Man of the house

Nine years ago I adopted a wee little kitten and named him Forest.  He was the first male cat I had the pleasure of nurturing into adulthood and for nearly a decade, he was the sweetest companion, not only for me, but for a host of yoga students.  For the past two years, he's been in good company with my significant other, Steve.  With another man around the house, Forest's rascally boy emerged and he was often heard "roaring" with a toy mouse in tow.  Whenever Steve came over, Forest showed off by using the scratching post, chasing his sisters, and proudly perching on the back porch, eagerly keeping an eye on the back yard.

Three weeks ago we discovered Forest had advanced kidney disease.  Just last week, Steve and I made the difficult decision to say good-bye.  Of all the little ones I've let go of over the years, being with Forest at the end was particularly heartbreaking.  Perhaps it's because he was my only boy.  Or maybe because he meant so much to so many people.  Mostly, it's because for nine years, he was a consistently loving, incredibly peaceful presence in my home.

In 2015 I wrote this blog from Forest's point of view and thought I'd republish it this week....for everyone who loved my sweet boy as much as I did.  

Man of the house

Originally published on January 8, 2015

My mom has been really busy with all kinds of stuff today, so she asked me if I wanted to write her blog.  I figure if Aditi and Jhoti can post on Open Road, I can, too.  Plus I've perched on the desk and watched Mom use the computer enough to know what's what.  She said she'd come in later to proofread my work, but I think I'll be alright on my own.  After all, I'm the man of the house and should be able to handle this just fine.

It's not that I'm all that macho.  I was the runt of my litter and almost didn't make it a couple of times.  I've been hospitalized on a few occasions, and  my mom nearly went nuts the last time when I got sick from grooming Aditi before she was fully wormed.  Mom needn't have worried.  I recuperated quickly enough.  During the night I even figured out how to unlock my cage at the vet's, pull out my IV, and escape from the exam room so I could go exploring.  I had had enough of that sitting around business and knew there were better things to do with my time. 

Like bird watching.  

And (plastic) snake charming.  

And playing with my sisters. 

          

When I was a kitten, my littermates took good care of me.  They nudged me to the bottom of the scrum pile so I could stay warm while we napped near our mama's belly.  My sisters knew I tired easily and didn't jump on me when I sat down to watch them frolic and play.  And my brother often joined me, grooming my ears for good measure.  After my human mom adopted me, I soon learned I was the smallest kid in her trio of cats.  Jhoti and I bonded quickly, but I'm still working on Sophia...and it's been over five years, so you'd think she'd get a grip and realize I'm not going anywhere. 

I've been spoiled rotten, let me tell you, but I hear I'm also a cute little booger, so it all evens out in the end.  When I was a baby, Mom carried me inside her sweatshirt wrapped in fleece to keep me warm and gave me extra treats to help me gain weight.  As I grew, she nurtured my love of birds by hanging a suet cage outside the window near a sunny spot where I like to snooze.  Along with my Aunt Doris and a few other folks, my mom has bought me enough toy mice and snakes to last more than nine lifetimes.

But I'm not a Mama's Boy. 

Like I said, I'm the man of the house.

I didn't really understand what that meant until my kid sister, Aditi, came along.  She's a tough little squirt all right, and when Mom squirts her with the water gun when she's being bad, Aditi holds her ground.  I even saw her slap Mom once...or twice.  Well, okay, nearly every time. 

As the man of the house I've tried to set a good example.  I use good manners when I eat my meals and use the litterbox like a gentleman.  Grooming is one of my favorite hobbies and I keep myself neat and clean.  (Mom even calls me Dapper Dan, except my name is Forest, so I don't know who she's talking about.)  Best of all, if it's nighttime and I want to sleep on Mom's bed (she has a thing called an electric blanket, but I call it Paradise), I very gently jump up, slowly and carefully making my way to a cozy spot so I don't wake her...unlike two other black cats I know who don't give a hoot and step on Mom's head, her hair, even her face! 

I'm rewarded with lots of love.  With catnip and paper grocery bags.  With lots of kisses and chin rubs.  But that's not why I do all of those things.  It's in my nature to be a good boy.  Mom says I'm her pride and joy.  And why not?

