Author: Kathie

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

Since last Sunday, I’ve been holed up in a lovely hotel room in a small Indiana town. There are cafes and diners and family-run bars. My room overlooks a little lake, and there are swans and geese and ducks, small birds, and a blue heron that flies by my window at least once a day. My room itself has a stone fireplace which I’ve kept running almost constantly. It’s been quiet and very peaceful and I’ve gotten a lot of writing – and sleeping – done. I’ve lived through a gale warning. And now I’m watching it snow.

This morning, I woke up a little stir crazy. I gave myself some time off and went out to visit an antique store. When I walked in, I was followed by two women, a mother and daughter. The daughter was about my age – let’s say in her fifties. And the mother was older. As I shopped and scrounged, I could hear their conversation and I paid half-attention to it as I was also listening to the conversation I was having with myself, since I had no one but me to talk to. Then I heard the older woman exclaim, “Oh, look at this!” Her excitement was such that I stopped in my tracks. “I had this! My mother gave it to me! It sat on my dresser for years. Oh, look!” They talked about it, letting me know it was blue and glass and it was the shape of a girl. Then the daughter said, “Let’s move on, Mom.”

I came around the corner in time to see the older woman looking wistfully over her shoulder as her daughter led her away.

My mother gave it to me.

When I was six, I followed my mother into an S&H Green Stamp store. In these stores, you could trade in your green stamps, with the bright red S&H on them, for a variety of things, from household goods to toys to clothes. While my mother went to the counter, I sat on the display window’s ledge and I saw something that stopped my heart. A white stuffed dog with black spots and big cloth eyes and jingle bells in his ears. I swept him into my lap and started a conversation, and yes, I heard him talk back. His name was Rantu, I decided, after the wolf in the book I was reading, The Island Of The Blue Dolphins.

I entered the first grade not reading. A month later, I was READING and I tore through every book in the school library. That little school only held first through third grade, so there weren’t many advanced books and I was reading at an adult level. My teacher traveled each week to the high school and selected books for me, which I read at my desk while the rest of the class went to the little library. And so yes, I was reading The Island Of The Blue Dolphins.

When my mother came to get me, I held out Rantu. “Mom, look at this!” I said. My mother said she was saving her stamps for something else. “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll ask Santa.”

Only now do I realize how odd it was to be reading books with adult concepts, but still believing in Santa Claus and stuffed animals that could talk, silently, inside my own head.

Christmas came and so did Rantu.  And now, at age 57, I see Rantu every day when I open my closet door. He sits on a shelf and looks down at me. And yes, he still talks.

My mother gave him to me.

In the antique store, I saw a little glass sculpture, made from all the colors of the sea and the sky. It was a little girl in a long ruffled dress and she held the skirt out with both hands. I carried her quickly up to the check-out counter. “Please,” I said, “I want to buy this, but would you give it to someone else?” I described the woman, the coat she wore, the color of her hair, what her daughter wore.

I was close by when the woman behind the counter called out to them. “Wait!” she said. “Another customer left this for you.”  And she handed over the blue glass sculpture.

Oh, that squeal. I heard the little girl in that older woman. And I heard the echo of my own squeal when I found Rantu under the tree.

My mother gave it to me.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter, you’ve likely already guessed what this week’s Moment is. It’s a moment about the Moment.

On Tuesday morning, I found out that my publisher wants to make a book out of the entire 2017 year of Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. He wants to do this despite the length (when I put it in manuscript format, it was 620 pages!), despite the fact that all of the Moments are raw, unedited writing, despite the fact that I never ever intended these for publication in any form, whether individually or as a book.

Well, how about that? I’m still flabbergasted. But there’s a story behind this Moment, of course.

On March 27, 2017, I put down the very first words, the first sentences, of my novel-in-progress. That was five days after I signed the contract for the publication of my novel, In Grace’s Time, which was released last September. On March 27, 2018, I woke up and immediately felt blue. It was exactly one year since I started the new book. And for the first time ever, I did not have a first draft done within a year.

