Author: Kathie

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

It was very weird here last week in Wisconsin. We had a multitude of air quality warnings, unlike any we’ve ever had in my time of living here, which is since 1976. The warnings were the result of the wildfires in Canada. At one point on Wednesday, it hit the news that Wisconsin had the worst air quality of anywhere in the world.

THE WORLD.

We were told to stay inside if at all possible, to turn on the a/c if we had it, and if we didn’t, to still shut the windows. If we went outside, we were to wear masks. It was very gray outside, putting us into instant February, but with really hot temperatures.

I did have to go out, and when I did, my lungs seemed fine, but my eyes just burned.

During the warm months, which I consider to be anything above 55 degrees, I park my Chrysler 300S, named Barry, and drive my convertible, a Chrysler 200, named Semi. Semi is so named because, before Barry, I had a Chrysler 300C Hemi, named Hemi, and because of the 300 and 200, Michael said that my convertible was a semi hemi. And so, Semi.

Years ago, approximately in 2002, I bought my first convertible, a hunter green 1997 Chrysler LeBaron, named LeB (pronounced Luh-Bee). It was the car I always wanted, and as I tooled around in it that summer, which included a road trip to my residency in Vermont for grad school, I fell in love and swore that I would never give up having a convertible. Even though it’s really kind of silly, in a state like Wisconsin, where it’s cold for a good portion of the year. (By the way, if you read my novel, Hope Always Rises, LeB is the car that Hope drives in Heaven.)

Eventually my love for convertibles led to my trading in the LeBaron for a Chrysler Sebring LXi convertible, named SeB (pronounced Suh-Bee).

And then SeB was traded in for Semi.

As I’ve grown older, I have, at times, become more practical. A few months ago, I seriously considered selling Semi. I love Barry, he’s a joyous car to drive. I am the only driver in the house – Michael does not drive. Olivia, of course, is gone a lot of the time, and she drives the VW Beetle I gave her for her birthday/Christmas/high school graduation/all gifts for the rest of her life. So really, there are two cars at my house that only I drive. Practically speaking, I don’t need two cars.

I came to a decision – I was going to do it. Sell Semi. But only after summer ended. I wanted one more summer.

And then spring was late to come, and summer even later. And then the air quality warnings hit. I couldn’t drive Semi when the air was so bad.

But this past Wednesday, the worst day, the day Wisconsin had the worst air quality in the WORLD, well, this past Wednesday passed. And on Friday? Glorious blue skies. Sunshine. A breeze. Decent temperatures.

And I went out. Well, Semi and I went out. Together. Just the two of us.

CD tucked into the player. Coldplay’s Ghost Stories. I pushed forward to “A Sky Full Of Stars”. I cranked the volume.

Oh, and I stopped at Starbucks for a grande iced cinnamon dolce latte, with only 2 pumps of cinnamon dolce. My drink.

And then I hit the gas!

Oh, baby. Blue skies above. Sun warming me from head to toes. Perfect amount of wind. A dance-in-your-seat song. And my drink.

Euphoria. Absolute side-splitting, smile-exploding, wild-whooping euphoria. With that car around me, and the music, and the sweet, sweet taste of a cinnamon dolce latte and caffeine roaring through my veins, there was absolutely nothing in this world that I couldn’t do. Nothing.

And…I could breathe and the air didn’t burn my eyes.

I think if I could have kept on driving, forever and ever, I would have. But there is still that practical part of me, donchaknow. I slurped the end of my drink. I pulled into my garage. I gave Barry a pat and told him I still loved him and would indeed return to driving him soon.

And I hugged my convertible. Shamelessly.

Honestly, I think my convertibles have been the best therapists I’ve ever had. Sometimes, a drive is all it takes.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

Living a very public life, as I do, can be a pretty surreal experience. I get a lot of reflective impressions from the people I interact with – readers, students, clients, participants in presentations and appearances. It can be pretty amazing, how people identify me.

For example, years ago, I wrote a story about a woman in her sixties who was having to put her adult cognitively challenged daughter into a group home because the woman could no longer handle the physical requirements necessary (this story, “What Counts”, appeared individually in Thema magazine, and then was also a chapter in my first novel, The Home For Wayward Clocks). After it appeared, both as a story and a chapter, I was deluged with compassionate and supportive letters and emails from readers who assumed that I must either be like that woman, or actually was that woman, because of how I presented her. It was wonderful to know that I hit the nail on the head so exactly…but at the time, I was in my late thirties and I didn’t have an adult cognitively challenged daughter. Other than writing it, I was nowhere in the story.

I seem to come with a reputation of sorts, both as a writer and a teacher. New students and clients will come to me, telling me they’ve heard I’m intense, passionate…and then some will say “intimidating”. I try to tell myself that the different reactions to me are more a product of the other person than from me. It’s kind of weird, really, the way I end up seeing myself through others’ eyes, but also seeing myself in the mirror every day.

Last night, I had an appearance at a nearby library. I was talking about the writing life, the realities as opposed to the myths that so many people seem to believe. As the room filled, I noticed the way people configured themselves. The people I was familiar with sat to the front. In the way back were people I’d never met before. In the middle, empty seats.

“Please move up,” I called to those in the back. “Are you afraid I’ll bite?”

“Yes!” one honest person answered.

I assured them I wouldn’t, and to their credit, two people decided to take my word for it and move to the front. The others remained huddled in the back. But by the end, I had them all talking and we had a really good time. No bites occurred.

Then this morning, I was talking via Zoom to a potential new client who wanted to go into coaching with me. Several times throughout our discussion, she said, “I’m so nervous! Oh, I’m so nervous!”