I'm the man of the house.

         

But you know, I've been watching Mom a lot these days.  She has a lot of papers on her desk and I heard her say there's a lot to do running her yoga business and writing books and marketing them (whatever that means...I thought the market was where she got our food) and paying bills and making sure the house is in order.  She cuts the grass in the summer and takes the trash out year 'round.  I wish I could scoop our litterbox myself because that's a job no one likes...man or woman.

Mom does all of the work around here, but if she doesn't, who will?  I'd like to help, but I'm hobbled by being a quadruped.  I can't reach the sink to wash dishes.  I can't make business calls or drive a car.  I'd like to go to work and help earn my keep, but I figure keeping Aditi out of trouble most of the day is a full-time job.  At night I bring Mom my toy snakes and mice.  I drop them in her slippers, hoping she'll know how much I love her.  How much I appreciate living in this peaceful place full of windows and warm beds and wonderful women who come in for yoga classes. 

Maybe being the man of the house isn't what I've heard it's supposed to be.  Maybe being the only boy doesn't mean I have to be tough and courageous.  That's it's okay to run away from the sweeper and get startled every time the doorbell rings.  I don't have to be strong and steady when Mom's sad or not feeling well.  I can curl up on her shoulder and purr in her ear...and maybe even feel a little low myself just because she's feeling blue. 

Mom says she loves me just as I am, even though I'm not a big Tom cat or a Bossy Boots.  I'm not rough and rugged and ready to rumble.  She says that if she marries a man who's half as sweet as me, she'll be the luckiest woman in the world.  I guess it's a good thing I know how lucky I am to live with a bunch of lively ladies.

That's man enough for me...and for my sweet Mama, too.

Forest is man enough to chill on his sister's blanket.  

Call me crazy

Originally published in June, 2013

"The greatness of a nation and its moral progress

can be judged by the way its animals are treated. "

Ghandi

I am not a crazy cat lady, but I am crazy about my cats.  That said, with the exception of some very tasteful paintings in my office and a darling cross-stitch picture my mother made for me many Christmases ago, you won't find cat kitsch in my house.  I'm not that kind of cat lover.

Surprisingly, when I was a kid, I was terrified of them.  Growing up with Schnauzers there wasn't room for a furry feline in our house.  Once when I was ten, I wore a woolen skirt to a birthday party of a neighbor girl.  Sitting in the living room, I arched my own back as the family cat casually walked across my lap.  Hands on my shoulders, I refused to touch it and demanded my mother wash the skirt before I would wear it again.

"It's wool, Kate," she said, shaking her head.  "It needs to be dry cleaned and it's not dirty."

"It is," I insisted.

            "It is not," she replied.

            Mom won.  The skirt did not go to the cleaner's. 

            And yet, I won too, as it hung abandoned in my closet.  I never wore it again.

            It's still amazing to me that, thirty-odd years later, I'm like Snow White, but in place of the seven dwarves, I've had seven cats...but not all at the same time.  I recently adopted ten week old Aditi.  My little sprite has a lot of spunk and loves to play with Forest, her older cat sibling.  Aditi's boundless energy is amazing as she darts through the house, chasing toys and getting in mischief.  Forest has quickly become her surrogate father, protector, playmate and all around "go to guy."  There's no sleeping through the night with her nocturnal naughtiness.  Still, this will only last a few more months and we'll all settle into a "new normal." 

But last week was anything but normal.

            Forest caught something from our new little one and by Thursday was so sick, he had to be hospitalized.  Kady Flowers and the techs at Spring Meadows Animal Hospital were incredibly kind and careful as Forest had his blood tested, X-rays completed, and prepared for an overnight stay.  They couldn't get a reading on one of the tests and Kady thought he might have swallowed a toy or piece of string, but his illness felt all too familiar.

            When Forest was a baby, I had been a foster volunteer for abandoned kittens who passed around a parasitic virus that he eventually caught.  At only three months old, he had to be hospitalized and on IV fluids.  The vets couldn't decide if it was an infection or if he needed exploratory surgery.  I agonized over the decision to have them operate.  Not only would the expense be immense, I didn't want him to have an unnecessary procedure.

