Sticks and Stones

How many times have you been given a token of love or friendship that took you by surprise? Sometimes we are given gifts that are unexpected; sweet gifts that elicit joy and a feeling of tenderness. We may feel overwhelmed by the generosity of others and their obvious feelings towards us. No one minds getting these kinds of presents. But the longer we live, the more we experience other kinds of gifts. Not the kind that come in a decorative box or wrapped with colorful paper and ribbon. But the kind of gift that actually doesn’t present itself as a gift at all. We generally call these….”lessons learned the hard way.” We don’t always see them for the gift they are because they don’t always bring joy or a smile or a feeling of tenderness. Instead these gifts can be delivered with a certain amount of pain and accompanied by tears and heartache. They may come from a friend or an enemy. They are usually unexpected and have the ability to feel more like a punch in the stomach. I was given one of these gifts recently and fortunately it didn’t take me as long as it usually does to learn from it.

An epiphany is described as a sudden realization…an intuitive leap of understanding, especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence. A moment of this nature sounds like it should be accompanied by musical instruments and a bright stage light or a cartoon- like bubble above your head containing a light bulb. I did not hear music or step into the pool of realization with any fanfare. In fact, I was busy sitting in a golf cart swatting at horsefly’s that were trying to make a nest in my curly hair. I was waiting for my husband to drive the ball down the fairway to distances far beyond my abilities. I was swatting and waiting and sweating. But I was doing it all in my new golf shoes. Shoes that I had to buy that day, before we went to the golf course. I had never owned my own pair of golf shoes. I had been walking on golf courses and hitting the tiny white sphere around for a number of years, but had never owned my own pair. I didn’t feel like I was a golfer, so why on earth would I spend that kind of money on a pair of shoes. I had been trotting around for years in tennis shoes and a couple of years back, a good friend gave me a pair she was going to discard to the landfill. I took them and wore them whenever I dressed up like a golfer. They were a little too small and pinched my feet, but they were free and I didn’t wear them everyday…right? They did the job they were designed to do, right up until I walked right out of the sole of one of them. Just like that they were done. I wanted to put on my trusty tennis shoes, but my husband wouldn’t hear of it. I argued I didn’t need golf shoes. I wasn’t really a golfer. I was a pretender. But his look said that he wasn’t going to listen to my well-intentioned yammering and off we went.



So here I sat in the golf cart, with my new golf shoes on, waiting for my turn to hit the ball two or three feet from it’s original destination. And I was wondering why I fought so hard against getting these shoes. It’s not like they were that expensive. With the amount of actual time I would spend in these shoes each season, I could wear them for a long time and get my money’s worth. I had wanted to wear my tennis shoes. The expensive shoes I had bought for the half-marathon I was in last year. The race I walk/ran. The race I trained for, for three solid months. The running shoes that replaced the walking shoes I had bought for the 3-Day-60 mile walk I did two years in a row for the Susan G. Komen breast cancer walk. In the time it took for my husband to walk to the tee box, look down the fairway, tee up his ball, align his body correctly and rope it down the fairway I realized what I had been saying to myself……….about the golf shoes, the tennis shoes, about who I am as a wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter…..person. I was saying I wasn’t worth it.



I had been listening to this kind of self talk all my life. I wasn’t really a golfer, so I didn’t deserve the golf shoes. I wasn’t really a runner. I hadn’t, in fact, run the whole half marathon, so how could I be a runner? Truthfully, I had walked as much as I ran. I had trained and walked  the Susan G. Komen 3 day-60 mile walk two years in a row, but I got tired at the end and didn’t feel I finished well.So all that effort couldn't be praised or thought of as an accomplishment.  Oh I could go on and on about what I wasn’t. I fought with my mom at the end of her life, while I was a care-giver and got frustrated. That made me a bad daughter. I had not always been a great wife. Forget about being a good mom….as many things as I did right in this arena, I had done plenty more wrong. A friend? Forget about it. I didn’t get meals to those who were my dear friends and could have used one. Or a card of sympathy or get well wishes. How could I possibly be a good friend?

What I had trained myself into believing over the years was that I was not worth it. Not worth praise. Not worth a kind word. Not worth the respect I should expect from my children, my family or my friends. I was just not worth it.

But in the moment it took for my husband to hit a golf ball and climb back into the golf cart I had, had my moment of enlightenment. It didn’t come with fanfare or illumination, but with the quiet knowledge that I was not a bad person. I was a decent person who made mistakes and, when possible, tried to apologize or make things right. I am worth a new pair of shoes. I am worthy to be spoken to with respect and kindness. I am a good daughter. I am a good mother. I am a good wife. I am a good friend. I am a golfer. I am a runner. I am a walker extraordinaire. When you look at the world you have built around you from the standpoint of being worthy to be treated with dignity….mostly from yourself….you daily life transforms into look outward and seeing how to treat yourself and others instead of looking inward and pointing out the flaws. My sweet husband thought it was just going to be a round of golf with his wife. A day of being together and sharing precious moments alone….with the hundreds of horseflies who followed us from hole to hole. And it was all those things….but that day was also so much more.

