Author: Kathie

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

Some weeks are just full of richness. I’m in La Crosse, Wisconsin, doing several events including visiting a book club, doing a reading/signing/discussion at a bookstore, and teaching a class called The Labyrinth & The Creative Spirit at a beautiful sculpture garden. My week has also been full of reading in bed, sleeping in, taking a book along to read by the Mississippi River, and there’s more yet to come, since I don’t go home until Sunday.

But there was one moment in particular, an odd one, that had me laughing out loud all alone in my hotel room, and so I’ve chosen that one.

I’m staying in what is my favorite hotel, a Super8. It’s a very simple, basic hotel. The room is comfortable, the bed lovely, there’s a window I can open to let in fresh air. It has one of the best swimming pools I’ve ever been in, and it has a great hot tub too. Since I’ve learned to swim since the last time I was here, I’m actually using the swimming pool as a swimming pool. And I’ve discovered, without the blue line on the bottom of the gym’s pool, it is not feasible for me to swim in a straight line. Even with my mask on. Luckily, the others in the pool have been good about getting out of my way.

But it’s the people here that make it great. The folks behind the desk go out of their way to make your stay comfortable and everything you need it to be. They are even keeping me supplied with extra coffee!

So the other night, as I looked up from reading my book, I pondered the full size ironing board and massive iron that hung from one of the walls. I wondered how long it had been since anyone used it, or if anyone ever used it at all.

I’ve seen ironing boards and irons in hotels before, but usually, they’re tucked away. This one is right out in the open. My own experience with ironing is minimal and disastrous. When I was first married to husband number 1, and I was all of 21 years old, I bought what I thought was a beautiful shower curtain for our apartment bathroom. The shower curtain part was white, and then there were these sheers that hung over it in a drapery way, as if the shower was a big window. The sheers where covered with yellow flowers, and there was a valance too. I fought to figure out how to hang it all up, wanting it in place in time for my new husband to come home and be impressed with my domestic skills. But when I got it all up, I found that the effect was marred by the sheers being very wrinkled from being in the package. That just wouldn’t do.

We’d been given a tabletop ironing board and iron for a wedding present, so I fought the sheers back down, placed the board on my used kitchen table, turned on the iron and placed it on the sheer, fragile fabric.

And I burned the hell out of it.

This was probably the first secret I kept from that husband. Sobbing, I threw the burnt sheers into the dumpster behind the apartment building. When my husband saw the plain shower curtain, he was puzzled. “Why’d you just choose white?” he asked. “I couldn’t decide,” I said, “and it was cheap,” which pleased him.

So I studied this ironing board and iron in my hotel room. And then I laughed because my thoughts immediately turned to…The Waltons.

While I was still with this same husband, and our big kids were small, we made a trip to see the real Walton’s Mountain, which is Schuyler, Virginia. The Walton house, which is really the Hamner house, is still there, and there is a Walton’s Mountain Museum as well. There is a recreation of the kitchen and John Boy’s bedroom. We took the tour and I listened closely as the tour guide pointed out the quilt on John Boy’s bed.

“Do you recognize that?” she said. “That’s the very quilt that John wrapped Olivia in when he took her to the hospital when she fell ill with polio.”

I couldn’t help myself. “No, it’s not,” I said. “That’s the signature quilt that Olivia’s friends brought her while she was sick. Dr. Vance said she was too ill to go to the hospital, so they treated her at home. John wrapped her in the quilt to bring her down to the living room so she could watch Jason sing the song that he wrote, that just won him first prize at a talent show. The song was inspired by Grandma, who was ironing in such a rhythmic way that he got the song out of it. It was called The Ironing Board Blues.” And then I sang a few lines.

The tour guide and the group fell silent. My husband looked anywhere but at me.

“Let’s move on,” the tour guide finally said.

Hey, if you’re going to give a tour, you’d better get it right!

And in my hotel room, I laughed. My life, it seems, has mellowed into memories of burned shower curtains and The Waltons. And I’m just fine with that.

Thank you, John, Olivia (ever wonder where my Olivia’s name comes from? Now you know!), John Boy, Jason, Mary Ellen, Erin, Jim Bob, Elizabeth, Grandma, Grandpa, and especially Earl Hamner who made my day when he friended me on Facebook a few years before his death.

I never touched another iron and I never will, though I gave the hotel iron a good pat for bringing me a laugh.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

If you’d like to see, here is a video clip of Jason singing his song. If you look closely, you’ll see Olivia is wrapped in the signature quilt. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cy3xhhV7CvQ

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

This past Monday, Michael and I drove to our lawyer’s office to sign our wills.

That’s a hell of a way to start a Moment Of Happiness, isn’t it?

