bookstore in Green Bay. Of course I said yes. I decided to get a hotel room and stay overnight, spending the next day poking around Green Bay before heading home.

When I showed up at the bookstore, I was full of anticipation. The store was beautiful, and the section where I’d be speaking was carpeted, had stuffed chairs and couches, and just felt so cozy. I was delighted. The owner had two cats that stayed with her in the bookstore. So passing the time before the event began, we talked and I patted first one cat, then the other, and then back and forth. I kept glancing at the door, waiting for it to open and people to start coming in.

It didn’t. They didn’t.

The entire time I was there, no one came. Not even to shop. The only living beings in the bookstore were me, the owner, and her cats. It was like someone took out a billboard with my face on it and said, “Kathie Giorgio is in the bookstore. Stay away.”

The Packers weren’t even playing.

I laughed it off with the owner and her cats, but I returned to my hotel room, totally demoralized. In the morning, I got up and drove straight home.

It’s something I’ve never forgotten, and although I tend to pack in the crowds now, that’s not what I see when I start worrying about an appearance. I see Green Bay all over again.

Even now.

And I worry about being so incredibly personal, vulnerable, and transparent in front of an audience. The Birth Of A Widow isn’t about a fictional character. It’s about what happened to Michael and…what happened to me.

So. I’m nervous.

Then a few things happened, which, while not removing my anxiety, brought it down to a hum. First, I appeared on a morning television talk show here, The Morning Blend. I’ve been on it many times before, and I’m perfectly comfortable on camera. But this time, well, the morning show is very upbeat and positive. There’s a lot of laughter. It’s a great way to get through the morning.

And I was showing up to talk about a book about my dead husband. How was that going to go over?

It went just fine. The questions were thoughtful, the discussion even more so. I felt nothing but support from those who were there, and more importantly, I felt like my own support was going out over the airwaves to those who were watching.

When I walked through the halls to leave the station, I ran into Kim, the person who arranges the appearances. She gave me a huge hug, and then said, “I always read your Happy, every single week.”

Read my Happy? It took me a minute to understand she meant this blog.

She hugged me again and I walked out smiling.

I guess I’m personal, vulnerable and transparent here too.

When I got home, I found an email from a literary magazine, saying they wanted to publish a brand new poem, titled “Changing The Sheets”. I wrote this poem at the beginning of April, and this was the only place I submitted it to. The acceptance talked about how moved they were, how the poem affected them.

Oh, lovely. Even 17 books in, with #18 already under contract for next year, I still need some validation.

Right after that, I had a phone call from another literary magazine. They want me to consider being an editor there.

Whoa.

And then, right after that, I scrolled through my Facebook Memories, and discovered that 16 years ago, on that exact date, I received the acceptance for that first book, The Home For Wayward Clocks.

16 years ago. Book #17 launching on Saturday. Book #18, a novel, coming out next year.

If I needed validation, I could now type it with all capital letters and an exclamation point: VALIDATION!

It was my day off yesterday, even with the tv appearance, and I spent the rest of it mostly being quiet, sitting, thinking. Picking out what I’m going to read on Saturday. Wondering if anyone will show up. Wondering if I’ll choke up.

Wondering if I will do Michael proud. This book is really a gift for him. I wasn’t able to get the powers that be in Milwaukee to see that this driver did incredible, unfixable damage, that he killed a man. He did not just “fail to yield to a pedestrian.” Despite pounding on doors and walls, despite yelling into phones, to active voices, to nonresponsive voicemail, I couldn’t do a thing.

When I was in the midst of writing this book, which was a complete surprise to me, I was writing to myself. I was working through all the situations, all the hard parts, all the difficult emotions. All the loss. But then I decided to see if the book could be published, despite the vulnerability, the reveal of personal experience, the transparency.

Because I want to help others. Because something good has to come out of this. The whole experience will never be “worth it”. But something good has to come.

So the anxiety has been turned down to a hum I feel running through my veins. But I was reminded of what I can do this week.

Michael believed I could do anything. So I’m going to.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I forgot it was Thursday! Ohmygosh. So I will keep this short. I was laid flat by an ocular migraine this morning, which kept me from being able to stand any light at all, whether from my phone, my computer, a lightbulb, or the sun. The pain has receded, but I’m typing this with sunglasses on and the screen dimmed.

