Author: Kathie

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

Well. It’s been a week, hasn’t it. I was thinking for a while there that I might have to beg off another week, because the mess that is the US since Tuesday (well, for the last four years, really) just stole the week away. But then I thought, Let’s take a moment here and go over it piece by piece.

On Election Day, I was planning on spending the day hunkered inside. There were threats and predictions of violence and emotions were running high. But then I received a notification from my library that books I put on hold to read to my granddaughter, Maya Mae, were in. Because of COVID, I can’t see Maya much, even though she lives only a couple miles from me. But I’ve been reading to her, via Zoom, almost every evening. We’re working our way through the Junie B. Jones books. Michael, aka Grampa Mike, somehow always manages to be in earshot when I read and so we enjoy the books together. I also had a couple errands I needed to run. So despite the threats and predictions, I ventured out.

It was a beautiful day, stunning temps in the sixties, bright sunshine, blue skies. Weather that just makes the world feel positive. I wore my VOTE t-shirt and my Ruth Bader Ginsberg Dissent Collar earrings. I pulled out in Semi, my convertible, who I thought was tucked in for the winter, but not so! It was November Spring! Top down, music up (Heart And Soul by T’Pau), I buzzed around, picked up the books, ran my errands. Everywhere, everyone smiled. A woman and her kids in the library complimented my purse and we spoke for a while, six feet apart, masks on. In the car, I sang and I basked and genuinely enjoyed myself. I treated myself to lunch and then went home. I opened the windows of the condo so the sun could follow me inside.

As the night went on, it got uglier, of course. I didn’t go to bed until six o’clock Wednesday morning, and by then, my eyes were so bugged out from stress and staring at the numbers and the pink/light blue/pink/light blue/pink/light blue/blue/red of the states that I wasn’t sure if my eyelids would close.

Not a good time. And it’s been a jumpy time since, flying from joy and confidence to despair and distress in a single bound.

But through it all, I’ve been talking to my kids. I have four. Christopher is 36 years old. Andy is 34. Katie is 33. And Olivia is 20. This was Olivia’s first presidential election. And as I talked to my kids and listened to their thoughts and their worries and, well, their lives, really, I realized a few things.

First, I have four kids who never once questioned if they would vote. Of course they would. They consider it their responsibility and their right and their privilege. They know that voting is what makes this country a democracy.

None of my kids voted just willy-nilly. All gave it great thought and consideration, weighed and measured the issues, their own wants and needs, their beliefs and morals. Olivia researched every person running for any office. “I want to get it right, Mama,” she said.

Christopher participated in early in-person voting in October. Andy voted absentee, dropping his ballot off at our city hall. Katie, in a different state that didn’t allow absentee voting, but did allow early in-person voting, did just that. Her state only allowed 3 minutes for voting time, so she made sure she knew what was going to be on the ballot, researched her choices, and went in knowing exactly what she wanted to say. Olivia voted absentee, dropping her ballot off at the city hall, as Michael and I did.

All this adds up to one big moment of happiness. My kids (and I only call them kids because saying “my adults” just sounds wrong) have grown up to be responsible, knowledgeable, active members of our society and the world. They don’t look at voting as a chore or as something that can be blown off. They see it as the chance to raise their voices and speak out for what they believe.

And coming right on their heels…Grandbaby Maya Mae.

I don’t know how this election is going to turn out. I do know how I want it to. And I know that these threats to stop the counting of votes has sickened me, even more than so much of the previous four years has. We have the right to speak our minds through our votes. And our votes deserve to be counted.

All of them. Michael’s. Mine. Christopher’s. Andy’s. Katie’s. Olivia’s, voice lifted and strong in her first chance to select who she wants as president of the United States.

I am proud of my kids. I look at them and I can’t help but feel it’s all going to be okay.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

On Monday, at 1:00 in the morning, I was officially on my first day of my weeklong break. I was comfortably tucked into my recliner, fireplace on, blanket over me, watching several episodes in a row of The Gilmore Girls, when my daughter Olivia sent me a message on Facebook.

“Mama, can I ask you a question?”

One o’clock in the morning questions are usually a red flag. They’re usually something like, “I want to go backpacking this summer in Europe with a guy named Bubba McGee and he’s forty-two and he’s been unemployed for twelve years, it’s a thing with him, and we figured we’d just make money along the way by doing odd jobs and we’ll sleep under the stars and we’re going to leave our cell phones behind to fully appreciate the natural world and that’s okay with you, isn’t it, Mama?” So I immediately paused The Gilmore Girls and answered, “Sure.”

I couldn’t have been more surprised.