Why? Because I was derailed last summer with breast cancer, of course. At one point, I actually quit writing – which was another “first time ever”. I was beyond exhausted. There really has to be a new word created for the fatigue that comes from cancer treatments. It was a tired I’d never felt before. Eventually, I began writing again. But I had to start over from page 1 – another “first time ever” as I always just plow straight ahead through first drafts – because I’d lost the thread, the flow, the desire. It came back, but at that moment, it felt like I was digging my way out of a six-foot grave that I thought I’d escaped.

And so, on Tuesday morning, I was sad. I wondered if I was ever not going to feel the effects of breast cancer and its treatment. I wondered if I was ever going to catch up with my life from where I left off.

And then I checked my email. Where there was a contract from my publisher and a note saying, “Let’s do this.” For a book I didn’t know I’d written.

Well, crimeny. It was like the universe just reached out, whacked me upside the head, and said, “For heaven’s sake, woman. You never stopped writing. You wrote a book, even when you didn’t know you were writing a book. You. Never. Stopped.”

I never stopped.

One of my most common messages to my students is, “Don’t give up.”

I didn’t give up. I didn’t give up when I thought I gave up. I didn’t stop when I thought I stopped. I wrote a book when I didn’t know I was writing a book.

Sorta makes me wonder what I’m doing when I know what I’m doing.

So. Book #8, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News; A Year Of Spontaneous Essays by Kathie Giorgio, will be released somewhere in September or October.

And one other thing. I was having a rough morning on Monday too, until I got on the phone and arranged an event where I will be teaching a workshop called The Labyrinth and the Creative Spirit. While I was talking with the person who wanted me to come teach this, she suddenly burst out with, “Oh, I just love you!”

And my rough morning was gone. Sometimes, we just need to hear that we’re loved. And somehow, Kim knew that was exactly what I needed.

An unintentional book under contract. And someone loves me.

Oh, yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

In my office, behind my desk, I have two tall bookshelves, bridged in the middle by a credenza. The bottom two shelves on each can’t be seen unless you step behind my desk…which is why they’ve become my catch-all. Anything that doesn’t have a place has a place there.

My Waltons memorabilia. A black glass mannequin head that I began painting, but never finished. Printer paper. Little brain games that I use for creativity exercises. A plastic doll, that I colored in with Sharpie markers, sleeping in a plastic crib. Piles of books I want to read. A fan. A reading lamp that plugs into a USB port. Boxes with my publicity photos. A book I borrowed from someone and I can’t remember who and so I keep it in case I remember.

You get the picture. It was a mess.

Over the last week, I’ve cleaned it out. I felt the need to de-clutter. Many of the books in my pile of to-reads went out to the Little Free Library, particularly if they’d been in the pile for over a year. Lots of stuff went in the garbage. Yes, I kept the borrowed book – I have an inkling of whose it is so I’ll hopefully return it. It felt good to clean up and throw out.

And then I came across a huge pile of cards and notes.

Purchased cards. Homemade cards. Notes written on stationary, lined paper, drawing pads. Cards from groups, from individuals, from people I know, from complete strangers. All from last summer, when I was dealing with breast cancer.

I’m not kidding when I say pile. They started in one corner of a shelf and must have, at some point, reached the top of the shelf and began to spill over into the back. Behind my to-read books, the cards spread out to cover the entire length of the bookshelf.

The night I found them, I sat down and read them all over again. These cards and letters kept me going through such a hard time. They made me laugh. They convinced me that I would get through it. And then they convinced me again when doubt returned over and over. And they let me know that I had a reason to get through it. I was necessary. I was needed.

After I was done rereading the cards, I stacked them neatly and threw them away.

I admit, I stood by the dumpster for a few minutes, wondering if I really wanted to get rid of something that meant so much to me, that got me through the hardest thing I’d ever experienced.

And I decided I did. To hang on to the cards was to hang on to cancer.

I read a column last Sunday by Milwaukee Journal columnist Philip Chard (@PhilipChard on Twitter), in which he wrote about grief and letting go. He spoke of his mother, who, when she lost her beloved husband, said, “You don’t forget. You move on.”