            Less than a week previous, I had to make the difficult choice to have Carley, my red tabby, euthanized due to kidney failure.  As the vet gave her the injection, I held her in my arms and thought about the other two cats I had been with at the time of their deaths.  I've learned it doesn't get easier...it just gets more familiar.

            I wasn't ready to let go of little Forest as well, so I gave the emergency vet the go ahead to do the surgery so I could be sure we did everything possible for him. 

            "He's schedule to go at 10:30," the vet told me.  "I'll call you when we're done and let you know how he did."

            I stayed awake with my cell phone nearby until midnight and then, exhausted and overwhelmed, tried to get some sleep.  An hour later, I woke up suddenly and checked the phone.  No one had called, so I dialed the vet's number with shaky fingers.

The vet tech answered and when I asked how Forest was doing, she replied, "We've been running late and he was up next, but seems to be doing better.  He's playing with his IV line and is walking around his cage."

            "That's great news!"

            She asked if I wanted them to continue with the surgery and I said, "No...let him stay on the fluids overnight and we'll see how he does in the morning."

            As it turned out, he was fine.  The infection was clearing and despite needing to be on antibiotics for a while, you'd never know little Forest had been sick.

            Last Friday when Kady was working toward a diagnosis and suggested he spend the night, I drove back to the hospital and sat with Forest for a while.  He smelled of urine and bile as he was nervous and had relieved himself outside of the litter pan and although the techs cleaned him up as best as they could, a bath was not imminent.  My sweet little stinky boy sat quietly in my arms while IV fluids slowly brought him back to life. 

            Except for a mystery kitten wrapped in a blanket next to Forest's cage, the convalescent area was empty.  Kady gently removed the kitten from the blanket and I was horrified by what I saw.  He was black and looked to be the same age as Aditi, with the same marking.  His jaw had been broken and was slightly bloody.  While Kady splinted one of his paws, he lay like a limp rag as one of the techs held him.

            "I'm sorry I didn't warn you about scary kitten," Kady said.  "He was hit by a car and whoever hit him used a dustpan to shovel him out of the road and fling him onto the grass.   But he came in growling and hissing...so he's got some spunk."

            My face registered the horror of wondering how anyone could do that to a small helpless animal.  "Who found him?"

            "A rep from Planned Pethood saw it happen and immediately called us."

"Thank God," I sighed, gently petting Forest's head.  "Do you think it will survive?

            "I'm not sure about the internal injuries, but we'll see how he does overnight."

            An hour later, I left Forest in the hopes that, just like before, the IV would work their magic.  And unlike before, I wouldn't have to say good-bye to a cat simultaneous to bringing home a new kitten. 

            The next morning Kady called and laughingly said that Forest was ready to come home.  She had visited him later in the evening to feed him and locked his cage.  By morning, Forest had knocked over his litter pan and water dish, escaped from his second tier digs, pulled out his IV and went exploring.  The tech said she found him hiding in a closet.

            "He must have gotten that from Naughty Jhoti," I replied.  "When can I get him?"

            Later that morning, Kady had gone home to rest and Dr. Brent was working.  He had been with me when Carley died and had taken care of Forest a couple of years previous when he had a fever.  I am so blessed to have such kindhearted people care of my pets.  We chatted about Forest's antics the night before and I apologized for any damage he might have done.

            "It was nothing...anything that was broken can be replaced," Brent smiled.  "Forest can't."

            As I waited for the techs to bring him out, I noticed the little black kitten was being taken home by someone.

            "Oh, that one is all vinegar," one of the techs smiled. 

            "He'll need it to survive what happened to him," I replied.

            Ghandi's words ring true to me, now more than ever.  No one needs permission to be compassionate, only the desire to do so.  It's an incredible responsibility to care for those who cannot speak with words, but whose language of love goes straight to the heart.  Call me crazy, but I believe that the way each of us treats any living thing is a direct reflection of the care and respect we have for ourselves.  And in caring for those who are the smallest creatures in our world, perhaps we reveal a bit more about how we have been treated...or had wanted to be.