“So this week is spirit week for Halloween and it’s kinda like spirit week back in high school. Tomorrow is pink day so you wear something pink. I am assuming it’s for breast cancer awareness. Do you find stuff like people wearing pink annoying? Maybe romanticizing the disease? I don’t know, I am just debating whether or not I should wear pink.”

I am three years out from breast cancer. I still have a daily reminder, in the oral chemotherapy I have to take every night in the form of a little yellow pill. That will continue for at least another two years.

I knew where this question was coming from. I wrote a Today’s Moment about it, on 9/9/17, when I was right smack in the middle of daily radiation treatments and really not feeling well at all. We were in Home Depot, getting a key made, and Olivia found a keychain with a pink ribbon on it.

From that blog:

She asked if I was looking forward to Pinktober, the month of October, which is Breast Cancer Awareness month and many businesses turn their lights and signs pink. She said she would wear pink for me in October. She said she would show me support.

I told her that I wasn’t looking forward to Pinktober. That maybe I would next year, when this is all behind me. But that right now, everywhere I look, there’s cancer.  Turn on the TV, there’s commercials about cancer. Go on the computer, there’s articles about cancer. Go get a key made, there’s a keychain about cancer.

“I’m just so tired of it, Livvy,” I said. “I can’t get out from under it. Radiation every day. Cancer Center every day. Look here, look there, see pink ribbons and cancer. Cancer, cancer everywhere.”

Olivia said that she loves Autism Awareness Month and everything is lit up blue. I told her that this might be because she has such a good handle on her own autism, that she deals with it with grace and intelligence and compassion.

“I might feel better about Pinktober when I get to that point too,” I said. But right now, I’m not there. I wish I was. But I’m not.

And then Olivia said, “Oh, Mama,” and she flung her arms around my neck. This almost-seventeen year old young woman, who typically walks ten feet in front of me in public, who won’t hug me outside of our house and who rolls her eyes if I hug her, well, she threw her arms around me in the middle of Home Depot and hugged the stuffing out of me. She planted a solid kiss on my cheek.

And that was just what I needed.

It was just what I needed. And now we were three years later, and she was asking me about wearing pink. If it bothered me when people wore pink.

So I answered her, “Not so much anymore. When I was in treatment, it was too much of a reminder.”

She said, “So it doesn’t bother you anymore?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, cool,” she said. “Then I am gonna wear pink.”

It’s not the first time I felt grateful to have such a kind daughter. Such a NICE daughter. In this case, someone whose life has been touched by breast cancer and who wants to show support for her mother and for others who deal with this, but only wants to do it if her mother is comfortable with it. She could have been part of a pink-wearing pack and I would never have known. But she wasn’t going to do it without making sure that I felt okay about it.

She’s twenty years old. And she’s amazing. This won’t be the last time I feel grateful.

“I have a pink sweater, so that will work,” she said.

At 1:30 in the morning, I answered, “I have a pink sweater!”

“Oooo,” she said. “Wanna wear it tomorrow?”

“Sure!”

“Cool beans!”

So on Monday, I didn’t see my daughter. But I knew she was wearing pink. She knew I was wearing pink too.

And I felt her hug, just like I felt it that day in Home Depot, all day long.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Generally, I like to choose moments that have a sort of blanket connection – something that pretty much everyone can relate to. But this week – well, I can’t ignore what happened this week. Writers will understand my joy and excitement, but I hope others will too.

I’ve really been a writer for my whole life. Before I could physically write, I told stories. As soon as I could hold a pencil, I was off and running, or, more accurately, writing. I traced the stories out of my picture books and rewrote the stories the way I felt they should be written. When I ordered books from those wonderful Scholastic orders given to kids in elementary school, I often chose the books more for the pictures than the storyline because of the story that erupted in my own head when I saw the sample illustrations. My fifth grade teacher told me I was a writer after the first story I wrote for her, and I agreed, and that was all she wrote (I crack myself up sometimes).

Except it wasn’t all she wrote. I wrote and I wrote and I still do. Everything is a story.

While I published for the first time when I was fifteen (I rewrote the story of Christ in 70’s slang and it was published as a serial in the Catholic Herald Citizen – really!) and I was well-known as a short story writer by the time I was in my early thirties, my first book, a novel, wasn’t published until the year I turned fifty. Since then, I’ve published four more novels, two short story collections, an essay collection, two poetry chapbooks, a full-length poetry collection – and the book I’ll talk about in just a minute. My work has always been traditionally published, meaning that I go through the process of submitting to publishing companies and the publisher chooses me and then creates and markets the book. I’ve never considered self-publishing because – and be prepared for ego here – anyone can self-publish. I’ve never wanted to be just anyone. In the exact opposite of ego, I always wanted someone else to tell me that my work was worthy of publication, that they believed in me enough that they would put their weight behind my words. It was never enough for just me to say, “This is good enough.” I went through four agents and finally sold my first book by myself.