(Want to see the column? Go to: https://www.jsonline.com/story/life/green-sheet/advice/philip-chard/2018/03/15/grieving-process/417294002/)

I am not grieving someone beloved. I am, instead, trying to let go of the fear of that time, the uncertainty, the knowledge that I was sick when I wasn’t feeling sick at all, the lack of control, and back to the fear, the fear, the fear. I won’t forget. But I don’t want that time to take over who I am and where I am now.

It can be difficult because it’s not like the treatment door closed on the day I finished radiation. I am on a medication for the next five years, and this medication causes massive joint aches and fatigue and it exacerbates fibromyalgia. I no longer wake up and wonder if I’ll be in pain that day. Instead, I wonder how much pain I will be in, if I will be able to walk to the bathroom without holding on to the wall for support, if I will stand at the foot of one of our two flights of stairs and wish like hell we lived in a one-story home, if I will look at the dog and debate if it’s worth it to let her pee on the floor instead of taking her for a walk. These reminders of cancer are going to be with me for the next five years and I can’t move on from them.

Yet.

But I’ve gotten rid of the cards and notes. The bio descriptions of my surgeon, my medical oncologist, my radiation oncologist. My “Guide To Breast Cancer”. My “Resources for Cancer Patients”. All of it, gone. No more clutter. Clear road ahead. Last summer isn’t forgotten. But I’m moving – limping – into a new spring.

But those cards. I loved and welcomed every one. I held them tightly before I let them go.

I won’t forget.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

.

 

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

There are times, when I look at my daughter, that I feel like she must go around with her neck twisted and bent like a pipecleaner, trying to take in the world, trying to acclimate it, calibrate it, with her own unique perspective. There’s the way the world looks at itself; there’s the way Olivia looks at the world. There’s the way society interprets issues; there’s the way Olivia interprets issues. The world doesn’t see in black and white, it sees in color, but Olivia sees colors that we’ve never pulled out of a Crayola box.

We call how Olivia thinks Livvyonian. And frankly, her ways, her ideas, her world are pretty stunning.

When Olivia was in first grade, she defined autism for me. I asked her to still her stimming, those flapping dancing hands that we don’t see very often anymore. Back then, she said, “Oh, no, Mama. I need my hands. Sometimes my brain slips sideways and my hands bring it back.”

That slip-sliding brain. I love that slip-sliding brain. Talking to Olivia is like having a conversation with a kaleidoscope.

This past Tuesday was the first of three National School Walk-Out Days, a protest aimed at better gun control in our country, and as a result, safer schools. It was a hot issue over the last month. This morning, I read an article about a spokesperson from the NRA claiming that all the walk-outs weren’t protests at all, but memorials for the 17 who died in Parkland, Florida.

Talk about having a different perspective than the world. Holy cow. Though I have to say that denial is a whole different thing than autism. Autism isn’t dangerous. Denial is.

I’ve admired the student survivors of that school shooting. They are outspoken and passionate and they are determined to create change. Seeing the one young woman shout, “We call BS!” while firing fact after fact after fact and wiping tears from her face was just one of the most moving things I’ve ever seen. I hope she runs for president.

But while I admired everything these kids have done, I wondered about my own daughter. Not everyone shouts. Not everyone marches. Not everyone waves signs and thrusts their fists in the air.  But a lack of volume does not mean shallow feelings.

Writer and theologian Mike Yaconelli said, “Boldness is quiet, not noisy.”

When the possibility for a school walk-out came up in our school district, we told Olivia we would support whatever she decided to do. “I want to walk out,” she said.

But we’ve known for a long time that Olivia has issues with big crowds. With loud noises. With chaos and disorganization. How does someone like that participate in a protest? How could she march?

Simple. We applied Livvonian principles.

A “walk-out” is just that. You walk out. You remove yourself from a place.

At 9:10 Tuesday morning, well ahead of any crowd, Olivia walked out of school. She marched across the parking lot and got into my car. We drove from the school to the park in front of our library, where a crowd was beginning to gather for an organized protest.

In a walk-out, you perform an action that indicates your feelings and beliefs.

Olivia waved at the protesters. I honked Hemi’s horn.

Then we came home, where for the next hour and a half, Olivia kept herself in a quiet place.

To be fully invested in a walk-out or a protest, you have to understand both sides of the issue. You have to consider the facts. And you have to think clearly on the subject.