I finally asked her why.

“Because you’re YOU!” she said.

Well, yeah. That’s who I try to be anyway. But by the end of the conversation, while she was still nervous, she said that I was definitely the next step in her process, and so we have officially entered into coaching for her memoir.

And then, thank goodness, there was the experience in my Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop, a “live” group that meets every week. I was talking about the upcoming AllWriters’ Annual Retreat. It’s a four-day fully immersive experience into the writing life, where I lecture, meet with students one on one, run workshops…and have a hell of a good time. One of my students asked, “Okay, but are you as nice there as you are here?”

That one took my words away for a bit. But then I said, “Of course!” I was so glad to hear the “nice”. I’m a little perturbed to think that people might think I’m different in different situations.

I was pondering all of this as I drove home from my library appearance last night. I’d run the gamut from having people being scared I’d bite, to someone being nervous around me, to being nice, but maybe not nice in all situations. Huh. I finished my work for the day, went downstairs, got my daily dose of The Waltons (of course I’m nice! I watch The Waltons and I’ve memorized all of the episodes!), and then checked my email and such one more time before bed. On Facebook, I had a notification that I’d received a response to my comment on a student’s Facebook page. The response came from someone called “Bravo Bob”.

Ohboy, I thought.

But I went to the page. The comment I’d left came from TWO YEARS ago. My student had a status that showed everyone how to type certain symbols that would then turn magically into a penguin. In response, two years ago, I tried it, got my penguin, and said, “I did it!”

Under that two-year old penguin, Bravo Bob wrote a long post about how he read my post and how inspiring I am, how beautiful, and what an amazing person! He said God threw everything into the making of me! He went on and on and on…all from a two-year old penguin. And of course, he ended with how he couldn’t friend me, but if I could friend him, he’d be really happy. Man, his life would be fulfilled.

I sat back and roared.

Now, I know this guy was a creeper. In fact, I went back today to try to find his exact comment, so I could use it here, and I can no longer see it, so it must have been removed. But we all get these things and, hopefully, most of us recognize them for what they are. This one, though, was from a post showing a little emoji penguin. Two. Years. Ago.

And I was just such a wonderful human being.

I read the comment to my husband, who thought for a minute, and then said, “Well, Kathie, some people are just into penguins.”

Laughed until I cried.

But ultimately, it was just such a good reminder. Just accept people’s impressions graciously. Some of them will be right; some will be wrong. And to keep on doing what I do, as me, because really, that’s all I can do. I love what I do, there’s no one else I’d rather be, and it shows.

Dolly Parton said, “Find out who you are and do it on purpose.”

Done and done. I bet she’s a nice person too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Many years ago, a friend, who was determined to show me that it was possible for me to meditate, brought me to a labyrinth. I’d been told I should include meditation in my life since I was a squirrely seventeen-year old, but for a long time, meditation was presented to me as something you wore a leotard and tights for, you sat on a pillow in the lotus position, and you shut off all thoughts. Getting into a lotus position was difficult enough, but turn off all thoughts? That doesn’t happen, not for me, and I don’t believe it happens for the majority of us. The function of our brains is to think. Even when we sleep, we think and produce dreams.

But this friend said, “Try a labyrinth.” At first, I confused a labyrinth with a maze, but they are completely different.  A maze is all about finding your way out of a tremendous physical puzzle, with choices and strategy. With a labyrinth, you can’t get lost. Even though the path winds, there is only one way to go.

But I was skeptical when I approached my first labyrinth. It was in a park, and it was lovingly maintained by a garden society, so that there was always something blooming. If nothing else, I figured, I’d get a nice walk out of it. I was willing to try.

And it was a nice walk. I made it to the middle, sat on the meditation bench for a few moments, then began to wind my way out. And it was on that winding out that I realized…my steps had slowed, my eyes drifted from one lovely bloom to the next, and I wasn’t thinking about my schedule, where I was going next, what needed to be done, what I was worried about, or anything at all. My body was loose and relaxed and I was just simply enjoying the moment.

With that, I was hooked.

There will be some that say that this wasn’t meditation, but I feel that there are many different definitions of meditation, and each individual person will find their own way. It was a time of stepping away for me. When thoughts did occur, they were soon behind me with the last looked-at flower and I was just moving along a path where I couldn’t get lost.

Since then, I’ve walked many labyrinths. I look for them when I travel, and they all provide unique experiences. I was even chased by a wild boar in one. Not much relaxation there! I’ve returned to the original labyrinth often, including this last weekend.

Arriving at Regner Park in West Bend, Wisconsin, I felt myself relax before I even set foot in the labyrinth. I was aware of a nagging fear about birds, particularly red-winged blackbirds. It was the height of their nesting season, and as the labyrinth is right next to a river and there are many trees, it is a perfect place for these birds to have their families. I’ve been attacked by red-wings several times, and their calls, especially their warning to stay away, can just freeze me. But I hadn’t walked the labyrinth in over a year, and so I shoved the fear away and soon stood at the “Believe” stone that marked the entrance.

Sometimes, a Moment is made up of solitude and quiet. It wasn’t totally quiet there, as there was traffic going by and a baseball game going on in the park’s diamond, and there were, of course, birds. But no one was talking to me, or at me, or around me, no one was making demands, no one was even close to me. For that Moment, just like the first experience I had with this labyrinth, I set aside worries and fears and to-do lists.

Until I got to the outer ring, which was near a tree, and as I moved toward it, I heard it. The warning call of a red-wing.