I’ve been with small presses and I love them. Their work is personal, they get to know who you are and I get to know who they are. While there might not be an advance with the contract, while the distribution might be smaller, while there might not be much in the way of promotion, small presses still back you with everything they’ve got. My books are out there because of small presses.

And now there’s the newest book. A novel called All Told. It is very different, very experimental in terms of its format. I was nervous when I turned it in to the publisher who published my last three books. I became more nervous when he didn’t respond as quickly as he did in the past. Worried that he was going to say no, and not receiving any reassurance when I asked for an update, I decided to submit the book elsewhere, as a fallback.

And then there was more quiet.

Honestly, that opposite of ego I talked about up above began to hit me in full force. No one will like this book. You’re done. It’s over. This book was a stupid idea. You should have stayed with something more traditional. Your previous eleven books? All a fluke. Now the truth will come out. You’re a failure.

Man, my inner voice is a naysayer.

And then…and then…

Last week Thursday, a contract from a publisher floated into my email box. By Friday, there were two more. And when I told my previous publisher, the one who hadn’t answered me yet, he told me he’d had a contract made ready for me two weeks before, and he just hadn’t sent it out yet. So suddenly…four possible contracts.

I was floored. And overwhelmed. And out of my head delighted.

I spent the weekend poring over the contracts, comparing, contrasting…and really, there was one that stood out. It was fully traditional, not hybrid (in hybrid, the author pays a portion of the publishing and promotion costs). It offered the opportunity for my book to be in hardcover, softcover, and ebook. I’ve never had a hardcover before! There would be international distribution. And there was that word, that word so rarely seen now – an advance.

An advance means something beyond the monetary. It means the publisher has enough faith in you that they’re going to give you an advance on your royalties – a payment before your book is even published.

And THAT was all she wrote. After talking with the acquisitions editor on Monday, I signed the contract. All Told will be published in late 2021.

There will be champagne this weekend.

But I want to stress that this would never have been possible without:

all of the editors from the literary magazines that have showcased my stories and poems

the publishers who published the first eleven books.

And that fifth grade teacher who told me I was a writer. And all the other teachers.

The year 2020. What a strange time.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I’m afraid this one might make some people angry. But I figure the majority of us are angry these days anyway, no matter which side of the divide, so I might as well plow ahead and be truthful about what made me laugh this week and feel hope.

Since March, I’ve sat relatively quietly and watched or listened as:

*people without masks stood shoulder to shoulder on the side of a busy road and held a protest against mandated mask-wearing;

*potential shoppers were escorted out of a variety of stores for not wearing masks, even though there was prominent signage saying it was required;

*videos of maskless people shrieking, yelling, wailing, knocking over store displays and people, deliberately coughing in strangers’ faces, including children;

*anti-maskers ranting about loss of civil rights, and the belief that the government is trying to control them;

*people without masks claiming masks are ineffective anyway, even as the CDC, the medical industry, and scientists showed study after study that shows they not only protect people, they can flatten the curve and we can start getting out of this mess;

*Wisconsin’s legislature, which has only met once since March over COVID concerns, only gets off its collective ass and does something when trying to block every proactive move that our governor makes;

*Our president, after having COVID himself, returns to the White House, pants up a flight of stairs, rips off his mask and says, “See? It’s not so bad.” Despite 216,000 plus deaths in the US alone.

This week, in the middle of Wisconsin being the hot spot, making the news, and being the subject of several news articles on how one state could get it so very wrong, simply because of politics, I watched a news break that showed our vice-president holding a rally in my hometown. In hot spot Wisconsin, he didn’t wear a mask, and the participants stood in a crowd, shoulder to shoulder, and they didn’t wear masks either. Afterwards, looking at comments on a post on social media about this visit, someone rhapsodized, “Oh, I wish I’d been there! I love him! He cares about us so much!”

I stopped reading.

Since March, I’ve stayed at home. I’ve given up going to the mall, to flea markets, to Goodwill, to the movie theater, to restaurants, to the gym, and put the kibosh on any travel whatsoever. The launch of my newest book this week was done virtually, not face to face. The infrequent times I have gone out, I wear a mask. I have masks in both of my cars and a spare hanging from my purse strap. One awful time, when I had to run into Target, I realized right as I parked that all my masks were in the wash. Pressing both hands over my mouth and nose, I slunk inside, stood six feet away from a Target worker and asked if they had masks. She ran, fetched me one, and then said, “Thank you for being so conscientious.”