Olivia used her walk-out time to work on poetry. She’s written two poems, thus far, about gun control. In one, she dove deep into empathy, writing from the pov of a shooter.   And in the other, she wrote from a victim’s pov.  In both, she wrote from her heart. And from that slip-sliding brain.

A “protester” doesn’t stop at a walk-out. A protester finds a way to truly change the system.

Olivia said to me, in her quiet way, “I can’t wait to vote.”

In the 2016 election, over half of our population did not feel compelled to vote. Many claimed to feel powerless, that their votes wouldn’t change anything.

Olivia will be 18 in October. She will not be powerless.

I think I have a girl who isn’t afraid to change the world, even if that world looks different to her than it does to the rest of us. And I think I have a girl who isn’t afraid to let her differences lead the way.

Kafka said, “You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.”

Get ready to roll, world. Olivia, with her slip-sliding brain, sees you unmasked.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This afternoon, I was actually sitting in my Starbucks, rather than just driving through. I was meeting a wonderful student who I’ve known for a number of years. While I was waiting for her arrival, I noticed a car pull slowly into the handicapped space. A man, I guessed in his early eighties, got out and walked to the passenger side. He opened the door, offered his arm, and helped a woman out.

I can’t tell for sure, of course, but I think she was his wife. She continued to lean on his arm and they walked in together, side by side, heads turned toward each other, talking. Both were smiling. He helped her up the curb, held the door for her, and then they came inside.

I continued to watch. He was so solicitous! He helped her off with her coat, draping it carefully over the shoulders of her chair before he pulled the chair out for her as well. Only when she was settled did he take off his own coat and then he approached the counter and placed their order. He had a black coffee, she had tea, and he ordered some cookies.

“Two,” he requested, and then he pointed to exactly which ones. “On a plate. Please.”

He set up a little picnic for them. Napkins neatly at their right elbows, stir sticks on the napkins, the cookies on their plate neatly centered between them. When he brought their drinks, he waited patiently as she dunked a teabag for what felt like a certain well-known amount of times. Then he wrapped the dripping bag in a napkin and held it while he opened three packets of sugar and poured it into her cup. He took the garbage to the bin while she stirred. Again, I felt like it was a prescribed number of times. She smiled in his direction the whole time she stirred. He smiled at her as he walked slowly back to her.

And then the best thing. Before he sat down, he stood next to her, put his arm around her shoulders, and rested his cheek against the top of her head. I have no idea if they said anything. If they did, they didn’t have to. What they were saying was clear to me. It was clear to the entire world.

And I thought, I am seeing the actual definition of tender. The actual definition of devotion.

When he sat down, he held her hand. They used their free hands to each lift a cookie, bite, set it down, sip their coffee or tea, and then repeat.

A prescribed number of times. For what I’m sure was a routine for many, many years. And while it was routine, while it was everyday, they could probably do it all with their eyes closed, they kept their eyes open. And on each other. The routine was savored. And they were each treasured.

My student arrived soon after and as I fell into conversation, my attention shifted and I stopped noticing the couple. I never saw them leave, but I’m sure they were arm in arm the whole way. I’m sure he opened the café door for her, the car door, and made sure she was comfortable and safely belted in before he got behind the steering wheel. But I thought about them for the rest of the afternoon. They made me smile.

Tenderness. Devotion.

Earlier this week, in a discussion of the Academy Awards, I said that I wanted to be just like Meryl Streep when I get to be her age. I said I wanted to be like Helen Mirren. I said I wanted to be like Dame Judy Dench.

Today, I want to be like that lovely woman in Starbucks. And I’m going to hug Michael extra-hard when he gets home.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

My grandbaby Maya Mae is experiencing her first loss at the tender age of 5. When she walked into school on Monday, she discovered that her best friend, her very first best friend as she just started school this past fall in 4-K, was gone. Moved to Texas, which, to a 5-year old who doesn’t really have a sense of the largeness of the world, must feel like outer space. It’s a place with a name, but she has no idea of where it is, what it looks like. Peyton, her best friend, has been sucked down a black hole.

I picked Maya up from school that day. Maya’s mama messaged me earlier to warn me that Maya was sad.