Now, the perfectionist in me said, “Stay the path. You walk a labyrinth because you don’t have to think about where you’re going. If you step off, you’re going to have to figure out how to gain those missed steps back.” The fearful person in me said simply, “RUN!” And the ornithophobia (fear of birds) in me froze. I suppose I was waiting to be pecked to death.

And then, my brain, or maybe my heart, kicked in. Carefully, I stepped two rows in. Then I walked far enough to clear the tree, before stepping two rows back and continuing on my way. After my time on the meditation bench (where I sat with my back to the tree), I wound my way back out and followed the same pattern when the tree, and the red-wing warning, approached.

I was not attacked. But I also didn’t run away. Whew.

For some, this may seem like a small Moment, but not all Moments are big. One of my favorite places in my hometown is the riverwalk along the Fox River. Two years ago, I was attacked several times on separate walks by red-winged blackbirds. They attack from behind, and these birds pecked my scalp and bit me behind my ears. Then another red-wing attacked me as I walked behind my home. This time, I fell as I ran, and the bird didn’t give up, but got into my hair and pecked my ears and even my hands when I covered my head. I became the Hitchcock movie, The Birds.

The end result: I haven’t walked the riverwalk in two years. I also haven’t walked around my home in that time. And when I drive my convertible, and I’m stopped by a light and there is the sound of a red-wing, it takes everything in me to keep from running the light.

And now, for those minutes that I stood frozen in the labyrinth at Regner Park, it looked like my love of labyrinths might be carried away by the red-winged blackbird too.

But I found a way.

Small Moment. Huge sigh of relief.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And by the way, over my years of walking labyrinths, I’ve developed a class, The Labyrinth & The Creative Spirit. I use it to teach writers and visual artists the five steps of the creative process, and then we put those steps to work on a labyrinth, followed by an afternoon of giving life to the ideas the labyrinth brings forth. I will be teaching this class again on July 22^nd, from 10 – 3, at Kinstone in Fountain City, WI. You can see info on the class here:  https://www.kinstonecircle.com/events/labyrinth-creative-spirit/

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

Most of the time, moments come from something actually happening, something that occurs and it impacts me and so I write about it. But sometimes, like this week, that moment of happiness comes from something that didn’t happen, and I didn’t realize it didn’t happen. But then I did, and wham!

Today is June 15^th. Which means we’re coming up on a whole bunch of cancer-aversary dates. In 5 days, on the 20^th, it’s the 6^th anniversary of the day my mammogram tanked. 7 days after that, on the 27^th, is the 6^th anniversary of the day I was diagnosed with breast cancer. And then there’s a whole bunch of other dates – the surgery, the 20 hits of radiation, the infection, and so on.

But here’s the thing, and this is a moment that didn’t occur to me until I started writing about this moment – I don’t remember the days of the other anniversaries. I know my surgery was in July sometime near my birthday. July 23? July 24? The radiation started in August…I think.

And that’s just it. The dates of the surgery and the radiation have faded into oblivion. I don’t remember them. They are no longer circled in red in the calendar within my brain. The other two – the mammogram and the diagnosis – well, I have hope that they’ll fade too.

But today, I had to go in to have my blood drawn before my annual physical tomorrow. This was one of those fasting blood draws, where you’re not supposed to eat or drink anything for twelve hours before they stick you. I was running in to the clinic as soon as I was done with morning clients, so I figured I’d be there at noon. So from midnight on, I abstained.

Ever notice how when you know you can’t eat, you suddenly want to eat? I watched the clock last night and carefully managed to have my last bite at 11:55. And then I wanted to have more. I even dreamt about eating last night!

And then here’s the other thing, the thing that made me realize my Moment – eventually. The awareness of it took a bit. But this whole event was just annoying. The fasting. The not being able to have breakfast this morning. Having to get in the car and drive to the clinic and wait in a waiting room to be called back. The usual jovial small talk with the blood-taker. The usual discussion of how my veins “roll” and the usual jab here, jab there, fail, fail, got it. And tomorrow, having to go through something similar to have my physical.

But that’s just it. I was ANNOYED. I wasn’t SCARED.

The whole breast cancer journey started for me in 2017 when I had a physical with my doctor, the same one I have now. I went in for bloodwork. I saw him the next day. He found nothing unusual, including the breast exam. But then, ten days later, the mammogram tanked, and for a while there, so did my life.

Today. Bloodwork. Tomorrow, physical. Exact same place, exact same doctor, exact same path as 2017. Even the exact same month.

For these first six years, the routine of that brought me great fear and stress and worry and flashbacks. My poor doctor – he knows this has caused me anxiety. A few months ago, when I was ill with what was first thought to be strep and then mono, there was a growth of some sort on my right tonsil. He sent me to see an ENT, and he told me that the ENT would poke the growth with a needle (YIKES) and if it was soft, she would drain it, and if it was hard, there might be surgery to remove it (more YIKES). And I immediately said, “Could it be cancer?” My doctor took my face into his hands and said, “No, Kathie. It’s not cancer.” And of course, I didn’t believe him, because of seeing him right before the breast cancer was diagnosed and he didn’t detect anything then. I was a wreck until I saw the ENT – by which time the growth resolved itself. It was an infection, it essentially popped, and it was gone.

What people who haven’t experienced cancer don’t know is that it doesn’t end in your mind with the day you’re told you’re cancer free. For a while, everything becomes cancer. That headache? Brain cancer. Sore throat? Throat cancer. That sore stomach? Stomach cancer, uterine cancer, ovarian cancer, colon cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer. I’ve met so many women who have dealt with breast cancer, and people who have dealt with other cancers, and this aftermath fear is common in all of us. For a while.