Consequently, I will keep this short.

The Moment actually happened today. Thank goodness, because otherwise, I don’t know what I would have written about. But once it happened, I realized there were a few steps that led up to it.

Earlier in the week, I went in for a pedicure. The nail technician and I were talking about my having taken a hiatus from work, caused mostly by stress and an upsurge in grief. The technician and the client next to us overheard, and the client, a lovely woman, leaned over and told me she was sorry about my losing my husband. We talked a little bit about grief. She’d lost both of her parents at the same time a few years ago, and in an awful way. We commiserated, and she mentioned that even now, she feels sad on some days, and sometimes, she thinks she sees signs from them.

I don’t doubt this in the least. Sitting there, I thought of the dreams I’ve had, and of the homeless man who helped me up from a fall in the slush and said, “I won’t let you go,” as he steadied me. “I’ll never let you go,” he added. Those were Michael’s last words to me.

Whether those signs are real or imagined doesn’t really matter. They’re a comfort. They make me feel watched over.

That was Step One.

Last weekend, I was in the car with my son Andy and my daughter Olivia. I don’t know how we got on the topic, but we were talking about how Olivia got her name. Olivia is named after Olivia Walton, from my favorite television show, The Waltons. Her middle name is Grace, which was the name of the main character of the novel I was working on the original version of at that time. That first version was called Saving Grace. When I rewrote it years later, and it was published, the title was In Grace’s Time.

In the back seat, Olivia smiled and said, “Dad always said I was named after some rock star that he liked.”

I laughed. “He was joking. He didn’t say that until after we’d named you. But he was referring to Olivia Newton John, who he loved.”  Michael’s favorite musical was Grease. He and his father watched it over and over.

That was Step Two.

Today, I was driving on the freeway, enroute to pick up something I bought on Facebook Marketplace. I use Spotify, and I was listening to the music from the movie version of Mamma Mia. I watched a live performance of it last weekend – that’s where I was going when we were all in the car together. The final song played, and because I was driving on a packed freeway, I let Spotify go to random.

Now one thing I need to tell you – I’ve used Spotify for several years now. And never, never, never have I chosen to play an Olivia Newton John song, and never have I heard one when it switched to random. That is Step Three.

So the random choices started. And suddenly, Olivia Newton John’s voice filled my car. The song was from Grease, Michael’s favorite musical. And the song itself?

“Hopelessly Devoted To You”. Michael’s favorite song, and the one he always sang to me.

Signs. Dreams. “I’ll never let you go.” Olivia Newton John. “Hopelessly Devoted To You.

Might be real. Might not. But…

Oh yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Well, this was a weird week.

I live in Wisconsin. The state of snow and cold, the state of lovely summers with bright blue skies and puffy white clouds, green grass, green trees…

And yes, sometimes tornadoes. Not often. But sometimes. I’ve lived here for 53 years, in a variety of towns, and I’ve never actually been in a tornado. I’ve been through lots of tornado warnings, but never the real deal.

And then this week…real deal tornadoes all around me, on Monday night, Tuesday night, and Wednesday night. Trees down, roofs torn off, amazing damage. And flooding, since we have a lot of rivers.

No, I wasn’t hurt, and I sustained no damage – though we had hail last night and my car was outside. I haven’t gone to look at it yet.

But it was three nights in a row of tornado sirens going off (which my cats had never heard before, and it totally freaked them out). Incredible wind. Rain falling so hard, I couldn’t even see individual drops, it was just a solid wall falling from the sky. At one point last night, the wind, hail, and rain were hitting my bedroom window so hard, I thought it was going to shatter.

So of course, you know I had to look at the cats several times and say, “Totos? Have we been beamed to Kansas?”

While my window never shattered, my nerves sure did. My condo does not have a basement. And all three floors have floor to ceiling windows, and the ceilings are high. I was teaching a class on Zoom Tuesday night, a class that normally meets live in my classroom, when the sirens went off. Cats and I went down to the classroom, our lowest floor, and I sat and taught, watching the students on my computer screen when they were normally in the classroom with me, but I was in the classroom by myself, albeit with two orange cats. Several of my students were in their basements as well. I’ve lived in this condo for 20 years and I haven’t really missed a basement, but for the last three nights, I surely have.