As we got to the top of the Barstow Street hill in Waukesha, one of the steepest hills to drive in this city, we were stopped…by a very long funeral procession. We sat there, watching the lead car, the hearse, and then car after car after car, each sporting a little flag and with their lights on in the daytime.  And I began to laugh. I mean, really. Think about all the possible metaphors and symbols here. We’re signing our wills. We get stopped by a long funeral procession, like a long life itself, being laid to rest. We had to climb a long steep hill to get there, just like we’ve been climbing the long steep hill of life…ohmygod, I could go on forever.

Except, of course, that’s sort of the point, isn’t it. I’m not going to go on forever.

But you know, I think it’s also important that I laughed.

And then, when the last car finally went by, we moved ahead, got to the lawyer, asked for a few more clarifications, and then, signed our lives away. Literally.

But I have to tell you, it didn’t feel grim. It felt…tidy.

Ever since Olivia was born in 2000, Michael and I have looked at each other from time to time and said, “We really need to get our wills done.” We’d nod sagely and with a great sense of responsibility, and then we’d put it off. Again. And there wasn’t just Olivia. There were my three older kids from my first marriage, Christopher, Andy, and Katie. As time went on, there was a daughter-in-law and a son-in-law. There was a granddaughter, Grandbaby Maya Mae. There was property and pets. There was intellectual property, with the copyrights for my books and Michael’s. For heaven’s sake, there was a business, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop. And we kept saying, “We really need to get our wills done,” nodding, and putting it off.

Until Monday, when we signed on the dotted lines.

And it felt tidy. Responsible. Like I was taking care of loved ones, from my family to my students to my readers. I was making sure everyone would be okay.

Walking out of that office, I really didn’t feel sad or morbid or anything like that. I felt like, if I was coming to the final chapter of my own book, I would be ready to close the covers and sigh with the joy and satisfaction that comes after reading something really, really wonderful.

Next Friday, I’m going to turn sixty-two years old. I will be in a hotel room in La Crosse, Wisconsin, a little city that I love, by the mighty river that I love, and I’ll be in the midst of doing what I love. I’m visiting a book club on Tuesday, where they’re discussing my novel, All Told. On Thursday, I’m reading from and discussing All Told at one of my favorite bookstores, Pearl Street Books. On Saturday, the day after my birthday, I’m teaching a class, The Labyrinth & The Creative Spirit, at the beautiful Kinstone in Fountain City, Wisconsin, and I’ll be surrounded by eager writers and visual artists. No, I won’t be home, but really, what better way to turn sixty-two?

And on that day, my birthday, I will be taking my final oral chemotherapy pill, which I’ve swallowed for the last five years for the treatment of breast cancer. While I am very grateful for the job that medication has done in squashing any possible attempts for the breast cancer to return, I will also be so glad to see that little pill go. Besides the side effects, which have been considerable, it’s been a daily yellow reminder that I’ve been sick with something that could have easily taken me out.

Taken me out before I had the chance to write my will, to take care of all my loved ones. To make sure they’re okay. And when I swallow that last pill, it will be with the knowledge that I’m okay. I’m still here. Doing what I love. Writing. Teaching.

Raising my children. Watching my grandchild grow.

Raising my students. Watching them grow. I had two more students receive book contracts this week. How amazing is that?

And, when I swallow that last pill, it’s also with the knowledge that when I close my own personal life book, it’s with the sense that everything is okay.

That little quiet moment at the top of the Barstow Street hill, on my way to sign my will, watching a funeral procession go by, and feeling myself fall into laughter, wasn’t such a little quiet moment at all, was it.

In my Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop this week, a student brought up this Julian of Norwich quote:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

I realize now, writing this Moment, that this is exactly what I’m feeling.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This past weekend, I led the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat. It was our first one since Covid hit, but I believe our 14^th overall, and it was a cause for great celebration. I hosted 26 writers from 8 states for 4 days under 1 roof, at Mount Mary University in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. I lectured, I led workshops, I met with everyone in one-on-one consultations, I made sure everyone was fed, and I ran, ran, ran. And it was marvelous. I am never so happy as when I’m fully in my element, and my element is writing. In this little microcosm of the writing world, I surrounded myself with writers and I talked about writing and we all lived in a world of words.

Incredible.

I noticed, though, that there was a common theme cropping up in the one-on-one consultations. Many of the writers quietly said to me, “I’m not feeling very confident,” or “I’m not sure I can do this,” or “I’m not sure WHY I’m doing this,” or simply, “I just don’t think I’m very good.” Bear in mind that among these 26 writers, 12 already had books published, and many already had short pieces published. But, “I’m not feeling very confident.”

Recently, the company that published my novel, All Told, decided to become an all-hybrid company. This means that the writer pays for some of the costs of publication. This used to be called subsidy publishing, and while it’s a step up from self-publishing, I still don’t support it. I’m a firm believer that writers should be paid for their work. So when I offered this company my next novel, they offered me a hybrid contract. And I offered them a solid no.