And when that routine starts up again, the fear starts up again. Before you even know if you have any reason to be fearful.

But today, I was only annoyed. It wasn’t until I walked out of the clinic, got in my car (warm enough to drive the convertible today!), and sighed at the thought of having to return tomorrow, that I realized.

No fear. None.

Now will there be no fear when I have my mammogram in September? When I have a visit with my oncologist in February? I doubt it. I don’t know that I will ever be able to face those sorts of appointments with calm and confidence.

But the lack of fear today shows that I am steadily moving away. Cancer no longer infiltrates my entire life.

That realization made me smile all the way home. I’ll take it.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Next month, I’m going to be 63 years old, but I haven’t even adjusted to 62 yet. For some reason, this age has shaken me down to my toes. I think it might be because I grew up during the time that 62 was the age you retired. So I grew up acclimated to the idea that 62 was old.

It seems to me that the hardest part of getting older, at least so far, is my memory slipping. I’ve always had an extraordinarily good memory. Students have commented on how I can remember all of the details of the many manuscripts I read each and every week. This isn’t a small feat. I currently have 30 coaching clients, all of whom can hand in up to 20 pages per week. I also teach 5 classes, with students handing in multiple manuscripts. And even now, at almost 63, I keep them all straight and can remember where they left off the week before.

But going into a room and forgetting why I’m there? Every day. Forgetting appointments (why do I have that doctor’s appointment next week?), forgetting that I already said something (my son told me I asked him the same question 3 times), going to write a critique, getting as far as, “Hey…” and realizing that while I know what I just read and what I want to say about it, I’ve forgotten who wrote it. This really bothers me.

And then there’s my wedding ring.

About a year ago, I received a ring commemorating my battle with breast cancer. It was very attractive, a lovely and solid silver, with small pink ribbons on it, and the words Hope, Faith, Courage, and Strength engraved on it. The only finger it fit on was my wedding ring finger, and the ring was too large to fit along with that wedding ring. So, for what I figured would be a short time, I took off my wedding ring and wore the silver band instead. I put my wedding ring on top of my dresser. I know at one point, I was worried that my daughter, who I hired for the summer to clean the condo, would dust without really looking and knock the ring off and it would be lost. So I put it somewhere for safekeeping.

Note the “somewhere”.

Around our wedding anniversary on October 9, I decided it was time to start wearing my wedding ring again. And it was right then I realized that I didn’t remember where I put it.

The obvious place was inside the dresser, and this particular dresser comes with three drawers, each of which contain jewelry organizers, including those special velvety slots for rings. I ended up cleaning out all three drawers, but there was no wedding ring.

Next, I checked my jewelry cabinet. Yes, I have a jewelry cabinet. But the ring wasn’t there.

I have a small jewelry box that I use for jewelry that I don’t wear, but want to keep. My engagement ring is in there, and so is my wedding ring from my first marriage. But not only did I not find my wedding ring there, I couldn’t even find that particular jewelry box. That’s missing as well. I know I moved it somewhere when we rearranged the furniture in the bedroom, but I just don’t remember where that somewhere is.

So I basically, for the last seven months, slowly tore my home apart, looking for my ring (and this blasted jewelry box). Nowhere.

Now that it’s a year since I took the wedding ring off, I told myself I had to just start accepting that it was gone. I tucked it away in such a safe place, it would never be found again. It made me inordinately sad. And it became, in my mind, a symbol of proof that I’m getting older and older. I couldn’t find a ring that I’d put in a safe place so it wouldn’t be lost, and it was a ring I wore for almost 23 years. Our 24^th wedding anniversary will be this October.

Just this last week, I began to wonder if I could go back to the store where we bought the rings to see if a new ring could be made, based on the design of my husband’s ring. It wouldn’t be the same, but it would be something. I wanted to put the breast cancer ring away. I no longer have cancer. But I am still married.

Then, this past Monday, I was putting away my laundry. I opened the sliding doors on that very same dresser, and as I tucked away my swimming suit, I saw the box that the watch I gave myself a few Christmases ago arrived in. It’s a large, nice box, and I saved it to store the watch when I’m not wearing it.

But I knew that the watch wasn’t in it, and I wasn’t wearing it. It was safely in my jewelry cabinet. So why did I continue keeping the box?

When I picked it up, it rattled. It rattled!

Opening it up, I lifted the fluffy pillow tucked inside. And beneath that…my wedding ring. Tucked safely in my dresser, so it wouldn’t be lost, just as I’d planned.

I’ve never been happier to see a piece of jewelry!

It’s back on my finger. My breast cancer ring is in the box, and back in my dresser.

Now if I could just find the missing jewelry box…

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I’m a little late this week; I’m sorry. But I had to get to my piano lesson, my second one. And that’s my moment of happiness, including my first lesson last week!

I wrote several weeks ago about deciding to take piano lessons, because I’ve always wanted to play. I’ve had a piano sitting in my living room for a few years now. My daughter Olivia’s first grade teacher was giving her piano away to anyone who would pay to have it hauled. I always wanted a piano, just like I’ve always wanted to play. I’ve even thought about getting a player piano, so that I could have piano music in my house, and I could watch the keys, or even pretend to be playing it. But here was this piano, from a lovely woman, who took care of my daughter when she was only six years old, and who played a big part in helping Olivia become who she is today. So I knew she took care of this piano too.

I will never forget watching it be hauled up to my second floor. The first floor is AllWriters’. We live on the second and third floors, so there was no choice but to bring it up. I hired movers off of CraigsList. They misread my description of what was needed, and so they thought they only had to get it down the few front porch steps of its original house. They didn’t notice the second floor part, so they didn’t bring a dolly. But between the two of them, and lots of swearing and sweating, the piano made it into my living room.