I started this story talking about the different forms a gift may come in….both delightful and painful. One of those hurtful and unexpected gifts was the beginning of this journey. It caused me to realize that my heart is special and fragile and worth being protected. So to the person who gave me the bittersweet gift of tears and heartache, who called into question my intentions of being a good mother….you laid me open with your words, but you also made me take a stand in defense of myself. You made me plant my feet on the ground and look at myself in a new way. So thank you…..I wouldn’t have asked for it but am glad to have learned from the lesson you taught me.

Valentine's Day

So it's been years since this book was written.  A blog was started and written about the contents of Julia and her inspiring book.  And then a movie.  A movie that ended up being the inspiration for the 2010 Valentine's Day dinner.  Every year, for sometime now, John and I try and have people over to enjoy Valentine's Day together instead of going out and fighting the crowds and paying more for a meal than necessary.  We do not need a day to show our love....we show it to each other every day.  But years ago we started staying home and creating an atmosphere where others, of like mindedness, could join with us.  The theme for this year's dinner was based on the movie Julie and Julia.  One of my friends was at our house for this event a year ago and wanted to know what we were doing this year.   After sharing a couple of glasses of wine that provided liquid courage, I proclaimed that I would make Beoff Bourguignon from the Julia Childs cookbook.  A lofty goal I felt would be challenging enough to inspire great cooking, but not so high that I could not reach it.  So I borrowed the book from our friend and neighbor, (thanks Adam for allowing to cook from this book before you had the chance), and started preparing myself for the experience. Adam's one stipulation was that I had to cook directly from the recipe in the book.  No deviations.  None! Period.

I watched shows about the dish, I read the recipe over and over,  I dreamed about cooking the meal, I walked through it like an Olympic ice skater going through her moves for the performance.  I comforted myself by saying, "I can do this.  I CAN do this.  I can DO this......and if I don't there's is always good friends, good wine and Papa John's pizza delivery."  It saw me through the intimidation factor. 

I red the wine suggestions from the recipe and wondered if these types were even around anymore.  Or if like everything else, there was a "new and improved" wine that would be similar.  I went to my favorite grocery store...Wegmans....and talked to our friend, Scott, who works in the wine section.  I asked him if he had ever heard of  wines called Beaujolais, Cotes du Rhone, or Bordeaux-St. Emilion. Scott, being the kind and patient man that he is, smiled knowlingly and took me to the huge section of Cotes du Rhone and St Emiion.  He explained to me, the novice who obviously knows more about Scotch than wine, that these were regions that had produced fine wines for many years.  I acknowledged my own ignorance, thanked him for his time and helpful information and took his suggested bottles home.

I should state that if you have seen the movie, Julie and Julia, then you know that French cooking is not for the diet conscience.  My favorite ingredient is unequivocally ,BUTTER.  I'm talking about good butter.  Real butter.  Not the stuff in a tub that tries to convince you it might have butter in it, but the honest to goodness, melt in your mouth, make anything taste better  ~~ butter. So my favorite ingredient was definitely on the list along with real bacon.  All of these said ingredients required preparation and time.  Well, as it happened to this grandmother of 7, the day of this dinner landed on a day where I would have at least 3 of these grandkids in the house.  The added pressure of caring for, enjoying and entertaining these grandgifts while attempting to pull off the "Beoff" was daunting.  I reminded myself that I had done far more when I had 4 little ones running around, so I forged ahead.  I enlisted their help, which sometimes proved anti-help, and told them about the great meal I was making.  We found french music on my ipod's playlist (Soundtrack to the movie Somethings Got to Give) and moved forward. 

I sauteed the bacon.

I tied the herbs and got them ready.

I browned the beef.  Paying particularly close attention to patting the beef dry before attempting to brown.

I sauteed the veggies.

And then I set the table.  I got out the linen my father gave my mother some 50 years ago.  Linen he acquired in Ireland when he was deployed somewhere with the Marines.  Close inspection of the linen affords you the ability to see shamrocks that looked embossed onto the material.  I lit the candles. I decanted the Cotes du Rhone. I put on the music for the evening

I checked the instructions for the final touches on this meal before placing it in the oven for 31/2 hours.  I was to add 3 cups of wine.  After I carefully measured out the wine and poured it in, I realised that there was enough wine left in the bottle for the cook.  A half of a glass of wine to be exact.  A reward for the hard work and effort put into this meal.  A gift from Julia to me for taking on such a task.  And a gift from the Rhone region.