We’ve all gone through the loss of a friend. Throughout school years, friends move away or we move away, I attended kindergarten in Berkeley, Missouri, first through fifth grades in Esko, Minnesota, sixth through tenth grades in Stoughton, Wisconsin, first semester of junior year in Cedarburg, Wisconsin, and the rest of junior year and senior year here in Waukesha. I lost friends left and right. Maya’s sadness felt like an echo.

I also recently lost my own best friend of twelve years through horrible circumstances. I am still recovering. My heart hurt for Maya.

When I picked her up, she came flying down the school stairs and ran to me with widestretched arms. As soon as I asked her what she did in school that day, she began to talk about Peyton.

“I dwew a picture for Peyton. I am going to give it to her when I see her in Tesas.” X’s are difficult in a five-year old mouth.

“I heard Peyton moved away,” I said. “I’m so sorry, Maya.”

“Yeah, I’m going to go to Tesas. I’m going to see Peyton. We will stay in a hotel. It’s okay if there’s only one bed. I have a sweeping bag.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said, “but you know that Texas is a far way away, right?”

“Yes.” Her head bobbed in my rearview mirror. “But we will go on vacation. Daddy gets vacation. He woves to dwive. We will go in the Kia Soul.”

My son is a road geek and I’m sure he would take her to Texas in a heartbeat. “Why did Peyton move, Maya?”

“Because Fwiday was her wast day.”

That’s pretty much when I melted. But then she looked me straight in the eyes via the rearview mirror. “Gamma Kaffee,” she said, “if I don’t go to Tesas wight away, how will we know each other?”

Oh, baby girl. At five years old, she realized how quickly we are encouraged to allow loss to fall off our radar. We lose someone and we’re told to look at those we have left. I’m pretty sure Maya was already told, “Yes, honey, you lost your best friend, but look! You have Mackenzie! You have Grayson! You have Logan! You have this and this and this!”

But…she lost Peyton. She lost This Special Person. And what she needed to be right then was sad.

I thought how I haven’t talked to my own best friend since January 11^th. And how I would very much like to call his number, just to hear the voicemail recording and the voice I heard every day for years.

“Maya Mae,” I said. “Keep drawing pictures for Peyton and save them in a special place for when you see her again. And you know what? You can take one of your dolls and you can name her Peyton and you can talk to her like you did with Peyton. And you know what else? You can be sad. It’s okay to be sad. And then, little by little, the sad will go away. It will.”

Just like that, those little lips turned down and the eyes filled. She played very quietly for the rest of the afternoon.

So why is a sad granddaughter my Moment? Because she’s a brave little girl who won’t let her rightful sadness be brushed away under that rug where we’re all encouraged to put emotions that are seen as negative. She won’t let herself be taught that friendship can be lost and immediately replaced, but it can be lost, mourned, and finally recovered from.

In a parallel way, separated by 52 years, Maya and I are going through the same thing. And the Moment Of Happiness she gave me is that Moments Of Sadness are okay too. I hope that the Moment Of Happiness I gave her was that Moments Of Sadness are okay, but we will get through. They are, after all, Moments, not Lifetimes.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news (which I nearly forgot!).

This past Saturday, two momentous things happened. One, my daughter Olivia interviewed for and landed her first job. And two, my granddaughter. Maya Mae, posed for her fifth birthday portrait.

In both cases, I saw two little girls, years apart from each other, growing up fast. And while I missed the little ones they used to be, I love who they are and who they’re becoming.

My daughter is 17 years old. When she was three, we were told she was autistic and that she might never speak. A few days before she was hired for this job, she sat in my office and had a phone interview. Every answer was calmly and professionally given. She was polite. She was adult. She was adult! And then she hung up the phone and squealed. Okay, maybe not so adult.

On the way home from her interview, I asked how it went. She said fine. I asked if she got the job. “Well,” she said, “they said they’re going to be calling me tomorrow or the next day to set up orientation.”

“Olivia!” I said. “That means you got the job!”

“I did?” She sat up straighter. Her shoulders went back. “I did?” She beamed.

She did.

The silent girl has become a confident, well-spoken, thoughtful and compassionate adult. Who talks constantly.