I’m doing this for me, of course. I’m in my third year of recovery from breast cancer, and I would like to continue on with my recovery, thank you very much. But there’s another reason I do it too.

For others. Just in case.

For the life of me, and possibly literally the life of me, I don’t understand the fuss over this. After seeing the Pence rally and reading the “He cares about us so much!” comment, I was pretty much ready to give up on any hope that humanity is still, well, human.

But then I had to run a few errands, which necessitated my leaving home. I made sure I had a mask and I left. The first thing that hit me was simply the brilliance of autumn. Trees that were green just last week are now the most vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows. It is just so pretty right now.

And then I saw a sign posted in front of a house. I expected it to be a political sign, but it was purple. So I looked closer as I drove by. On the sign, bold against the purple, a pink heart. And the words BE KIND.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

And then I approached Waukesha’s giant fiberglass cow. On October 26, 2017, I wrote about this cow in my Today’s Moments, when I was doing this every single day. I’ve known this cow since I was sixteen years old. Some facts about her: the cow is made of fiberglass and she stands twelve feet tall and weighs around five-hundred pounds. She cost $3000 when she was originally purchased around 1970. According to an article, her name is Gertrude Basse The Cow. But to me, she’s always been Bessie. Another thing about Bessie is she is dressed up in costume for Halloween, and she is dressed up for Christmas. The rest of the year, she is simply a large brown and white cow.

But on this day, when I saw her, I hit the brakes. I pulled over and stared and then I laughed out loud.

Bessie the giant cow was wearing a purple mask. It was tugged just right over her nose and mouth. Loops over her ears held the mask correctly in place.

Be kind, I thought. Then I added, A twelve-foot tall fiberglass cow in the middle of hot spot Wisconsin understands. Someone understood it for her. Someone took the time to make a mask for this cow, and put it on her, because it’s important. Because it’s essential. And oh so necessary.

There is hope for us all.

Be kind. Moo.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

 

.

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

And yes, this week, I have one.

It’s hard not to have one in a week of some really nice pats on the back. Tomorrow night, I will walk onto the football field at the high school where I graduated way back in the dinosaur days of 1978. I’m being inducted into the school’s “Wall of Stars”. I grin goofily every time I say that. I didn’t feel like a star in high school. I don’t feel like a star now. But I am so honored to be a part of this.

Then, out of the blue, I saw myself featured in a tweet by the Authors Guild. I was their “member spotlight”. They quoted me as saying, “There is no better way to know what was going on with the human condition at any point in time than to read a book.” I do truly believe that. I can’t help but wonder what books will say about our 2020.

But that isn’t what I thought of when I began to consider what my Moment would be, particularly after not having a Moment at all last week. And really, it’s no surprise where this new Moment comes from.

As parents, when we raise kids, we want a lot for them and we hope and dream of what they will be. We want them to be smart, to excel in whatever they choose to do with their lives (and please let them choose something great!), we want them to be talented and to be liked and to just have the best that life can offer. We want them to have an easy time of it.

With the induction into the Wall of Stars, I was asked o record a two-minute video, where I had to offer, among other things, my advice for high schoolers today. I told them (I think – I haven’t viewed my own video) that like everyone else, I will tell them to follow their passion, whatever their passion might be, and to look for that right path. But then I told them to never ever equate “right path” with “easy path”. Because right does not equal easy. Right can be, and likely will be, very, very hard.

And yet we want our kids to have it easy. I know I do.

But you know, more than anything, I wanted my children to grow up to be good people. Caring. Compassionate. Empathetic. Thoughtful.

This week, my daughter Olivia had to do an assignment for her 3-D art class in college. She had to “deconstruct” two different items and form them together into an art piece. She sent me a photo of what she’d done. She plucked leaves from her bonsai tree and scattered them in a loose circle. And then she snipped apart pieces of green aluminum wire. I looked at the photo and thought, Well, okay…

And then she told me the name of the piece.

Mama’s Empty Nest.

And I burst into tears. Because she caught it. The swirl of the nest, green and rich with life. Clearly a place that had been active and involved and connected. Now…empty.

Olivia is my fourth and final child. She is the last one to leave the nest. And while joining the world at large, moving ahead to greater things, following her passion, but bracing for a curvy up and down path, just as I said to do in the video, she took the time to look over her shoulder and see me. And create exactly how I feel.

I’ve raised a good person.

Actually, I’ve raised four good people, because they have all, at different times of their lives, done something or said something that let me know that they actually see ME.

I’ve had 11 books published, and I hope to announce the 12^th soon. I’ve built a strong, compassionate business from nothing and made it a success. I’m about to be inducted into a “Wall of Stars”.