Where it sat.

I’d thought Olivia might play it. She doodled with it for a while, but then left it behind. It was played from time to time when my granddaughter came over and doodled too. But there was no music. From time to time, I’d pat it as I went by. Being a writer, I’ve always had the habit of giving inanimate things feelings and thoughts. It’s like my ability to pretend never went away. And so…I felt the piano was sad, and I kept telling it, “Someday.”

Which is now.

I took my first lesson last week Thursday and came home with an armload of homework. I had a music theory book, where I learned all about notes and how to draw them. I know a lot of this already, with my high school experience in chorus and band. Then there were flash cards, my nemesis. I was to use them to learn the notes that I didn’t know…which in this case, was the entire bass clef. And then there was the book of exercises and songs.

I came home from that lesson, set the books on the piano, the flash cards too, and my assignment notebook…and then I ignored it all until Sunday. I admit it, I was intimidated. I knew (and still know) that I just don’t understand the bass clef. And homework? I had to write with a pencil! I don’t even have a pencil in the house!

But Sunday, I pulled the piano bench back. I sat down. And I opened the books.

I played the exercises, and I swear I heard the piano sigh with relief. I played each exercise four times. And then I turned to the first song on treble clef. It was “Ode To Joy”. I looked at the notes, and I looked at my fingers, and then, I played the song.

I played the song!

And the song, of course, is about joy. Which it was. I was playing music! Music that I recognized! Music I could sing along to!

The piano sang too.

The next song was for the bass clef, and it was “Aura Lee”. I also know that song, and many know it as “Love Me Tender”, by Elvis. I prefer Aura Lee. This was harder, because it’s that damn bass clef, which I don’t understand. I lined my fingers up with what it showed on the page, and then I played it.

“Aura Lee” doesn’t mention joy specifically, but as I played, my mind ran through the verses. One of them is “In her blush the rose was born, ’twas music when she spoke. In her eyes the light of morn sparkling seemed to break.” Twas music when she spoke.

And the piano was speaking. Music.

I wish I could explain how it feels to be playing music. Putting my fingers on the keys and something that makes sense coming out. What it was like to feel like I was resuscitating a beloved instrument, which I now had the honor of having in my house. And that the piano and I were partners, we were working together, and she didn’t mind if I made mistakes. She just patiently waited for me to gather myself again and start over.

Music has always meant a lot to me. In my own writing process, I assign each of my books a song, and that song, in my mind, represents what the book is all about. Each day, when I sit down to write, I play that song first. The song guides me back into the world of the book, bringing me to the people within the pages, their stories, their needs, and the conflict which needs to be solved. The music reflects the emotion. Years after each book is done, if I hear its particular song, I am brought right back.

My first published novel was The Home For Wayward Clocks, and the song I listened to every day for the three years it took me to write that book was “Clocks” by Cold Play. The book was accepted in 2010 and released in 2011. A total of 13 years ago. Yet when I hear that song, James, the main character, is immediately sitting by my side and I can hear his voice as clearly as I heard it in my head for those three years.

Music, like writing, is magic to me. And now, I am helping a piano to raise her voice, and at the same time, I am raising my own. Not the voice of a fictional character, but mine. My own voice.

Amazing.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

To see a video of me playing these songs, click here:

 

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

There were so many incredible moments in the last week, with the college graduation of my daughter, Olivia. Olivia is at the tail end of my parade of four children. She is my third child to graduate from college. She is my second child to go on to graduate school.

So you might think that watching Olivia has become ho-hum. I’ve seen it all before.

Trust me, nothing about Olivia, or any of my kids, is ho-hum!

We were told Olivia wouldn’t talk.

We were told she would never look at us with any recognition.

And her Early Childhood teacher, someone who worked with Olivia for three years, who was there to make sure she would be able to reach all that she was capable of reaching, didn’t believe Olivia would be capable of going to college.

We were told so much. But then we looked at Olivia, and Olivia looked back at us, and we all decided not to listen.

Olivia not only began to talk, but she gave a speech at the Light of Learning celebration at her college the night before graduation. And she brought people to their feet.

She not only went to college, but she remained steadily on the Dean’s List, even through the confusing time that was Covid. She was inducted into the Delta Epsilon Sigma national honor society, which only accepts students in the top 5% of their class. And she’s going on to grad school.

In her speech, Olivia told the audience that, when she was 9 years old, we brought her to the school’s Starving Artist show. Afterwards, we found the labyrinth on campus and walked it. Well, Olivia skipped and danced it. When she got to the middle, where the meditation bench was, she sat quietly, then suddenly flung her arms skyward. “I’m going to college here, Mama!” she shouted. “I’m going to college!”

She was right.

Olivia also told the audience at the Light of Learning ceremony that she thought she is where is now because of her neuro-divergent brain. It’s not a deterrent. It’s an asset.

She’s right.

It was a wet handkerchief weekend. Not only should I have had a handkerchief, multiple handkerchiefs, but I could have been one. By the end of the graduation ceremony, after watching her walk across that stage, get her diploma, accept her cheers with grace, and smile at the audience, you could have wrung me out and hung me up to dry.

But my mind kept returning, and returns still, to one moment, a moment I haven’t shared anywhere on social media. Because I wanted to hold it to my heart. And then I wanted to share it here, because I knew there would be no bigger moment in my week.