Then it was time for Maya Mae’s portrait. She and her father, my son, showed up at the condo and we added Olivia to our little group and off we went to the portrait studio.

Which was running very, very late.

Maya just turned five. Five-year olds are not patient. Many five-year olds and under were shrieking in the waiting room. But Maya, after we changed her into her beautiful new dress, spent most of her time practicing her curtsey and talking to Grumpy Cat, her best friend. When her picture time finally came, almost an hour late, she graciously walked into the room and did everything the photographer told her to. She jumped. She said, “Turkey.” She said, “Hot dog.” She stood and looked coyly over her shoulder, she stretched out on her belly, she sat on stools and boxes and a turned-over bucket. And through it all, she spoke calmly, confidently, and politely.

There was only one momentary bobble. There was a prop, a gigantic crown, used typically for babies and toddlers to pose within its circle. Maya saw it and lit up, but she was too big to sit inside it.

“What do you want to do with it, Maya?” the photographer asked.

Maya grasped the giant crown in her two hands and hefted it over her head like a sumo wrestler in a dainty flowered dress.

This girl, I thought, will not be satisfied with any crown. This girl will hold up the entire world.

The photographer snapped and snapped. Maya’s arms sunk, but then she thrust the crown up again. And she smiled and smiled.

It was when she set the crown down that the bobble happened. I saw it first, her little mouth turning down. Her eyes filled, but she did not cry. “What, Maya?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

She rubbed her arms. “It was heavy.”

But she wanted that crown. She wanted that photo. And even though it hurt, she held it up and she smiled.

That determination? That insistence on reaching a goal? Oh, she’s going to do well.

Kind of like the silent girl who was told she would never speak, but who now never stops speaking, has a job, plays the violin, is an accomplished artist and writer, maintains a 4.0 GPA, and plans to go on to college to be an art therapist and a writer.

And now for a moment of sheer obnoxiousness. Ready?

Yes, I know who they take after.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Boy, does that traditional opening line resonate today. Despite the news. It’s very, very hard to write about a Moment on the day after a school massacre, leaving 17 dead. All the Moments I’ve been sifting through, choosing between, suddenly seem trite and simplistic, next to the enormity of this newest tragedy.

But they aren’t, and I know this, even as I struggle to write it. One of the things I learned in the year of writing Today’s Moment every single day is that it’s sometimes the little things that give us something to hold on to. You know those rock-climbing walls? Those tall, sheer structures you struggle up handhold by foothold, and the whole goal is to get to the top? I’d never be caught dead on one of those, but when you look at them, it’s the handholds that make a difference. One grip at a time, you make it to the top.

So. This is my grip for the week. A handhold.

Last weekend, Michael and I traveled to Wausau, Wisconsin. The trip was Michael’s birthday present: tickets to a live performance of a radio drama by Wisconsin Public Radio, a stay in a nice hotel, and a chance to see a town in Wisconsin he’d never visited before. The hotel was indeed lovely, and on the first floor, it housed several small shops. I had a little time before the radio show, so I wandered through to see what was there. And I found a consignment shop.

You put me before a store that sells used ANYTHING, and I’m a happy camper. Goodwill, Salvation Army, St. Vincent De Paul, flea markets, antique malls, consignment shops…happy, happy, happy. For me, it’s not just about finding a treasure that is also a bargain. It’s about saving an orphan. I always see these items as being abandoned, and so I give them a new home. My condo is filled with orphans.

I only had a few minutes, but in that time, I found a great pair of earrings. I bought them and told the owner I’d be back the next day. Which I was.

As Michael and I walked in on Saturday, there, front and center, was a woman looking at herself in a mirror. She was in a gorgeous floor-length dress, bronze, beaded and glittered. It was form-fitting and it followed every curve on this woman the way a river follows its bends. She stood there in that classic “I am Woman!” pose, one hand on a cocked hip, the other draped oh so casually on her thigh. She was beautiful. But her face…her face wasn’t sure. Her mouth was scrooched to one side and she frowned. Her body showed confidence; her face showed excruciating doubt.

Without even thinking about it, I cried out, “You look stunning!”

She startled, then turned to me, that doubt-face in full bloom. “Really?” she said.