But my biggest accomplishment is putting four nice, compassionate, kind, empathetic people out into our world. And watching them move through 2020.

Oh, these kids.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Well, a confession.

I don’t have a Moment this week.

I have to be honest. I really struggled, trying to work my way through all of my memories of this week, and trying to come up with a single Moment that I could describe as happy. Memorably happy. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking and digging.

And I just couldn’t.

It seems like the whole world has dwindled down to a couple things that wrap themselves around our minds and souls and psyches and throats and infiltrates every aspect of our lives. COVID. The election. I am so sick of people who won’t wear masks and who complain about wearing masks. I am sick of people who still think this is a grand hoax, despite the month after month after month of numbers. 200,000 dead in our country alone. Think of the town you live in. Think of the population. And then compare it to the 200,000. I am sick of the hatred. The racism that I knew was a problem, but didn’t know was a PROBLEM and a way of life for so many people. I am sick of a young boy who was raised to hate people of color, who was raised warped and twisted, being lauded as a hero for killing an innocent person, and then killing more innocent people who were trying to take away his gun so he wouldn’t kill anyone else. I am sick of his mother getting a standing ovation when she attended an event a stone’s throw from my home when I think she should be imprisoned for child abuse. I am sick of the election. The debate about turned me, and so many others, inside out. And yet there were those who praised the president for acting like a bratty two-year old. And for those who instantly chime in with presidential two-year oldness, “Well, what about Biden?”, he held it together admirably well until his sons were attacked. And then he caved to the bullying, and he shouldn’t have. But when he said, “Just shut up, man,” I think he was speaking for me for every single day of this past almost four years.

The lies and the hate, the lies and the hate.

I am sick of not being able to see my granddaughter, except on Zoom. Some people refer to those who wear masks as “sheep”. Well, I’m tired of my granddaughter being treated as the lamb taken to slaughter as her school district sends little students, not the older ones, just the little ones, to face-to-face five-days-a-week school. My granddaughter’s life is worth more than that. And I miss her.

I’m tired of watching my daughter trying so hard to have a great college experience when the fear of COVID has her in classes with masks and plexiglass, or classes on a screen, and her down time is spent alone in her dorm room. She should be learning amazing things, taking part in passionate discussions that spill out of the classroom and go on into the middle of the night. She should be piling into her car to go to the movies with friends, go shopping at the mall, or just hang out on the quad and talk. Her college experience is being stolen from her, by a virus, yes, but also by people who refuse to do the simple things necessary to beat this thing. Her college experience is being stolen from her by sheer negligent ignorance.

So this week, I’m so sorry, but I’m going to bow out from writing a Moment Of Happiness. I am too sad and I am too angry and just too tired.

I am soothing myself by remembering that in 2017, when I did this every single day, creating the Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News blog in what I thought was the worst year of my life, I missed one day that I simply couldn’t do it. And I’ve found myself here again now. I am midway through my third year of writing This Week’s Moment every week and until now, I’ve not missed a single week. So one week out of so many maybe isn’t so bad. But it makes me sadder to know that I can’t do it this week. I would feel like I was lying. And unlike certain people in politics, certain people throughout our country, certain people we stand next to in the grocery store, the gas station, certain people we pass on the street, I don’t think dishonesty is the right thing to do.

One little thing. Last night, before she went to sleep, my daughter Olivia typed to me in a message on Facebook, “I’ll be okay, Mama.”

May we all be.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

“Kathie, you are such an inspiration to all of us who write!” 

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

Those words up there appeared on my Facebook page this week. And I can’t even begin to tell you what they mean to me. I hold writers in the highest regard of anyone on the planet, and to think that I am succeeding in lifting them up just makes me happy.

Happy. A word we don’t hear much these days.

But honestly, I consider advocating for writers to be a huge part of my job, both as a writer and a teacher. So hearing something like this does me a world of good.

So does finding a box nestled against my door after the sound of my doorbell rang throughout the condo. Was I expecting someone? Oh, yes, I was.

Book #11. A full-length poetry collection called No Matter Which Way You Look, There Is More To See, released by Finishing Line Press this week. It’s my eleventh book, but my third book of poetry, and my first full-length collection. And there’s so much that’s special about it.

First, it’s book #11. That alone stuns me. My first book, a novel called The Home For Wayward Clocks, came out in 2011, the year I turned 51. I’d begun to wonder – and doubt – if I’d ever have a book published. After Clocks, I’ve had the incredible good fortune to have 10 other books come tumbling out. Enlarged Hearts, a short story collection, 2012. Learning To Tell (A Life)Time, a novel and the sequel to Clocks, 2013. Rise From The River, a novel, 2015. Oddities & Endings, a short story collection, 2016, along with True Light Falls In Many Forms, a poetry chapbook that same year. In Grace’s Time, a novel, 2017. Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, the first year of this blog, 2018. If You Tame Me, a novel, 2019, along with When You Finally Said No, a poetry chapbook, in that same year. And now, 2020, the full-length collection of poetry, No Matter Which Way You Look, There Is More To See, which is how I truly feel. Book #12 is sitting at my publisher’s, awaiting its fate. Which is making me nervous.