Forest, bird-watching on a peaceful afternoon

Garden envy

Garden envy

Originally published on June 22, 2014

Years ago my friend, Deb, gave me a plaque that read, "Bloom where you're planted."  Back then it was hard to know whether I was planted here in Toledo or deeply rooted in the desire to escape my hometown as soon as humanly possible.  I had just quit teaching.  Had high hopes that my novels would publish.  That I'd find the man of my dreams, get married, and have a baby or two.

I had no idea that my life wouldn't unfold like the colorful exhibitions at our local botanical gardens -- open to the public and on display.  And I wasn't fully prepared for the silent, cyclical experiences I needed to experience as a single woman.  But through it all, year by year, season after season, I've tended the flower and herb beds in my own yard.  Save for the year I spent in Big Sur working in the gardens at Esalen Institute, I've spent countless springtimes watching the daffodils and crocuses unfurl.  Seemingly endless summers weeding and pruning and transplanting.  Often too-short autumns gathering the harvest and saving the seeds. 

At first, I had no idea what I was doing.  Yes, I knew how to plant annuals.  How to weed a vegetable bed and not throw the baby out with the bathwater.  I could cut the grass and clean the gutters.  But didn't know squat about creating a year 'round garden where flowers are blooming in three out of four seasons.  Where there's color and texture and variety that suits the soil and the sun allotment.  I didn't know how to prune shrubs, so they often toppled under the weight of too many blossoms, too much greenery.  But in doing...in trying and experimenting and failing and succeeding...I learned.

Now people often come over for a visit in the summer and compliment me on my gardening skills.  I smile and thank them.  When they suggest that I'm a master gardener, I shake my head.  "I'm good at what I know...and what I know I learned by trial and error."

For at first, my gardens were simple and ornamental.  The same annuals year after year.  The same color and placement.  The same predictable life cycle.  But when I threw a wrench into my own carefully laid (and also predictable) plans for what I wanted out of life, my gardens soon reflected the changes.  No longer satisfied with rigid rows and static shades of pink and green, I shook things up, planting wild grasses, unusual wildflowers, and a host of perennials that surprised me with their vivid variety.  

One year, my neighbor came out and found me elbows deep in fresh compost that filled a rock garden.

"What's going in there?" Kate asked.

I squinted up at her.  "I have no idea," I replied, holding up a can of wildflower seeds.  "I thought this might be fun to try."

Kate smiled.  "What do you think it'll look like?"

I shrugged, "Ida know...I chose it because it'll probably be some outrageous mystery s$%t."

We had a good laugh over that and a few weeks later were amazed at what popped up in the garden...countless varieties of flowers that could have come directly from a Dr. Seuss book. 

When relaying that story to a friend whose garden I tend, Tony smiled, "You can plant some of that mystery s$%t in my yard any time."

Ah...such a wonderful thing...having friends who love to embrace the extremes of the unknown.  Or at least support me in the process.

Yesterday I spent nearly the entire summer solstice working in my yard.  Painting door frames. Weeding.  Pruning.  Cutting the grass.  Making a stone wall for my fairy garden.  I spent most of day in silence, save for listening to the birds twittering in the trees, my neighbor's five-year-old son laughing to beat the band while he played in his backyard.  It's like a meditation really -- to spend time in my gardens and watch them grow.  To pay attention to that which needs a little support -- and to simply enjoy that which knows how to grow and bloom in its own time.

I was saddened to have to cut back some shrubs due to the severe winter we had that damaged some boxwood, euonymus, and my dwarf azaleas.  Still, as I clipped and surveyed and clipped some more, taking many of them down to the studs, I knew they would regenerate in time.  That they simply needed me to remove the deadwood and underbrush so they could get some fresh air and sunshine.  The blooming will have to wait until next season, but I'm in no rush.  For I, too, know what it means to take myself down to the knees so that a healthier state of being can emerge.  I understand and have experienced the time it takes for new life to take root and eventually rise up from the ashes of seeming destruction.

This summer I'll be spending time promoting my books.  Outlining a new novel.  Editing a book of blogs that will be available sometime in July.  And through it all, gardening will be -- like it always has been -- my anchor and respite.

For you see, I'm finding it's the behind-the-scenes work that suits me best.  I like the process of weeding out unnecessary words.  Pruning out sections that slow down the story.  Nurturing a character's voice to speak more clearly in my imagination.   Then I can let the stories and blogs stand for themselves, blooming where they're planted and scattering seeds of inspiration wherever they may land. 