Which meant I found myself back at square one. Finding a publisher. I was suddenly without a home for my work.

“I’m not feeling very confident.”

I immediately went into a tailspin. 13 books already published, and I wondered if I was a fluke. I wondered if I was done. If my whole career was over. If there ever was a career to begin with. This new book, which I consider the best I’ve ever written, suddenly became filled with flaws.

But after I finished crying, I sent it out anyway. And it was accepted at another publisher within 48 hours.

“I’m not feeling very confident.”

I’ve written before about my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Fatticci, who, after hearing me read what turned out to be a short story in front of my class, breathed, “Oh my god, Kathie, you’re a writer!” There was also Mr. Salt in the 8^th grade. I had to read a story in front of that class too, and after I sat down, I began scribbling furiously on my paper, rewriting everything, because I was convinced it was terrible. When I glanced up, Mr. Salt was looking directly at me, and he mouthed, “You are SO good!”

And there was Mr. Stein in high school. On the back of one of my stories, which I still have 45 years later, he wrote in red ink that I was gifted. But, he wrote, with giftedness comes a responsibility. And he went on about how I had to use that gift. How I had to give back to the world. How being gifted didn’t mean it would be easy. But I had a responsibility to keep at it and never ever give up.

Never give up.

“I’m not feeling very confident.”

And well, I’m a teacher now too, aren’t I. My element isn’t just writing (as if writing could ever have a “just” in front of it), but teaching.

And so, one by one, I told them about my recent crisis of confidence. And I also said:

“Oh my god, you’re a writer!”

“You are SO good!”

“You have a responsibility.”

There are times in your life where you just suddenly find yourself clicking into a niche where you just feel that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. You are doing what you’re supposed to be doing. You BELONG.

I felt that when I signed my 14^th book contract, for my novel, Hope Always Rises, which will be released on March 7^th, 2023. I felt that all four-day weekend long, as I gave a lecture, led the workshops, and met one on one with all these writers, facing down their “I’m not feeling so confident.”

The 26 writers I sent on their way were all smiling. Will they feel confident for the rest of their lives? Of course not. But will they know where to turn when they need to? Will they hear my words again, just like I hear the words of Mrs. Fatticci, Mr. Salt, and Mr. Stein, over and over and over with each crisis of confidence? Yep.

In my element. Full of joy.

And, oh, by the way. I have another book coming out.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

I have a secret.

And it’s a good secret.

Remember having a secret when you were a kid? At least with good secrets, it was a feeling better than ice cream. I think secrets are like those white and yellow moths I talked about in last week’s blog. I used to catch them, then slowly uncurl my fingers, and the moth would sit there for a bit, the wings slowly opening and closing, and that was like a secret in my hand.

I remember the first time I was told I was pregnant. Really, really pregnant. My first husband and I tried for quite a while, and we had so many at-home pregnancy tests come out positive, but then I’d go to the doctor and take a blood test and he’d say he was sorry. Back then, the at-home tests really weren’t all that accurate, and he urged me not to use them, but instead to come in for a blood test when I was 21 days late. But I could never wait. The awful at-home tests could be used at 15 days and so I took them and hoped it was right, and then it wasn’t.

But then…it was. The doctor called me and said, “You did it!”

I didn’t call my husband, who was at work. I didn’t call my mother or any friends. I sat in my rocker, with my hands over my newly transformed belly and I rocked and I sunk deep into that secret. I was no longer one person. I was two.

I kept that secret for an entire day. Then I told my husband and everyone else.

It was wonderful.

Of course, there have been some secrets that weren’t so great. But over the years, I’ve learned to talk about some, and shove the rest aside.

And now…there’s this secret.

I’ve kept it tucked away for a week now.

And no, I’m not pregnant! Not in the baby way, anyway.

I’m going to announce this secret tonight, as I present my lecture at the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat. And then I will share it on social media and here on Friday.

You can find me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/kathiegiorgioauthor

On Twitter, at @kathiegiorgio.

On Instagram at @kathiegio1

And here, I think it will be on my home page, where I list the news.

This is my Moment, and while it’s making me very happy, I’m going to keep it to myself for just a teeny bit longer.

Just wait. And watch. I’ll uncurl my fingers and you’ll see those wings opening and closing!

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

To say that the news in our country has been dark lately is an understatement. It’s been midnight here. Covid, gun control, the January 6 hearings, the ridiculous killing of Roe vs. Wade. The continual battle of “I’m right, you’re wrong.” My computer opens immediately to the news headlines, and I think I’m going to have to change that setting, allowing me to at least get a cup of coffee in and a decent breakfast before I have to face it.

With this darkness hanging around me, I found a light in an unexpected place. And in an unexpected being – a bug.