There was also weirdness in the news. I never ever ever thought I’d see the day that ANY president would use AI to post a picture of himself as Jesus, helping a sick man, and then following it up with a picture of the president being hugged by Jesus. That’s an argument for the danger of AI right there.

This was combined with my return to teaching after a six-week hiatus. So I went from sleeping an untold number of hours, to my usual schedule, which was extremely shortened because of the storms late into the night. Two of these three nights, I only slept for a couple hours. On one night, I didn’t sleep at all.

But…returning to teaching got me through my week (of which I still have today and tomorrow to get through, and Saturday, because I have a once-a-month class then). Returning gave me Moment after Moment after Moment, as I reconnected with students and clients. (For those who don’t know, I use “student” for those in classes, and “client” for those in one-on-one coaching). I was applauded. I was cheered for. I was welcomed home. The AllWriters’ motto is, “If you’re a writer, welcome home.” I was delightfully welcomed back to the home I created.

Now that the six weeks are over, I can tell you I entered into my hiatus, a very necessary hiatus, with a huge amount of fear. What if every student, every client, left? What if they discovered they didn’t need me at all, or worse yet, what if they discovered that they could find someone else who gives what I do, what the studio does?

Small businesses are created every day. And small businesses die every day too, whether they’ve been around for a year or for decades.

So while I worked hard to rest, to relax, to heal (which that added to the weirdness too…work hard to rest?), I was also sweating out worry.

In a class on my first day back, one of my students asked me, “What did you learn from this hiatus?” Well, one of the things that I learned was that I didn’t have to worry. Only one student didn’t return. I’m not going to say out of how many, because your eyes would boggle. They always do, when someone asks me how many clients and students I have. And that doesn’t even count the students and clients who work with my faculty.

So I learned I didn’t have to worry. But you know what? I probably still will.

But what I did learn, and learned really well, was that I have to take care of myself, particularly right now, as I navigate my way through losing Michael, and losing him in the way that he was taken from me. That was a shock to my system like no other.

Which means I am treading carefully. (Although tornadoes sure didn’t help this week!) A minimum of 85 working hours per week for 21 years needs to change, moving into the future. Not overnight, but gradually. I don’t know how…but I’m thinking, which is always a good sign.

But being welcomed back like this…oh, holy cow. That created a tornado of absolute joy and pleasure. And, well, knowledge. A couple weeks ago, I was poking around the clothes at a St. Vinnie’s and I came across a bright pink t-shirt. In bold black letters, it shouted, “A Woman Who Knows Her Worth.” I hesitated, but then put it into my cart.

Today, I’m wearing it.

So much gratitude to all of my students and clients at AllWriters’.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

This week is the last week of my 6-week hiatus from teaching. The six weeks have been incredibly healing and necessary. My health is back to where it should be. I think I’ve slept more in the last six weeks than I have in my entire life! I am well-rested for the first time in…forever. Emotionally, I can’t say I’m dancing through the daisies, but I’m better.

This week, though, I felt things shift. For the first five weeks, I spent most of my time sleeping, writing, relaxing. I’ve played video games and watched television (currently watching Frasier again and watched the movies MidWinter Break and The Friend), and I’ve read book after book after book. My time at home has been very much like my retreats in Oregon…I’ve read at breakfast, lunch, snack time, dinner, and before bed. There are books everywhere!

But today is Thursday…I begin teaching again on Monday, but really, I return to work on Saturday, as that’s when I have to start reading student manuscripts. My return is also dovetailing with the release of my new poetry collection, The Birth Of A Widow, and preparations and promotion are underway for the book’s launch. There will actually be two launches. The first one, on May 2, will be a two-parter, with my leading a workshop called “Finding The Words – Writing About Grief” at AllWriters’ in the morning, and then the launch will be in the evening at Books & Company in Oconomowoc, WI. I will be in conversation with traumatic grief therapist Marcia Williams. Then later in June, the book will also be launched at the Vision Zero summit in Milwaukee.