Second, the cover. It was created from my photograph of 7-year old Olivia, from the first time she traveled to Oregon with me. She was meeting the Pacific Ocean, and she was exhilarated and entranced. “I’m dancing with the ocean, Mama! I’m dancing with the ocean!” And she was. It remains one of my favorite memories and one of my favorite photographs. Olivia’s never-to-be-repressed joy is on full display. That’s my girl.

And third, well, the story behind the poetry. Anyone who has known me for a fairly long time knows that if I was asked if I wrote poetry, I would say, “No!” Emphatically. Firmly.

I lied. I’ve always written poetry. I have a notebook from the fifth grade class where my amazing teacher, Mrs. Faticci, called me, publicly, in front of the entire class, a writer. In that notebook, along with the stories, are poems.

When I was a junior in high school, I met Duane Stein, my creative writing teacher. I’ve written about him often; he is still in my life. At a time when I most needed a confidence boost, when I most needed to know that my life was worth something, that I was worth something, there he was. He praised my writing over and over. And he told me that writing wasn’t only my gift, but my responsibility. He caused me to look at writing in a whole different way – it was something that I had to give.

Until we got to the poetry unit. I handed in poetry. He read it. And he said, “Well, you should stick with your fiction.”

I was crushed. These were the words coming from the man who believed in me. Who raved about my work, but gave me sold feedback and criticism and who I listened to so intensely, I swear I heard his thoughts before he spoke them.

Never ever underestimate the influence of a teacher.

So I shoved my poetry underground. I continued to write it, to read it, to love it, but I never showed it to anyone. I never admitted to writing it. As far as I was concerned, it didn’t exist.

And then the books started coming out. As they did, I saw a call for manuscripts wanting poetry on a certain theme. I knew I had a poem on that theme. So I cautiously got it out, dusted it off, and submitted it. It was accepted. Slowly, slowly, I submitted others. They were accepted.

Then the first chapbook.

And the second.

And now the full-length collection. No Matter Which Way You Look, There Is More To See. Indeed.

Now please know, I absolutely love my creative writing teacher from high school. It is because of him, because of his instilling this sense of responsibility in me, that it’s not enough to have a gift, you have to be committed to using the gift, that I’m out there with 11 books (hopefully 12 soon) and I’m the head of an international creative writing studio. Getting my words out. Lifting writers up.

It’s because of him that I never ever gave up. Not even when he said, “Well, you should stick with your fiction.” I hid for a while. But I didn’t give up. I kept writing. Even poetry.

He was, and is, my inspiration.

And now, I’m told I’m an inspiration too.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

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

This morning, I had some rare free time as two of my three morning clients were out of town and couldn’t meet. I decided to take the time to go out to The Salt Room and get a treatment. I’ve been going to The Salt Room for almost two years now. It’s great for treatment of lung disorders. I have asthma and allergy issues and it’s been amazing.

But on top of that, it has another benefit: decompression. The actual salt room is completely covered in salt – floors, walls, ceiling. There is no visual sensory stimulation – no color, nothing to look at. The lights are turned way down. There is a soft white noise from the blower putting salt into the air. I sit in a leather recliner, covered in a nice warm blanket. Sometimes I read, but mostly, I close my eyes and just breathe.

So today, I did just that.

Before my appointment, I met with my remaining morning client and I mentioned that I am about COVIDed and OtherNewsed out. I said that I’m only reading headlines now, rarely the articles. He nodded and said his wife told him that it’s time to stop reading the headlines too.

Honestly, I think we are all burned out. A student of mine who is a therapist started a COVID-fatigue support group this week. I’m beginning to think that, along with the mask mandate, there should be a support group mandate too.

So while I sat there and breathed, I thought about this. And I came up with an idea. We need to do a different sort of country-wide lockdown. It would last for at least 24 hours. And this is what we would do.