The AllWriters’ classroom was rapidly running out of treats and chocolate for the students – yes, there are always munchies and chocolate on my classroom table. I taught on Tuesday night until 9:00, and I had a class the next day at 1:00. There were next to no treats left. In the morning, I had clients from 9 until noon, and then, with squeezing in setting up the classroom, taking the dog out, and getting my own lunch, there was no time to run to the store. Our faithful backyard Walgreens is open until 10:00 at night, so once my students were out the door and I’d cleaned everything up and put it away, I headed out across the city parking lot to get to the Walgreens parking lot, and then to Walgreens.

Living in a city, you wouldn’t expect to see much in the way of nature or wildlife, but it struggles through. I’ve seen raccoons and possum, rabbits, and of course, flocks of birds, including the jackassy red-winged blackbird. Lately, there have been coyote sightings, as well as fox sightings. There are spiders galore, and stinkbugs and so on.

In between the city lot and the Walgreens lot, there is a little connecting strip of sidewalk that I call the bridge. It passes through a neighbor’s back yard and a little grove of bushes and trees. I was tired and still had a full night of reading manuscripts in front of me, so I was walking fairly slowly, with my hands stuck in my back pockets and my eyes studying the ground in front of me.

And that’s when I saw it. That flash of green mixed with just a little bit of yellow. A fluorescent flash. A bug flash.

A firefly! Or, from when I lived in Minnesota, a lightning bug.

I stopped on that little bridge sidewalk and just watched and waited. In a moment, there were more flashes, and soon I was surrounded by a flashlight firefly brigade. Their flight pattern is random and graceful, swirls that don’t seem to have any intent at all. There is no buzz, there are no stingers. It doesn’t bite. It just flashes, on and off, a beacon. You could see it as small, slow-motion fireworks, or you could see it just as I did right there – a moment filled with natural light. A gift. Beautiful.

When I was a little girl living in the northern part of Minnesota, we had a huge backyard. It was split from the backyard neighbors by a creek that bubbled through. My time there, from when I was six years old to twelve, were filled with activities like Tarzan swings that hung from the trees and carried me flying over the creek, which was shallow, so I was never in danger of drowning. I “fished” with a stick with a string tied to it, a bent nail at the other end of the string as a hook. I never caught anything, except in my imagination. I ran with my friends through sprinklers, I danced in my swimming suit in the rain. When the sun was up, I chased after what I now know were moths, but what I called butterflies; little white-winged and yellow-winged loopy flyers that when caught, would sit for a moment on my palms, wings slowly opening and closing. I also caught grasshoppers to watch them spit, and I scooped frog eggs out of the creek into a bucket to watch them hatch into polliwogs and then tadpoles before I would release them back into the water.

And as the sun went down and the moon rose…lightning bugs.

I don’t remember chasing lightning bugs before I moved to Minnesota. Until I just turned six, I lived outside of St. Louis in Berkeley, Missouri. I can’t say for sure that there weren’t lightning bugs there. It may be that I was just too young to stay up after dark and chase after them.

But I do remember them in Minnesota. They were magic. When I caught one, like the moths, it would sit on my palm for a bit, glowing on and off in a code only it knew. And then it would fly away and I’d be off, chasing after another one. I don’t remember ever putting any in jars with holes in the lid made by nails. I always let them go free. I did capture caterpillars and put them in a jar, watching further magic as they wove themselves into a cocoon and came out victoriously as a butterfly…sometimes one with striking colors, but mostly more of my yellow and white friends.

But fireflies. Lightning bugs. They strolled in the air around me last Tuesday night, and I stood mesmerized, caught in the moment with them, and caught in the past with myself. A little girl who knew nothing about a virus that took people’s breath away, or children dying in mass shootings at the hands of someone who was a child himself, or enraged, crazed people breaking through the doors of history and tearing evidence of that history apart, all while threatening to kill everyone inside, hoisting a noose as if it was commonplace and okay, or a world where a woman’s body is controlled by the government.

I just stood there, watching the little flashlights.  One landed on my forearm for just a couple seconds, and then off it went. I breathed, “Thank you!” after it.

I went on my way into Walgreens, smiling the whole way. I bought my students an extra large bag of chocolate.

It’s amazing where you can find light, even when you’ve convinced yourself that light is now impossible to find.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It’s amazing, really, what dates stick in our minds.

Wedding anniversaries. My first marriage began on June 27, 1981. My second marriage began on October 9, 1999.

Birthdays. Mine, July 29. Michael’s, December 27. My four kids, 1/18, 3/12, 4/8, 10/17. And the day I miscarried, my lost child’s birthday: 12/21/1999.

Graduations, at least mine: High school, 6/1978, college, 8/1982, graduate school, 1/2004.