Our dinner was served and proclaimed a success.  Even Adam, who set the standard of following the recipe word for word, exclaimed he would never order this meal from a restaurant menu as he felt it would fall below the deliciousness this cook had served. 

No meal is complete without dessert.  My friend, Kristen, who had kindly reminded me that this was a party that should happen every year brought our dessert.  She spared nothing and decided to use one Julia's recipes as well.   This chocolate mousse melted in our mouths and was worth the effort it took for her to whisk and whisk and whisk. 

The most important ingredient for any occasion is friends.  I didn't get to have all the women I wanted with me this evening, but had two exceptional pals who make me laugh.  Their husband's joined mine in making this Valentine's Day dinner another success.  The only thing left to say about this meal would be ~

BON APPETIT!

The End of January 2010

Here we are at the end of January 2010.  I feel like I have blinked  and ended up missing this month.  I can recall almost everything that happened so I know I lived through it well, I am just surprised at how quickly it has gone by.  Here and gone.  And it is ending on a magical note.  Well magical for me.  It is snowing.  I wasn't looking forward to the snow this time around.  Not after the big dump last month.  22" or more that caused the Fredericksburg area to shut down.  I lost work because people couldn't get to me.  I secretly enjoyed the imposed confinement.  I couldn't get out and folks couldn't get in.  And then, I was done.  So when today's snow was predicted, I rolled my eyes and hoped that this time, the weatherman was wrong. ~~~  He was and he wasn't.  We didn't get the 5" to 8", we got 10" to 12".  Oh happy day.  It came down floating on a breeze which switched to gusts from time to time.  We were wiser this time around.  We got on top of things and shoveled early and often.  Then it was time to hunker down and play inside.  That same imposed confinement that releases the soul from feeling guilty about down leaving the house in a dance of busyness that really produces little for all it's effort. 

I went to the most favorite room of my house ~ my craft room.  I am going on a trip the end of February with girlfriends who enjoy crafting in ways that feed their own soul.  And that trip encompasses so many favorite components.  Other women of a like mind, crafting, movies, music and best of all...the beach.  I am a fan of the beach in the summer, but the beach in the winter is a different friend.  Her colors are different and she speaks with a bolder voice.  I look forward to the photographs that I can take with either a bright light that will be watery from the winter sun and lack a sense of warmth or the photgraphs that will be shot in flat light with a dullness that suggests the absence of life on a cold day near the water.  I long for the crash of waves and a distant sound of gulls on a blowing wind.  So today, I sat in my craft room and waded through 20 years of memories.  Pictures of faces much younger than the ones I see today.  My children as they once were....children searching out the way of their future journey.  I came across cards extolling my virtues of a Mother and of their promised unconditional love for me.  Their sweet faces peered back over several years and I was transported back to a time that was full of hardship but now tinged with a sweetness I didn't expect.  I came across pictures of my own mother, long gone from this world for 13 years. Pictures of her when she was younger than I am now.  And a pictures of her last year with me.  Several of these photos of her face smiling at me caused me to gasp with the overwhelming yearning I felt to hear her voice.  What a wonderful day today. 

So January is over at midnight tomorrow.  The month has held some good times with friends and some hard times in and out of the ER.  No results to know what has caused my body to begin acting out of character.  But I was blessed my friends who brought me lunches and dinners, flowers and cards and a quick witted conversation while we watched entertaining movies.  Enjoying time with my husband while I recovered.  Another time of imposed quietness that I tried to embrace for my own good.

So tomorrow I will plan February.  And then I will be surprised when new things take place without my planning them.  Both good and bad.  Tomorrow I will retreat to my craft room again.  I will watch the neighborhood wake up and play in the snow and I may even see a grandchild or two.  Farewell January....I am glad to start anew.

Over 5000 words so far

Writing for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month)  http://www.nanowrimo.org/ has proven to be just the medicine I needed to propel me towards my keyboard everyday .-  several times a day.  Characters were born yesterday and now they live in my head throughout the day, each trying to assert themselves into the storyline.  No one wants to be left out.  As I write about the catalyst of the story, each have quieted down and allowed the story to be told.  In a quiet, anxious voice that leaves one's head bowed and reverent waiting for the news that will take the story and form it's life.  These characters are not completely real to me yet.  Not like my girlfriend who has begun to dream about her characters.