At the Light of Learning ceremony, after Olivia spoke, received her standing ovation with a dazed expression on her face (she sat down, leaned over, and asked, “Should I have bowed?”), there was the walk and presentation of lanterns. Each graduate was given a small lantern, lit by a battery-powered candle. When we were waiting for the event to start, I read that each graduate would be offering up who they are thankful for, and then they’d be passing their lantern on to someone else. Olivia hadn’t mentioned this at all, and it put me into a panic. Did Olivia know? Did she know what she was going to say and do? Spontaneous things can be hard for her.

But before she left to line up with her lantern, Olivia said to me, “It’s okay, Mama. I knew about it. And I’m going to give my lantern to you.”

Whew. I was so relieved that she wasn’t going to be hit with a surprise, I didn’t really stop to think about this. I just sat back to watch.

Olivia was the second graduate to approach the podium, her second time at the podium that night. Looking straight at the audience, she said she’d made it clear in her speech who she was grateful for (everyone at Mount Mary University for the place of belonging they gave to her). And then she said, “I’m going to give my lantern to my mom. She’s been my number one fan for my entire life and she’s supported me in everything I do.”

Each word just wrapped around my heart and squeezed. As a parent, we don’t often hear gratitude, and we don’t really expect to. We’re parents – we’re supposed to love our children unconditionally, we’re supposed to raise them up time and time again, we’re supposed to be there when we’re needed, and be close by the rest of the time, and…well, we love our children.

The little lantern in Olivia’s hands glowed with a whole new meaning now. It glowed beyond its batteried power.

I had to walk to Olivia, meeting her in front of the podium, so she could give me the lantern. And all I could do was throw my arms around her and hug her with all the strength of all the hugs I’ve ever given her for 22 years.

The little lantern sits on my desk now, right in front of my computer. It sits next to a stone meditating elephant she gave me for Christmas, because “I just thought you would like it, Mom.” She got it at a Mount Mary craft fair.

Every time I look at it, I become a wet handkerchief all over again.

I was told this child would never know who I am.

But she does.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This coming Saturday, my daughter Olivia will graduate from Mount Mary University. I want to start this week’s blog by repeating a blog I wrote before she began college, and then I’ll add to it in the end.

From May 16, 2019, exactly 4 years and two days ago:

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

Many years ago, when my daughter Olivia was four years old, I took her to a shoe store in search of pink sneakers. For Olivia, the world was pink. Her room, her clothes, her stuffed animals, her ponytail holders, her backpack, her bedspread. The day before, she was in an art class where the teacher had the kids creating their own kid-versions of Van Gogh’s Starry Night, a painting filled with a myriad of rich, rich blues. Olivia studied the painting, studied her paints, and did it in pink. The teacher sighed as she handed the finished project over to me. “We tried to get her to use blue,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

She looked at me like I was crazy.

In the shoe store, Olivia quickly grew bored with the kid aisle and so she skipped around, looking at women’s shoes. I wasn’t worried; we were the only ones in the store and Olivia kept up a constant chatter that always let me know where she was and that she was okay. Nonverbal until the age of three, at four, Olivia was a fountain of never-ending conversation. She made up for lost time by speaking to everything and everyone – our pets, her toys, the walls, strangers on the street, herself, and at night, in her sleep, she spoke out loud of her dreams. Now, she talked to the shoes and I pondered pink sneakers with white rubber toes, sequins, and cartoon characters. And then I heard, “Mama! Mama! Lookit!”

Around the corner, she careened, her pink-socked feet tucked into a pair of brilliant silver women’s STILETTOS. And she was RUNNING.

Instantly, I pictured a twist, a fall, two broken ankles, a concussion, a broken nose, an unconscious pink child. At the end of the aisle, the store manager stood with both her hands to her mouth, her face a mask of horror as I’m sure she pictured a lawsuit. Olivia skidded to a stop in front of me and then stood, proud, perfectly steady, popping a hip and tilting her nose to the ceiling, her mouth a model’s sneer.

“Those are just lovely,” I said to Olivia. “But we need to get you sneakers. Go put those away, okay?”

“Okay, Mama,” she said. “I just wanted to show you.” She strutted away, hips swaying, and she gave a queen’s wave to the manager.

The manager and I looked at each other, both of us letting out a breath. “Ohboy,” I said.

My life with this child has been 18 years of ohboys.

Tonight, I am taking Olivia shopping for shoes to wear with her prom dress. Prom is in two days and we just discovered that the shoes we thought she was going to wear are not tall enough to lift the skirt from the floor. While the dress, a two-piece, isn’t bright pink, it does have a pale pink cast to it, and soft pink flowers on the skirt. The sequins on the top are rose gold. Last week, my pink child said to me, “I want a crown to wear to prom.”

A crown. Ms. Pink Van Gogh wants a crown. Well, of course, I found one. A rose gold tiara. The night we realized the shoes were too short, I had Olivia get into the full outfit. I placed the tiara on her head, and there she was.

There she was.

I thought about all the things you read these days, about putting girls into STEM, about rejecting princess-dreams, about, well, all of that. I have a girl who has always loved pink, who loves to draw and paint, who writes, who plays violin, guitar and ukulele, who does well with math and science, but doesn’t embrace them, who ran in stilettos at the age of four, and who wanted a crown for prom. She stood before me, tall, shoulders back, head upraised, surrounded by soft pink, topped with sequins, and she was the picture, the definition of strength. Of courage. Of determination to be who she is, no matter what the world proclaims is the right way to be.

I called her father upstairs to see. He looked straight at her and said, “You’re beautiful.”

Before he went downstairs, he turned to me, and I saw his eyes were filled with tears.