• First, pick the most comfortable seat you have. It might be a recliner. It might be that old couch which you should really get rid of, but it’s learned how to mold to your body just right and you cocoon in it. The seat can be inside or outside. Wherever you are happiest.
• If you have a pet, and that pet is lappable, that pet will be doing just that. If the pet isn’t lappable, it should be on the floor within reach of your hand.
• Next to you on a table, closed, or better yet, open face down on your chest, is the book that you would choose to have with you on a desert island. It’s not there for you to read. It’s just there to provide you with the comfort you would want with you in a dire situation.
• All screens are off. No television, no computer, no tablet, no phone. You may play music, but only if you must. And it should be at a low volume. More background than attention-getter.
• Don’t turn on any lights. During the daytime, live by the light the sun provides or live in the gray of clouds. At night, embrace the dark.
• Pay no attention to the activities of the man in the white house or his followers or his anti-followers. Pay no attention to reports on the COVID numbers or the new discoveries. Pay no attention to the protests, violent or peaceful. Pay. No. Attention.
• Close your eyes. Breathe.
• Hold for 24 hours.

As I sat in the salt room and thought about all this, I felt my shoulders release. My forehead smoothed out, and even the tension on the sides of my eyes relaxed. My hands opened and my fingers went limp. And then I fell asleep.

Of course, eventually my hour was up, the lights came back on, the salt blower turned off, and the door opened. I re-entered the real world.

But on the way home, I kept my phone on silent. I didn’t look at it to see what I missed during that hour. I went through a drive-thru, picked up lunch, and drove to nearby Pewaukee Lake. I sat at a picnic table and watched the water, so smooth today, as I ate. And then I came home.

Just that hour in the salt room helped. And so did the solo lakeside lunch. Imagine how we would feel after 24 hours.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Eons ago, when I was a little girl, my mother hated my hair. She told me over and over that when she had a daughter, she expected her to be blonde with big fat curls. I’m not sure how she expected this – both she and my dad had dark brown hair, and though my dad’s did have a bit of a wave to it, my mother’s was stick straight. So is mine. And the red is manufactured…I have brown hair. Equally confounding was that she expected me to have blue eyes. My eyes are brown, of course.

She combatted my hair. Every Sunday, I had to sit while she rolled my hair up in really uncomfortable curlers and then try to sleep. I had to suffer through it for school picture day too. The result was really not so good.

On top of that, there was a disagreement between my parents as to the length of a young girl’s hair. My father wanted my hair long. My mother wanted it short. She had short permed hair all her life. So my hair was allowed to grow out during the school year, but when summer vacation came around, she would sneak me off to a hair salon or a barber within walking distance on a weekday when my father was at work  – my mother didn’t drive at that time. She would have my hair cut into a pixie, despite my protests. And so for the first few weeks of summer, I had to put up with my father calling me his son. And my mother saying this wouldn’t happen if I was just blonde and curly-haired. Oh, and blue-eyed.

Around the sixth grade, my mother gave up – primarily, I think, because we lived in a subdivision in the middle of cornfields, and there was nothing within walking distance. I let my hair grow, and by my senior year, it hung to just behind my knees. A few weeks before I graduated, immersed in the Mary Lou Retton era, I went to a salon and had 3 feet of hair cut off. It looked great once – when I came home. Then I discovered my lack of depth perception (a fallout of eye surgeries) made it impossible for me to use a curling iron. I couldn’t tell where my forehead was. So instead of “feathers”, I sported burns. I grew my hair back out to shoulder-length, put up with a few years of perms, and eventually, cut it short.

Eventually, my life went through a sort of epiphany and I stepped into new situations. I left my first husband and married my second. I had Olivia. I began to teach in community and continuing education. I started the studio. I had a hair stylist for years named John, who, whenever he cut my hair, would punk it. I’d laugh, wear it home, and promptly comb the gel out of my hair. But I began to notice my red highlights. And John said, “You know, you’re a redhead at heart. You’re strong, you’re determined, and stubborn as hell.”

I considered this.

The summer before Olivia went into first grade, she spent mornings in summer school and I took myself one day to John. When I walked onto the playground later to pick her up, her jaw dropped. So did her teachers’. “Mama!” she said. “Is that you?” My hair was red. And it was punked. And I felt like maybe I was stepping into who I was. Maybe I was that stubborn redhead.  Maybe. I knew for sure I wasn’t that quiet child who put up with the curlers and tried my best to maintain those curls for more than a few hours. I once seriously considered dying my hair blond, perming it, and wearing blue contact lenses. But now, here I was. A redhead, spiked, owning my own business, writing and publishing up a storm.

“Is that you?” Maybe.

Since turning 60 years old, I’ve been looking a lot at those school photographs. That little girl with brown hair. Level brown-eyed gaze. A ready smile. She was quiet and accepting, but she was also strong. Determined. I would exchange confident for stubborn, but stubborn isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes stubborn is what gets you through.

I’m getting my hair cut today. John passed away a few years ago. I’ve told my new stylist, Megan, that we are not coloring my hair. No more red. Just brown. Me.