My business, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop’s birthday: If I go by when I formed the LLC, 11/2004. The grand opening, 1/2005.

Many days. Momentous days. Days when, for better or worse, my life changed.

When I opened my eyes this past Monday morning, I lay still for a moment and thought, Five years.

On June 20^th, 2017, I had an appointment for a mammogram. I ran in, as I was late and in a hurry, as I was often late and in a hurry. I was busy, so busy, that I hadn’t had my yearly mammogram in 3 years. Other things, other people, always took precedence. With my eye on the clock, I ran into the clinic, stripped, and cooperatively followed every instruction to stick those two portions of myself into the machine, so that I could be on my way.

And then, instead of letting me go with a cheery, “Radiologist says all is fine! See you next year!”, the radiologist himself came in to see me. About twenty minutes later,  I left in a daze, holding an appointment reminder in my hand for a needle biopsy. The radiologist’s words rang in my head: “I’ll be honest. I usually tell women that they have a 20% chance that this is cancer, and an 80% chance that this is nothing. With you, I’m flipping that. I’d say it’s an 80% chance that it’s cancer.”

He was right.

What followed was a blur of doctor’s appointments, the sudden inclusion in my life of a “medical team” formed of a surgeon, a radiation oncologist, and a medication oncologist, two biopsies, when I was told I was at Stage 1 invasive ductal carcinoma, a breast MRI, when I was told it was actually Stage 2, and a partial mastectomy, when I was told that the tumor was larger than expected and I was actually at Stage 3. 20 rounds of radiation. 5 years of estrogen-squashing medication which came with its own set of side effects and issues. And a blur of emotions too.

I was also told that if I hadn’t been so busy, so much in a hurry, and I’d come in for my regular mammograms, it likely would have been caught at Stage 0 non-invasive ductal carcinoma,

If I just wasn’t so busy. If other things, other people, didn’t always take precedence.

What a hard, hard year.

But this past Monday, I woke up, looked at the ceiling, and thought, Five years.

Five years since the word cancer entered my description. I would never again answer, “No,” to questionnaires that asked if I had cancer. On June 27^th, this coming Monday, it will be five years since my official diagnosis. July 25^th, it will be five years since the partial mastectomy.

And this year, on July 29^th, 2022, the birthday when I will turn 62, one of those dates I remember, I will be taking my last estrogen-squashing little yellow pill.

It will be all done. As all done as it can be, anyway.

My medical team has melted away, leaving me only with my medication oncologist. I am back to having a mammogram only once a year, and it will always be met. There are no more breast MRIs. I have a prosthesis, but I don’t know when the last time was that I wore it. I have grown used to one breast being smaller than the other. If anyone notices, well, it’s just a part of who I am now.

Someone who is trying very hard to not always be in a hurry. Someone who is trying to put self-care in the forefront. Other people and other things do not always have to come first. And the amazing thing? Those other people still understand that I love them completely.

My moment of happiness? The first of three five-year anniversaries is here, and it will be capped off with the final little yellow pill.

I’m alive. I’m cancer-free. And I have learned so much from this experience.

I looked back on the original blog, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, and this is what I wrote for my moment on that day:

6/20/2017: And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Well, this is going to be a hard one.

How do I come up with a moment of happiness on a day where mammogram results go the wrong way?

I went in today for a routine mammogram. I expected to be in and out. Instead, the radiologist saw something in my right breast on the pictures and he asked for an ultrasound. Then he saw something there too. On Monday, there will be a needle biopsy. On Tuesday, I will know what I’m facing or if I’m facing nothing at all.

And to think I was scared of the dentist.

New fear now. New what-ifs.

But a friend said today, “Don’t get your head too far out over your skis now.” So I got off the skis entirely. And I will wait the long wait until Tuesday.

So what’s the moment of happiness?

Just this. I know if I’m facing something, I won’t be facing it alone. And I know if I’m not facing anything at all, there will be many celebrating with me.

Not skiing, but standing.

And not alone.

I’m grateful.

And yes, this helps. Despite. Anyway. 

Five years later, I am still grateful. Not being alone got me through. And learning to sometimes put myself first still gets me through.

Thank you.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.   

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

Recently, a client talked reverently about his mother, saying that she always found a sense of balance and happiness by digging in the dirt. My unfortunate reaction was, “Ick!”

I hate getting my hands dirty. As a kid, my fingerpainting art was made with the very tips of my fingers and barely covered any of the page before I declared it done. I hated clay. Play-doh was okay within reason – I could use utensils to make things out of it and not actually have to touch it. Or smell it. Ick. I was never a fan of sandboxes. My backyard neighbor had a huge, father-made sandbox, and I would sit on one of the little corner seats and help direct the play, but I would never dig myself. Ick.