I envy my gardens -- the way the flowers seem to open up effortlessly.  The way Mother Nature provides endless opportunities for them to continue their life cycle.  The ease with which they embody birth and then seeming death and then rebirth once again.  They don't have to make any noise at all to make themselves seen; I doubt that the flowers are invested in blooming so that others can notice them.  They can't help but be what they are...a beauty to behold.  

And yet, when I walk through my yard at twilight, noticing new growth, plucking a stray weed away from a blooming lavender plant, I can't help but imagine every living thing in my yard is aware of my presence.  They perk up a little more when I water them and give my attention to their beauty.  Each flower intrinsically knows its purpose and part of that is to provide anyone who sees them with a sense of wonder and peace.

There's an enchanting line from the Talmud that reads, "Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'"  I imagine that whenever I'm in my own garden, whether it be my inner or outer one, an angel is whispering the very same thing.  

No matter where I'm planted, I can always hear the gentle message, "Grow, Kate...grow...grow."

One breath at a time

Over the weekend I was invited to a tea party in celebration of the royal wedding.  My friend is an avid anglophile and graciously served tea, cake, and scrumptious biscuits to a gathering of friends who arrived dressed in lovely spring wear (along with some pretty fabulous fascinators).  It was a delight to see a mutual friend of ours who had taken wonderful care of me when I was admitted to the ICU last September.  Ashley brought her baby and it was a joy to hold sweet Piper, remembering how Ashley had been eight months pregnant last fall. 

More than seven months have passed since the six precarious days I spent in the hospital, not knowing what the future would bring.  It’s been a slow road to recovery and every time I think I’m fully healed, something blocks my path and makes me take a few steps backward to regain my footing.   Sure, I’ve learned to approach life one day at a time, but often that's not enough.  Sometimes I take it one hour…or one minute…or even one breath at at time.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the first forty-eight hours in the ICU.  I’d just had emergency surgery and the doctors weren’t sure I would survive, as sepsis had taken hold and my blood pressure plummeted.  IV antibiotics weren’t enough, so a central line was put in and my body was overloaded with fluids to keep me alive.  But my lungs were too wet and I quickly developed pneumonia.  I could hardly move, hardly keep my eyes open.  And now, I could hardly breathe.

On the second day, I asked Ashley and the other nurses if they could close the curtains and leave the room for a while.  Cognizant enough to be aware of the grim reality of what was happening, I wanted to be alone.  Slowly turning on my right side, I gingerly propped my head on a pillow and closed my eyes so I could tune in to my breathing pattern which was shallow and uneven.  Miraculously, I was able to silently talk myself through a relaxation exercise, just as I have with my yoga students for almost twenty years.  That still, small voice which has been with me since I learned to meditate in my late twenties calmly gave me the presence of mind to be with whatever was happening.

When I started to panic because it felt like I was going to suffocate, the voice said, Don’t breathe into your lungs, breathe into your heart.  Imagine there’s an opening in your chest and breathe into that space.  Again and again and again, I consciously stayed in the moment.  For nearly an hour I willed myself to breathe.  Willed myself to live. 

One breath at a time.

More than a decade ago I finally figured out that the most precious thing I have is time.  I can lose money and gain it back.  I can lose friendships, yet rediscover them in due course.  But I can never go back in time and relive any moment of my past, not even the most enchanting ones.  How I choose to invest my personal energy is now in the forefront of my awareness.  What I choose to do.  Where I choose to go.  With whom and how I spend my days.  What I choose to think and believe and reveal. 

I’ve chosen to pivot more than once since January, moving away from working on a new novel while actively seeking employment.  But things in the outer world haven’t turned out the way I thought I wanted and I've returned to the enduring truth that there is nothing in this life I’d rather do with my professional time than spend long, quiet hours alone in my writing space.  Still, I have fiscal responsibilites and a new life to create and all of that takes financial stability.