“Ohmygod,” I said. “Whoever made that dress was thinking of you. Look at you! It’s beautiful!”

There is no other word for it. She BEAMED.

“Thank you,” she said, and then she turned to the shop owner. “Sold!”

When we walked out of the store later, Michael said to me, “That was a nice thing you did.”

“What?”

“Telling that woman how great she looked. She just lit up. Did you see her light up?”

Well, then it was my turn to beam. I’ve been thinking about this all week.

I’ve been reading many articles and stories and such lately about how we should tell our daughters that they’re smart instead of beautiful. It’s the “instead of” that bothers me. I tell my daughters they’re smart. They are. I tell them they’re beautiful. They are. For that matter, I tell my sons the same thing.

There are times that we just want to be beautiful. To ourselves. And to the world. Every creature in Nature preens. So do we. So glory in it. Beam.

I hope that the woman in the consignment shop wears that dress often. And I hope her face is never scrooched in doubt again. I hope every time she wears that dress, she hears my voice saying, “You look stunning!” And I hope she hears her voice saying it too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

It was a difficult week, this first week without the dogs. Michael and I both realized that, with the exception of short stints in apartments during young adulthood, neither of us has ever been without a dog before. And our daughter, at 17 years of age, has always had a dog in the house. For the last 11 years of her life, there have been two. Blossom and Penny. And then Blossom and Donnie.

And now there are none.

I wasn’t aware how much noise the dogs created in our household. Or how much visual effect. The condo no longer jingles with the tags on their collars. Donnie’s tag was blue and treat-shaped and was engraved with his name. Blossom’s was pink and heart-shaped, and besides her name, also held the word Princess. Their toenails clicked on our concrete floors. Donnie talked constantly, emitting barnyard and zoo sounds out of his beagle mouth. They jumped up and down off the furniture. Sightwise, whenever I walked down the steps from the third to the second floor, my eyes automatically went over the banister to the couch in the living room, where two beagle heads lifted their noses toward me. Donnie usually jumped down and ran to me; Blossom winked or wagged a regal tail. They were at the door when we came in. They were at the door when we went out. Donnie’s nose was immediately there whenever anything opened: closets, cupboards, dishwasher.

This morning, when I took my box of cereal from the cabinet, I automatically closed the door, forgetting that I no longer had to. The cupboard can now stay open until I put the box away. There is no one to stuff his face inside, looking for crumbs.

It’s been a sad week.

The day the dogs died, I went to the humane society and made a donation in their names, arranging to have a plaque created for them which will be on a wall in the doggie kennel. This felt good, but it wasn’t right. I didn’t feel like they’d been acknowledged enough. Memorialized enough. We are having the dogs cremated and their ashes aren’t home yet, so I told myself I would feel better when the urns were here. But I was still bugged, poked, kinda like Donnie’s persistent nose on my calf when he was trying to get me to go faster (usually to the treat jar).

Sometimes, when we grieve, we feel driven to do unusual things. And mostly, we talk ourselves out of it. It’s not the proper way to grieve, we think. Olivia keeps asking me if she’s grieving “normally”, and I keep telling her that however you grieve is the right way. A couple days ago, as I said it to her, I heard it for myself.

The dogs’ collars have been sitting on our kitchen island. I was figuring on wrapping them around the urns, but in the meantime, there they were, misplaced, empty, sitting where the dogs were never allowed. And every day since their death, coming downstairs, I’ve faced that big empty couch. Donnie’s spot, on the left. Blossom’s, on the right. We’ve had that couch for years and I don’t know that I’ve ever sat on it. It’s where the dogs go.

Yesterday, I stood at the island and stared at the empty couch. It was my first day home alone without the dogs. Olivia was sick this week and was home on Monday and Tuesday. On Wednesday, it was just me and the cats. And the collars and the empty couch.

And I felt the unusual urge. Any way you grieve is the right way to grieve.

I picked up the collars and took them to the couch. Donnie’s collar, blue treat-shape lying flat and his name in full view, went on the left pillow. Blossom’s collar, heart out, name shining, went on the right.