When I moved into my first house with my first husband, there was a huge bed of lilies of the valley all along the back side of the house. I loved these glorious little flowers, so pretty with their tiny bells. And they required next to no weeding! When a weed poked its head above the plants, I grasped it and yanked it out, without getting my hands near the dirt at all.

I did thin them in the fall, and one afternoon while I was doing this, with bare hands, I felt what I thought was a rock beneath the leaves. I pulled it out and found that I was holding a dead bird.

We all know how I feel about birds. It might have been dead, but it still went flying. And I scrubbed my hands pink that day.

And now, here was my client and his mother, offering balance and happiness. Despite my immediate “Ick!”, it sounded nice. And so I took stock of my surroundings.

Our 3-story condo fits snugly between the city sidewalk and our parking lot. There is no yard. The closest we have is a tiny strip of dirt that runs right next to the AllWriters’ windows. Soon after moving here, I pulled out the “prairie grass” the developer planted. It looked really scraggly and its blades were as sharp as anything with the name blades should be. You could get your legs lacerated if you walked too close. So I put in hostas and a sort of lily that I have since forgotten the name. They provide a brilliant burst of red flowers in July. Again, very little weeding. I don’t have to put my hands in the dirt.

But other than that, the only “outdoor space” we have is our 3^rd floor deck. Over the years, I’ve bought two baskets of flowers and put them into ceramic pots in the corners that hang over the street. That’s it. In Covid Summer of 2020, I brought home Ms. Hib, a hibiscus tree that chose me at the grocery store. She didn’t require weeding either, and she and I spent a lonely summer, talking to each other on the deck. She bloomed brilliantly, but died during the winter after I brought her indoors. Then came Carla the hibiscus, another tree that claimed me, after the passing of my young student Carla. Carla sat on the deck last summer, and she survived the winter in my office. This spring, at the same grocery store where Ms. Hib came from, I unexpectedly fell in love with Sydney, another hibiscus. I have no idea how I’m going to fit two hibiscus trees in my office this winter, but Sydney didn’t care. Home she came.

I moved the hibiscus outside and then stood on my deck and considered my student’s words. His mother’s words.

A little online research later, I ordered a very nice 3-tier raised garden. The 3 tiers could be stacked in a multitude of ways, or they could be laid side by side. If I was going to dig in the dirt, I was going to save my back.

But I still worried about getting my hands dirty.

A few weeks ago, on my first outing after having Covid, I wandered into the plant section of Menards. I knew I didn’t want fruit or vegetables. I wanted flowers that I could glance at as I worked from my desk inside, and that I could relish when I relaxed on the deck. My son brought me an Easter lily the day after Easter, because he manages a grocery store and they were marked ridiculously down when Easter was over. He also brought me another plant for Mother’s Day. These were both going into my “garden”. I had a field day (note the pun) at Menards and came home with a riot of color. And dirt. I came home with dirt. And my hands got dirty just from handling the bags.

Ick. No balance and happiness yet!

All afternoon into evening, I toiled in the soil. I did not wear gloves. I dug holes. I pulled plants from their little temporary containers and I tucked them in and pulled up a blanket of dirt. I watered.

I had dirt up to my elbows.

But when I was done, well…I had a whole new crop of babies to deal with. Yes, I went inside and scrubbed until every last bit was gone from under my fingernails. But now, Carla and Sydney had plenty of green company. And I was surrounded by color. And living, breathing things. And a sense of accomplishment.

And balance. And happiness.

A couple days ago, we had the mother of all storms roll through Waukesha. A suspiciously green sky, a deluge of rain and hail, wind that howled. Through it all, I stood in front of my deck door and watched. I thought about running out and bringing in Carla and Sydney. I was so afraid the wind would snap them in two. But lightning was everywhere – a later report said we were getting 87 strikes a minute. So I stood there, with my clean hands folded, and waited.

Everything survived. The flowers took an hour or two to stand up again, but they stood.

Me too. With clean hands that are willing to get dirty from time to time. Balance and happiness.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I’ve been feeling like the world has been so incredibly loud lately. Everything is a shout. Everything is a raised fist. Faces everywhere are pulled in expressions of anger or horror.

It’s just been so loud.

Covid, of course. Still Covid.

Guns. Guns. Guns. Shootings, killings. Men, women, children. Children. And idiots who claim they need their AK-47 war weapons to kill prairie dogs. An ex-president who dances on stage after announcing and mispronouncing the names of children who died at the hands of a boy who bought such guns on his 18^th birthday, when he couldn’t even legally buy his first drink.

Roe vs. Wade. People who say they have a right to personally own weapons of war, but women don’t have a right to their own bodies.

Ukraine.

The January 6th hearings.

It’s been so, so loud.