My appearance schedule has suddenly exploded, with bookings going all the way into August.

So…the end of my break means hitting the gas pedal and going from zero to hundred just like that. The last two nights, I’ve had trouble falling asleep.

I know I’m worried about the overwhelm returning. For the first time in 31 years of teaching, 21 years of running AllWriters’, my schedule caused me to trip, and then to stagger, and then to come to a screeching halt.

Will that happen again?

I’ve never felt anxious about teaching or book releases before. I’ve always walked into a room with confidence. Years ago, after an appearance at the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books, I ran across a review of the festival that read, “I want to be Kathie Giorgio when I grow up. When she walks onto the stage, she owns the room. She owns the world.”

Well, the world spun away from me for a while.

But here’s the thing.

I know who I am. 😊 I know my goals. I know what I can do, and I know I can do it.

This week, I began to see emails again from my students, and each time, it was like getting an injection of adrenalin. Then, as I double-checked and approved the email blast from my publicist, announcing the book’s launch, there was the adrenalin again. Readers are already emailing me, telling me what The Birth Of A Widow is doing for them. Oh, adrenalin. Oh, lovely.

And when I did finally fall asleep early this morning, there was a dream about Michael.

In the dream, I was sitting at my writing table, working on what I now recognize is a new-new book (as opposed to my most recently published book, or to the novel that is going to be released in 2027). When I glanced up from my screen, Michael was sitting in my rocking chair. He was reading, and when I looked closer, I saw the book was The Birth Of A Widow.

I froze.

He looked over at me and smiled. “You know this happened to you too,” he said. “Not just to me.” He closed the book. “You did great,” he said.

While he didn’t specify, I knew he was referring to everything. How I handled things after the accident. How I took care of him. How I dealt with the aftermath of his death. And how I wrote the book, letting the unexpected poems come, instead of trying to stuff them down.

And how I’ve dealt with tripping, staggering, stopping. And getting back up.

I don’t know if anyone’s noticed, but the following is true.

Michael came into my life in 1995, when teaching was still new for me. We were married in 1999. In that time, I went from teaching a couple classes to teaching everywhere, online or live, every night of the week. Michael said I was capable and had a lot to give.

In 2002, I went to grad school, earning my MFA in Fiction. I’d wanted to do this for years…in fact, I’d applied for and was accepted into the graduate program at the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee in 1983 – the year after I graduated with my bachelors in creative writing from the University of Wisconsin – Madison. I chickened out then, for a variety of reasons, but mostly the environment I was in. But in 2001, with my life entwined with Michael, I went. Michael said I could do it, even with a year-old baby and three teenagers and an already busy schedule teaching. I graduated in 2004.

In 2005, I opened AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop LLC. I knew nothing about running a small business. I applied for a small business loan, and was told I had no business being in business, that my business plan was not viable. But Michael said I could do it. AllWriters’ is now international and 21 years old.

I went through 4 agents, trying to get a novel published. Two of the agents were top notch, one representing Ray Bradbury, the other representing Joyce Carol Oates. They couldn’t sell me. I figured a novel was just not in the realm of possibility for me. Michael said it was. So I sold my first novel, and all of the others, on my own, without an agent, and to traditional publishers. The Home For Wayward Clocks came out in 2011. Books #16 and #17 came out this year. In 2027, Book #18 will be released. If you’re counting, that’s 18 books in 16 years. Michael was at all of the launches, but not for #15 and #16, and he won’t be there when The Birth Of A Widow launches, or when my new novel is released next year.

But I feel his presence still.

What I am trying to say is that having someone who believes in you, completely, unconditionally, never a doubt, someone who is a life-cheerleader, who believes you can do anything you set your mind to, is just the most precious, priceless, incredible gift. Particularly when you’re someone who hasn’t had that gift before.

And especially when you realize that this belief has crossed over into you. You embody that belief now, even when that person is no longer alive.

In my dream, Michael said that I’ve done great. Well…I have.

As I said…I know who I am.

Back to teaching on Monday. Book launch on May 2.

Let’s go.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.