But I am 1/10th of the way into the story.  5,015 words are on virtual paper and the story has begun to take shape.  There are fellow NaNoWriMo comrades on my street.  There are 72 in Fredericksburg all together.  Writing groups have begun to spring up.  Encouragement parties, if you will, to help you shutup the inner editor and click away with abandon.  One friend pushes her screen down completely so she can't see any errors.  Another keeps a yellow legal  paper over the screen, lest she see something she needs to change.  I, of course, am too OCD to even try those methods.  I have gone back and changed the voice to third person throughout.  if nothing else, it's helped me stay consistent in my head...and that's where it counts.  I find myself shutting off the TV ( SHOCKER!) and locking myself in the backroom (my room of scrapbooks, candles and things that make me happy) and sitting down and writing sentences and parts of sentences.

This idea of throwing you into the writing pool and demanding you sink or swim is a positively charged circus of writing frivolity that allows the impossible to take shape as the possible.  Slowly ridding myself of the inner editor that sits with red pen in hand to circle my mistakes and correct spelling and grammitical errors is freeing.  It's like taking the dictator away and allowing the country to run itself...for a time.  Because the editor comes back in December and fixes the plot holes and the run on sentences.

For now, I bask in the freedom.  I am setting my words free and asking them to come together as the nucleus for a story line!  Ready, set, ......write.

A 50,000 Word Novel in 30 Days?

Someone sent me to a website today that caused my heart to beat faster and my eyebrows to raise up several times as I read through the content.  http://www.nanowrimo.org/  I had never heard of this site before or what they encourage people to do in just 30 days.  And there are thousands of people ready to participate.  Last year they had 120,000 people register and 20,000 people finish what they started....this year I hope to do the same.

No one ever reads a beloved novel and thinks about the initial rough draft....oozing with words and grammatical errors.....run on sentences and words placed precariously atop one another as a poor excuse for sentence structure.  But....that is generally where they all begin.  This writing project wants thousands of would- be novelists to do just that.....to write crap.  Word vomit.  To ignore our inner editor and just write the story that is in our heads.  The one that we've been writing for years.  So, I'm going to do it.  I'm going to jump into the deep end of the ocean and just write.  From 12 AM on November 1 (happy first) - Midnight on November 30 (my shared birthday) I am going to write and write and write. 

I only discovered this site today and now I am trying to pick out a story to tell.  A flimsy outline to pull from, complete with antagonists and protagonists.  I have an idea of which road I would like to follow and I hope that road takes me in the direction I hope to go, but I know it's going to be bumpy.

If you are reading this and you are a hopeful, would -be writer ~ go to the site above and jump in the deep end with me.  If we finish it, we can have a novel ( it doesn't matter if anyone reads it, likes it or understands it) we can say we wrote a novel in one month.

Wish me luck!

It Was Almost Painless

The writing group met, despite the fact that we were a month early and not everyone could join us.  Three of us went ahead with the group...I mean we were meeting for our Scotch tasting anyway, right?

I deflected the request to read my piece first and succeeded.  Having someone else jump into the icy waters first, helped me realize I could do this.  I could read aloud the words that came from me, crafted and whittled for hours and I could do it with confidence.

So I read.  Finding my own mistakes as I did so, knowing they were like a snag on a nail and they would be filed or clipped later.  The response from my fellow group members was positive and helpful.  The work I presented was a rough draft.  Okay, a rough, rough draft...but it had potential.  So I head back to the drawing board for further whittling.  This has to be ready for presentation by September 7....

What's it gonna take?

So.......

I'm a writer. There I said it. How or why do I know this, I couldn't tell you. It's not just that I've journaled most of my life. It's not because I love words and their origins. It's not because I was the "geek" (a word yet invented, but applicable just the same), in fifth grade who kept a journal in my black and white marble composition notebook on all the homophones I could find because I found it fascinating that two words could sound the same --- and yet be spelled differently and have different meanings. Or that I have a running dialog in my head....it's not any one of those things that make me a writer, but perhaps they are the sinew and marrow of the beginnings of one.

Tonight is my first experience with a writing club. Fortunately, it's made up of other writers who have a desire to write, improve their skills and hone their abilities. I am excited and scared. It's like the first day at middle school again. Will they like my writing. Will they laugh and wonder why I ever thought it was possible to link words together in a sentence. It's not like kindergarden where I'm sure the teacher is nice to all the little doe - eyed children who rush through her door. This feels like the stuff fear and wonder are made of.

And like every experience I had in high school, when it came to huge projects, I have procrastinated until the last minute. I've got the ghost of an idea. I've nutured the idea, while cleaning bathrooms, cutting hair and playing stupid games on Facebook. This afternoon, I will sit down and call this ghost to the forefront. I will give it life by breathing words onto a page and then I will hope and pray that the members of this writing club don't extinguish the flame and make my idea a ghost once again......