The dogs were in their places. And I was able to breathe. In my mind, I heard the jingle. I saw Blossom’s wink. I heard Donnie’s donkey-call, my favorite of his vocabulary. I saw them both wagging their tails, Donnie’s in his odd happy twirly circle, Blossom’s in her regal queen wave.

I was forgiven for making the decision that had to be made.

And now, several times, I’ve been able to walk by the couch, pat the pillows, and say hello to the each of them. The couch is not empty. It’s full of memories. It’s full of them.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

And no, it has nothing to do with the Superbowl, Justin Timberlake, or holograms of Prince.

Last week, Today’s Moment reached its one-year anniversary and I said I would announce on this day what the future of Today’s Moment will be. But first…the Moment itself.

Well, the Moment IS the Moment, really. I spent a lot of time today, both in meditation and just in general, considering the Moment. What started out as a desperate whim (I’m overwhelmed, so I’m going to post one moment a day that made me happy on Facebook) became something much bigger. From a single sentence at the beginning to what I would now call quiet, unedited essays, I kept at it, writing just what came to mind. I was determined to not make the Moment a professional endeavor. I wasn’t writing for publication, I wasn’t writing for an audience. I wanted to keep it at a Moment that made me happy and examine why. That was a struggle for me as I became aware that there was indeed an audience – an audience that caused my website to crash several times because of traffic! I’m a professional writer, I tend to even edit my thoughts and whatever I say before I say it, not to mention edit everything I read, from news articles to books to comic strips. But I wasn’t going to edit, I wasn’t going to improve the pieces – in a sense, Today’s Moment is Kathie Giorgio – Unplugged.

I’ve learned so much from writing the Today’s Moments. I learned, first of all, that there is at least one Moment in almost every day. Even on dark days. I might have to look for it, but it’s there. And that was a lesson unto itself – happiness is an active endeavor. It isn’t something that just comes along and happens to you. Sometimes you have to look for it.

So I’ve learned to look.

But alternatively, I’ve also learned to honor sadness and anger and fear. I couldn’t chase these away by writing about a Moment of Happiness. I couldn’t chase them away by becoming aware of a Moment either. A Moment isn’t a pill I could take to chase these negative emotions away. There is no pill, no prose, no prettiness that will keep a person happy one-hundred percent of the time. Today’s Moment allowed me to release a very unrealistic expectation – that if I could just find One Big Thing to make me Happy, I would never ever be unhappy again.

But finding that One Moment helped me to navigate through some pretty dark times. It gave me the one good thing to hang onto. Some days, that was like holding onto a rope while dangling off a cliff.

One of my favorite Moments is the one where I was told I didn’t have to be strong all the time while I was going through breast cancer. That I could be scared, that I could be sad, that I could be weak. That illustrates what I’m trying to say about the unrealistic expectation. I know now to look for the Moment of Happiness, but not to expect that finding it means I’m going to waltz down whatever path opens before me next.

But the Today’s Moment does keep me looking ahead and looking up. My favorite quote from literature, which is engraved into a ring I wear every day, is from John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampsire: “Keep walking past the open windows.” I’ve now edited it a bit, to “Keep looking for Today’s Moment.”

So what’s going to happen to Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, now that I’ve reached my goal of one solid year?

It’s not going away, but it is changing. It’s going to become This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. I will only post it one day a week, and I’ve chosen Thursdays, at least to start. There has been no small amount of pressure, trying to come up with something every day. I’m looking to relieve that pressure, but also to expand my vision and understanding. I think that by having to sort through many moments every week to pick out just one to share, I will become further aware of just how many Moments there are in this world and in every life. I’ll give it a shot.

If you are worried that you might forget to check my website on a Thursday, then just click on the button that says “subscribe” on the upper right of this page . Then you’ll receive a notification when each new Moment appears.

When I look back on this year, I could be focused on the many bad things that happened. I had to deal with an assault, my daughter’s being bullied, my husband’s job losses, and above all, breast cancer. But what I focus on instead is the amazing coincidence (if you believe in coincidences) of my starting Today’s Moment at a time when it would turn out that I needed it most. It got me through. And everyone involved, by reading the Moments, by commenting on them and discussing them, got me through too.

Incredible.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(Look for the next Moment on Thursday! )