On August 21, we will take our pink child to college. We will unload all of her pink necessities into her room and we will help her hang posters of VW Beetles on her walls. And then we will kiss her goodbye, get in our car, and drive away. I’m not going to think about that now.

But I am going to hold that tall, beautiful, confident, I’m-not-afraid-to-tell-you-who-I-am pink young woman in my heart forever. That moment with her, echoing the four-year old who stood before me in stilettos, gave me enough joy – and ohboys – for a lifetime.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so, we did all of this, the driving, the unloading, the hanging. Over and over, for four years. We kissed her goodbye and we drove away, leaving our pink girl for her college experience.

In that time, she:

• Had to come back home for online school because of Covid. Second semester of freshman year blew all of her college dreams and expectations right out the window, and she had to learn how to deal with online classes and interactions and being at home again.
• In-person school resumed for her sophomore year, where she took on a job as the front desk receptionist in the dorms. Asked to fill out a daily form about Covid symptoms, she said her throat was sore, and she immediately was sent to a different dorm room, isolated, with no food, no water, no toilet paper, no curtain on the shower, no support. She wrote about that experience and won an editorial award.
• There have been challenging classes and challenging instructors. One, in particular, looked down her nose when Olivia attempted to give her her accommodations letter. “Oh, you don’t need that,” she scoffed. Olivia found who to talk to, she stood up for herself, and her needs were met.
• There have been new boyfriends and lost boyfriends. New friends and lost friends.
• She created art. She wrote for the college literary magazine. She joined an orchestra outside of school, the Wisconsin Intergenerational Orchestra, where she continues to play violin.
• Through it all, she kept her pink. Pink bedspread. Pink end tables. Pink desk lamp. VW Beetles on the wall.
• Dean’s List. Top 5% of her class. Delta Epsilon Sigma national honor society.

All by the girl who wasn’t supposed to talk. The girl who wasn’t supposed to go to college.

In that older blog, I said, “There she was.” Now she looks at me, smiles, and all I can think is There she is! Oh, there she is.

Today, I am going in to Mount Mary to watch Olivia deliver her Capstone project, about developing safe places for the LGBTQ+ community. Tomorrow, I am going to watch her give a speech at the special Light Ceremony, the day before graduation.

And then I will watch her graduate.

(Next is grad school!)

She’s learned to raise her voice. She’s learned what her voice is. She’s developed her talents, her beliefs, her confidence, and she’s become so fully Olivia. She used to wear a shirt that said on the front, “I can and I will.” On the back, it said, “Watch me.”

I’ve watched and I’ve watched and I’ve wept and I’ve laughed and I’ve loved and loved and loved. Do I even need to say what my moment of happiness is?

There she is.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

I admit, I am one of those people who has several different astrological forecasts delivered to my email box daily. Do I believe them? Not necessarily, though I do tend to watch for signs, though maybe those signs happen because I watch for them, and not because of divine intervention! I have a new student who recently offered to do my astrological chart. It was very interesting to read, though I wasn’t surprised by much. I’ve been told almost all my life that I’m a classic Leo, and I can buy that. I also just figure that I’m me. 😊

One of the things that I receive in my mailbox that is similar to the astrological forecasts is a daily fortune cookie. These are just fun. They arrive in the evening, and one evening early this week, I tapped the image of the fortune cookie on my computer screen and it opened to say, “Your love of music will be an important part of your life.”

I agreed with that. I’ve always loved music, took part in band and chorus while in school, almost always have something to sing along to in the car (even in the convertible, and people who pull up next to me often join in!), and I assign a song to every book I write. I listen to the song faithfully every day as I work my way through draft after draft of a book, and it helps me to shove aside anything (everything) else that is going on in my life so I can focus. Like Pavlov’s dogs at the sound of a bell, I drool creatively when I hear the chosen song.

So I nodded and moved on with my evening. The next day, at lunchtime, I sat down with a book, Tom Hank’s (yes, THE Tom Hank) short story collection, Uncommon Type. I was happily munching on my sandwich when I read, “Would you own a stereo and never listen to records? Typewriters must be used. Like a boat must sail. An airplane has to fly. What good is a piano you never play? It gathers dust and there is no music in your life.” This was from the story, “These Are The Meditations Of My Heart”.

I thought of the internet fortune cookie the night before: Your love of music will be an important part of your life. I turned and looked at the lovely piano in my living room. Which no one plays. Just the week before, the piano set off a cleaning spree in my home, when Michael said he couldn’t stand the dust on it any longer and had to wipe it down.

Your love of music will be an important part of your life. What good is a piano you never play? It gathers dust and there is no music in your life.

This piano came into my life in August of 2018, when my daughter Olivia’s first grade teacher posted on Facebook that she needed to find a home for her beloved piano. I have always wanted a piano, even though I don’t know how to play.

So let’s wind the clock back even further. I come from a family that lived in a house where music came from every corner. We used to joke that our neighbors must slam their windows shut because coming from our house would be big band and opera from my father, Jim Nabors and Sergio Franchi from my mother, the Beatles from my brother, the Moody Blues from me, and country music from my sister. We all had our own stereos, plus there was the big console stereo in the living room, used mostly by my mother, and my dad’s reel-to-reel tape recorder in the family room. My brother was also a musician, playing practically everything, but especially partial to the organ. Because of him, we had first a Wurlitzer, and then the mighty Hammond in our living room.

But I wanted to play the piano. I’ve always gravitated toward bands that had a keyboardist, and that feature the lovely sounds of the piano. But my parents said no, we have an organ, play that. I didn’t want to. And so I didn’t.

But I always wanted a piano. And now, here was one being offered for free, from a woman I knew who was instrumental (ha!) in Livvy’s upbringing. I told her I would take the piano and rearranged my living room so it would fit. She was delighted, and so was I.