“Mama! Is that you?”

Yes. I think so.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(And oh – I’m keeping the spikes.)

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

I have been so good. Really. Very, very good.

In January, I decided I wanted to lose weight and get back into shape. I used to love to go to the gym. I did advanced step-aerobics every day of the week and alternated working upper and lower body on the weight machines every day as well. I walked around wearing brightly colored exercise leggings, coordinating leotards, and my special order Reebok sneakers, developed specifically for step-aerobics. Those shoes never touched anything but a gym floor. I changed into them when I arrived and switched out before I left. I had my own designated spot on the floor and the instructor often called out for me to take over the class while she spot-checked everyone else. When the gym held a “fitness Olympics”, I won the gold medal. I taught for several weight loss companies. And all of it went to hell when I developed an eating disorder.

It wasn’t until now that I felt ready to go back. I felt like I could watch what I ate again and exercise again without becoming obsessed. Without letting it rule every moment of my life.

I joined a 24/7 gym. I worked out typically at midnight. And I loved it. I didn’t join a weight loss plan, but made my own, based on what I knew about myself and about oral allergy syndrome, which I deal with constantly. The weight came off slowly, but steadily. Then COVID hit. My gym closed.

I didn’t let it stop me. I kept following my own diet, cutting out sugar and carbs. I still allowed certain “cheats” – our Saturday dinners out became take-out dinners in, we had our “Thursday Sundae” from Culvers, I still had a doughnut for breakfast every Sunday morning, ensconced in my recliner with a really good cup of coffee and the Sunday comics, Life section, and real estate section. I bought a treadmill and resistance bands and turned a back room into my home gym. I still worked out primarily at midnight.

I was so good. Really. Very, very good.

The weight loss stalled about three weeks ago – I’m sticking at 24 pounds off, forever chasing that elusive 25 pounds, and then 30. But I was okay. I knew plateaus happened, and just as I used to talk clients off of cliffs, I talked myself off too.

But this week, something happened. I think the stress just hit a certain level. The news has been COVID, COVID, COVID for months now. Racism is an even bigger epidemic in our country than the virus. Horrible things were happening. I sent my youngest daughter off to college, despite COVID. I watched from a distance as my oldest daughter walked into her classrooms at a university in Louisiana…and then watched further as I shoved COVID aside and freaked out over a hurricane. I saw my granddaughter, who lives a stone’s throw from me, in a photograph on Facebook, wearing a mask on her first day of 2^nd grade. A perfectly cute pink leopard print, but a mask nonetheless, on a face that I should have been able to see beaming from ear to ear. I don’t know when I will see her in person again. I read news reports and watched videos of people throwing fits because it was “their right” to not wear a mask, instead of thinking, You know, I can do this one small thing and it might just help somebody. Then the “man” that calls himself “president” showed up in Kenosha and claimed to the world that the violence was caused by “far left politicians”, not at all by a policeman who shot a Black man seven times in the back at point blank range. And that “man” took credit for bringing in the National Guard, when it was our “far left” governor who did so. And he posed a “business owner” in front of a destroyed business so that “business owner” could sing this “president’s” praises, even though that “business owner” did not own that business at all.

There was a notification on my phone that the air quality in my area was poor. I think the air was gray from deception and delusion.

And suddenly, I was stress-eating. I was eating in a way I hadn’t since January. I had lunch at McDonalds, supper at Culvers, another lunch at Subway, and another at Jimmy John’s. I had a Snickers bar, and a couple days later, another Snickers bar. I stepped off the treadmill on Monday and haven’t been back since.

I. Felt. Awful. Not physically, mind you, I was fine. But I felt guilty and awful and like I was the biggest (literally) failure ever. I let things get to me. And I let them pull me down.

Then, last night, as I was reading a student’s work, I came across these lines. A character is telling another character to avoid trouble: “Did you know that trouble starts with a T that rhymes with D that stands for donut? Have one. There’s nothing wrong with stress-eating.”

I sat back and laughed. And forgave myself.

“Michael,” I yelled. “Remember that recipe for Dr. Pepper brownies I found? Make’em.”

(They were a disappointment. Odd texture and I couldn’t taste the Dr. Pepper at all.)

Tonight, I will have my Thursday Sundae, and that will be the end of it. We’ll still eat out/in on Saturday, I’ll still have my doughnut on Sunday. That’s on the program, and I will be on the program. I will climb back on the treadmill.

And here’s the Moment – I know this isn’t something I’m telling myself. I know I can do it.

Sometimes, we break, and we all break in different ways. I broke. I had the donut. And now I’m putting it away and getting out the glue.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.