It was in this mindset that I went to bed last night at 3:00. I did my usual before-sleep meditation, but it didn’t help much. Then I rolled over to go to sleep. My side of the bed faces big windows, and during good weather, I don’t close the shutters. And I leave the windows wide open. So my eyes, which didn’t want to close, looked right outside, from three stories up.

There was fog.

Everything was the softest of gray, backlit to a glow by the lights it covered. I can’t say it looked like lace or cotton or clouds or felt. It just looked like quiet. And it was quiet. We live in the city and it seems there’s always sound coming from somewhere, particularly lately with all of the construction. But there was nothing. No traffic. No sound. Quiet.

The fog turned the world into a whisper.

The sigh I released was one of such intense relief, my body shuddered with it. It was likely enough to blow the fog away, but it didn’t. It stayed and it glowed. Quiet.

And then a bird began to sing.

If you know me, and if you follow this blog, you know I hate birds. More than that, I am deeply afraid of them, particularly red-winged blackbirds. I am in the two months of summer where I am very limited where I can go, because of birds and their nesting seasons. I can’t even walk through my parking lot and through Walgreens parking lot, because a family that lives in between insists on feeding every bird in the state of Wisconsin, and red-winged blackbird calls are everywhere.

On this night, a bird sang. This bird typically does this every night, between three and four o’clock. I don’t know what kind of bird it is, but it’s a single bird. And I find it very annoying, I often have to get up and shut the windows and shutters to block the sound.

But this night, I listened. The notes were clear, the fog was quiet. The bird sang in the whisper.

My shoulders released. My eyes closed of their own accord. And I fell asleep.

It amazes me how little annoyances, little fears, can become beautiful when the bigger picture shouts its way into your life.

I woke, of course, to a shouting world. But I remind myself to look out the window and remember the whisper and the song. The fog likely won’t return tonight. But the bird will.

I will listen.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It’s probably hard to imagine that there was a bright spot during the ten days I was stuck at home, recovering from Covid and quarantining to make sure that no one else got this stupid illness. I did do a lot of snarling – it didn’t seem fair that I became so sick after being so careful, and vaccinating, and boostering. The snarling helped some, but so did something else. An old, old friend, or friends, really:

BOOKS.

I found myself with plenty of time to read, and read I did. Everywhere I wandered in this condo, I had a book in hand. I read in my recliner, a hot cup of coffee by my side, or a glass of white cranberry/peach juice. I read out on my third floor deck, baking the Covid out of me in the sun, and either eating my lunch or rocking gently in one of the rockers, ice water by my side. And best of all, when I climbed into bed at night, I brought a book with me, propped myself up on three pillows, and read while the rest of the house was dark and quiet. When it was time for sleep, the book was placed beside me on the mattress in case I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep (that never happened – Covid brings with it a heavy fatigue that makes sleep irresistible). When I woke in the morning, the book was right there and it came along with me through my day.

I didn’t start to read early when I was a kid, mostly because my generation and the area where I lived didn’t teach kids how to read and write until the first grade. But as soon as I was shown the secret of deciphering those letters and making them into words, I zoomed. My favorite day in school was library day, and my second favorite was when the Scholastic book order was handed out. My favorite day at home was Saturday, when we went to the public library. Books very quickly became my best friends.

The early elementary school I went to housed only three grades, first through third, and so the library only held books for that age of reader. My first grade teacher, Mrs. Knuti, realized that I read well above this, and so she began borrowing books from the junior high and high school libraries and I devoured those. The children’s librarian at the public library soon realized the same thing and she guided me to subject-appropriate adult books that kept me enthralled and entertained.

Books were magic.

Last night, I sat with Michael and Olivia and we watched the first episode of this year’s America’s Got Talent. The final performer was a young man Olivia’s age who played the saxophone…and by played, I mean PLAYED. But before he performed, he talked about how he’d been bullied in school. Because he was a preemie, his vocal chords didn’t quite develop, leaving him with a raspy voice. The kids at school teased him mercilessly, and at 21 years old, he wept on the stage, and off to the side, so did his mother. I wept with him. And then he befriended the saxophone.

I had strabismus as a kid, which caused my eyes to be crossed. I had five surgeries to correct this, but they didn’t come in time for my eyes not to be noticed by the other kids. At the time, there was a television series called Daktari, which featured Clarence The Cross-Eyed Lion.

This saxophone-playing boy was called Frog. I was called Clarence.

When books became my best friends, like the saxophone became his, my first through third grade teachers, Mrs. Knuti, Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Campbell, realized what was happening and they quietly allowed me to stay in the classroom during recesses. I sat at my desk with my latest book and lost myself. It didn’t protect me entirely; there were still the hallways, the cafeteria, the dreaded school bus. But it helped. In the older grades, I didn’t have that kind of support, and so I carried a book with me wherever I went, hid wherever I could, and read.

The worst times for me: when I was discovered and my book was ripped out of my hands and destroyed. Right before my Clarence eyes.