Fast forward now to 2023, and there’s the piano. It’s been silent, except for when Grandgirl Maya Mae comes over and asks if she can pound on the keys. I look at it longingly from time to time.

And now:

Your love of music will be an important part of your life. What good is a piano you never play? It gathers dust and there is no music in your life.

My husband dusted off the piano.

And so I closed the book and lifted my phone. I talked to someone at the White House of Music in Waukesha. Next week Thursday, I will walk in and take my first piano lesson.

Ohmygod.

I am a Leo. One of the hallmarks of a Leo: I make things happen.

I wanted to play the piano. But I was told no.

And then, for heaven’s sake, I was GIVEN a piano. There is a PIANO in my LIVING ROOM.

And then I’m told, in the words that I love to read and write, “Your love of music will be an important part of your life. What good is a piano you never play? It gathers dust and there is no music in your life.”

I read astrological forecasts and I watch for signs and I even believe them when the news is good.

But sometimes they have to wallop me upside the head.

I’m gonna play the piano.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

When the pandemic started back in 2020, I began a routine with my granddaughter, Grandgirl Maya Mae. Most every night at 8:30, we Zoom, and we read a book together. Even now, after things have finally calmed down and I can actually see her again, we continue with our reading routine. We read all of the Junie B. Jones books, followed by all of Beverly Cleary’s books. We read Lois Lowry’s Gooney Bird Greene series, which were a lot of fun, given that Gooney Bird Greene is an elementary school kid full of writing advice for her classmates. We read this, that, and the other thing. In the three years we’ve been reading, Maya has grown from 7 years old to 10. And I’ve absolutely delighted in a grandchild who loves to read.

As soon as I learned how to read, I fell fully in love with it. I learned in the first grade, like most people of my generation, but I very quickly took those words between my teeth and ran with them. One afternoon, partway through first grade, I spent afternoon recess in the school library with my teacher, Mrs. Knuti. We scoured the shelves for books that were at my accelerated reading level, but that didn’t contain “inappropriate topics” for a 6-year old. We found a few, but Mrs. Knuti gave up and for the rest of first grade, then second grade with Mrs. Johnson and third grade with Mrs. Campbell, the teachers put their heads together and ordered books for me from the middle school and high school libraries. I was ravenous, often carrying these books outside at recess and plopping myself under a tree to read.

The public library librarian also quickly befriended me. She led me to a corner where Young Adult books were kept, though I don’t know if they were called that then. It was a small library and I think I ripped through every book they had, also crossing over into carefully selected adult books, then rechecked everything out a second time, and a third time.

In the basement of my home, my mother kept her collection of books from when she was a girl, and so I read all of Louisa May Alcott, and Margaret Sidney’s Five Little Peppers series. There was also a series about a girl named Mimi who attended Sheridan School, and her adventures. These books were wonderfully old-fashioned and I loved them. I also began to ask for books for Christmas and my birthday, and so there was always something to read or reread.

Mrs. Campbell, my third grade teacher, and the public library librarian both gifted me with books as well. Mrs. Campbell read a chapter from a book every day after recess, and so I went from reading a book outside to listening to her read a book inside. Lovely. When she finished a book, she’d let us take turns bringing the book home to read for ourselves. I was fifth in line for the book Daddles by Ruth Sawyer, and when I finally got my hands on it, I just kept forgetting to bring it back. When I finally did, she told me to keep it and I was thrilled. It sits behind me even now, always within reach. With the public library, I checked out the book A Candle In Her Room by Ruth M. Arthur so many times, the librarian told me to just keep it. I still have that one as well. And The Island Of The Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell too. In that book, there was a wild dog named Rontu, the leader of the pack, and when I was given a stuffed dalmation dog with bells in his ears that Christmas (bought with S&H Green Stamps!), I named him Rontu.

And now, a granddaughter who loves to read? Oh, heaven!

Somewhere along the way in our reading adventures, Maya and I stumbled across the author Katherine Applegate. I know I chose the first book for Maya because the cover had a picture of a boy sitting next to a six-foot cat. Maya is obsessed with cats. The book is titled Crenshaw and we were enamored. Just as I tore through favorite authors when I was a kid, I now ran along behind Maya as she did the same thing. We read everything Applegate wrote, and then we waited for her next book. Impatiently. But we waited. When we received word that a new book would be released in May, Maya Mae marched into her school library and demanded that it be ordered. Even though she knew that she’d be getting a copy from me. She likes having the books at home and at school. That way, she’s surrounded with those she loves.

My kinda girl.

On Monday, I received word that the new book, The One And Only Ruby, the third book in this series, was on its way and would arrive on Tuesday. On Tuesday, I received a text message saying that my package was five stops away. I paced the big windows in my classroom, watching for that van, and when it arrived, I met the driver in the parking lot. I took a picture of the book’s cover and reached for my phone to text Maya, to say, “It’s here! It’s here!”, but then I remembered she was in school. So I watched the clock and texted her after I knew she was home.

And then came my Moment. Maya texted back.

Not one.

Not two.

But NINE “Yays!” spread across my cell phone screen. And about a bajillion exclamation points. I could hear the shriek behind them.

“Yay yay yay yay yay yay yay yay yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

A granddaughter who reads. A girl after my own heart. I have no doubt that when Maya Mae is 62 years old, like I am, she will turn from her desk and see a book from her childhood, saved in this extra special, always close by place.

And when she sees it, I bet she thinks of me.

Yay yay yay yay yay yay yay yay yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! from the future.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.