But there were so many good times too. The books I read! The friends I made! The dreams I had! And when I realized at a very early age that I could make magic with words too, well…I just always had friends to turn to.

Another bright spot this Covid week: My novel All Told was reviewed by a reviewer, given 5 stars, and called a “powerhouse novel”. Powerhouse. Magic.

It took until this Covid week and thinking about books for me to come to a realization. Several years ago, in an antique store, I found a Big Little Book featuring Clarence The Cross-Eyed Lion from Daktari. I smiled at it, held it in my hand, and then decided to buy it. When I told a friend about this later, she asked, “Why would you buy that, when Clarence brought you such pain?” I didn’t know the answer.

I do now. I found Clarence…in a book. And books are friends. I made Clarence a friend.

It’s amazing, really, how much healing can go on in ten days. Reading books and carrying friends everywhere. Going to sleep with a book, waking with a book. Weeping on a recliner with a young man who found his own best friend in a saxophone.

Pulling that Big Little Book out from my bookshelf and reading it cover to cover, and patting the illustrated head of Clarence.

Friends.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

So is it possible to write a moment of happiness, or even find one, when I’m sick with Covid? Well, we’re going to find out!

Over the weekend, it seemed like my allergies were kicking in. I am allergic to anything that even remotely resembles pollen, and so I wasn’t surprised when I began to sneeze a lot and had a stuffy nose. But on Tuesday night, as I taught a class, the congestion suddenly increased, like an anvil lowering itself into my sinuses. And I began to cough. I don’t cough with allergies.

Huh, I thought.

When class was over and I went upstairs, I decided to use one of the home tests for Covid. Just to reassure myself that I didn’t have it, because I couldn’t have it, I’d been so darn careful.

Watching that little window on the test was like watching a test for an unwanted pregnancy. As the second line began to appear, well before the ten minutes was up, I pleaded with the test gods. “No,” I said. “Don’t do that. No. It’s not possible.”

Well, that second line didn’t listen to me and just kept appearing.

I immediately canceled classes and clients for the rest of the week, and contacted anyone I’d had personal contact with recently. I sent a message to my doctor via MyChart – I just saw him last week for a physical, so maybe I caught it from him. And by the time I went to bed that night, I was miserable.

First, from the symptoms. Second, from the anger. This just wasn’t fair. I’d done everything possible to avoid Covid. Isolation at the beginning. Vaccines. Booster. Masks. Hand sanitizer. Threw my entire business onto Zoom. I was protecting everyone and I was protecting myself.

And now…Covid.

Because of possible drug interactions, I was not able to take the oral medication to treat Covid. But my doctor had me go in yesterday for an antibody IV infusion. Basically, Covid antibodies were pushed into my veins to battle the illness.

So enter Moment #1, which didn’t start out as a Moment. When I arrived at the clinic, I felt like I had the plague. I couldn’t go right in – I had to call a special number, and then meet someone at the entrance after the hallway was cleared of people I could possibly infect. The woman who met me was in a yellow gown and she wore a mask and a shield. She walked me through the empty hall, and I was sorely tempted to yell, “Unclean! Unclean! Stay away!” Then she led me to an isolated room at the back of the building in a unit I never even knew was there. I was placed in a room all by myself, with a pretty nice recliner, and we were joined by a young man, yellow-gowned, masked, shielded.

But then the fun began.

As the antibodies were put deep into my veins, they asked me what I do. So I told them. And they erupted into questions.

“Ohmygosh, I’ve never met a real author before!”

We talked books. And we talked MY books. The woman was reading a book which is next on my own reading list to read. They were supposed to just let me sit there for an hour, having as little interaction with me as possible to avoid their being exposed, but they kept coming back, asking more questions. When I finally left, they both asked for my card.

Who knew Covid could be good for the ego?

Then, late last night, I decided a hot soak in our Jacuzzi tub would be good for the sinuses and the soul. Last Christmas, a lovely student sent me a box of peppermint bath bombs. I ran the tub, dropped in a bomb, dropped in me, and hit the button for the jets. I was immediately immersed in peppermint steam. I sunk in as deeply as possible. And I could still smell! I haven’t lost taste or smell yet, and I rejoiced in that small gift.

Then, I rolled over onto my stomach and dropped my entire painful face into the hot water and soothing peppermint.

Ahhhhhhhhhhh. Never has hot water and peppermint felt so good!

Oh, and speaking of bombs – my son Andy brought me a chocolate truffle bomb as a Get Well Soon present. This bomb, you eat, you don’t soak in. But I’ll soak in it anyway, because as of now, my tastebuds are still working.

So are there bright moments even when you are sick with the plague that you fought so hard not to get?

Yes.

Now, let’s just get me better. C’mon, antibodies! I have work to do!

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.