Last night I paid my bills and found that I needed to draw once again from my savings account, something I’ve found a necessity for the past several months.  Thank God I saved for a rainy day as it’s been a steady drizzle since the new year.  When I went to bed, I was ready to give into fear of not having enough of anything.  But then I reminded myself that I’ve been in this situation before and life always has a way of opening doors when I need them the most.  I told myself to relax, to trust, to take things one day at a time.

This morning I had a ball teaching a yoga class at Wiley Homes, then came home to find two writing assignments from a local magazine waiting in my inbox.  I applied for freelance work with a company in England, then queried a couple more literary agents.  It’s a been a fruitful, focused day and I’m intending that the seeds I plant today will someday soon grow into a harvest beyond what I can imagine.  

In the meantime I’ll practice living one yoga class, one conversation, one blog, one chapter, one opportunity…one breath at a time.

Be kind

I got my first pair of glasses when I was nine years old.  At the time, I’d started an early puberty and was one of the first girls in my fourth grade class to wear a bra, which was a constant source of embarrassment as several boys in my class mercilessly teased me or ran their fingers down my spine as they walked by my desk.  Mockery was nothing new at our school and there were plenty of other kids who endured name-calling and bullying.  Now in addition to being teased about my height or for having budding breasts, I was called “Katie Four-Eyes” and a host of other insults that only elementary kids can invent.  Getting ready for school in the morning was often an exercise in finding the right clothes to hide my body.  But I couldn’t hide my glasses, so I tried to make myself look as small as possible to avoid being singled out.

One sunny afternoon I waited outside Glendale-Feilbach school, leaning against the brick wall.  For some reason my mother was picking up my sisters and me so we didn’t have to ride the bus.  A few other kids milled around and a couple of teachers stood by, keeping an eye on all of us.   The principal, Mrs. DeProspero, walked by and smiled at me.  Then she very gently cradled my face in her hands and said, “Katie Ingersoll, you look so pretty in those new glasses.”

I beamed, not knowing what to say beyond a quiet, “Thank you.”

As she walked away, her thoughtful words washed away ever insult I’d endured.  From then on, when someone teased me about wearing glasses, I was able to effortlessly brush it off, knowing that if a wise and wonderful adult thought I looked nice, it didn’t matter if some kid thought otherwise.  To this day, I’ve never forgotten her kindness. 

I’ve stayed in touch with many of my former first graders and they will often reminisce about something I said or did in the classroom when they were very young.  Most of the time I have no recollection of the kind words I shared or a gentle admonition that redirected their behavior and encouraged them to make better choices.  But they remember, and that’s what’s important.

Our words have weight and consequences.  They can either harm or heal and there’s not often an in-between.  The other day I was reading a meditation to my yoga students from a wonderful book by Judith Lasater, A Year of Living Your Yoga:  Daily Practices to Shape Your Life.   She writes:  Nothing can be true if it is also harmful.  Remember today that your words leave a residue.  Choose them carefully so you can speak the truth with sweetness.

Steve, my significant other, will remind himself to “pull a Thumper”, in that if he can’t say something nice, he shouldn’t say anything at all.  That’s an adage my mother used to say whenever I was being mean to my older sister.  When we were young, Cynthia knew exactly how to push my buttons and the only way I knew to defend myself was to yell hurtful things back at her.  We got into an ugly pattern of insults that spilled over when we were in high school, and I can recall a couple of times when she said something that humiliated me in front of my friends.  After that, in private I verbally thrashed her, but in public I kept my mouth shut.  When we became adults the criticism was more passive-aggressive until I finally chose to stop the cycle. 

As a writer, it’s often difficult to express the full range of what I’m feeling, particularly with non-fiction.  It’s a fine line to walk, this place of being both honest and discrete, and it’s not my business to hammer home a belief that might be in conflict with someone else’s.  As Judith Lasater also suggests, Ask yourself, Can I honor my beliefs and yet understand they are not a true reflection of reality?  Whatever I might believe about another person or their circumstances, everyone is fighting a battle I know nothing about.

In every moment I can choose kindness toward another or myself, yet the challenge is to discern how to manifest it.  Sometimes it’s by being honest, other times by not saying everything I’m thinking.  Sometimes it’s by dropping my judgmental attitude, other times through using good judgment.  Even though it’s often the most difficult thing to do, kindness opens the door to healing, if not for the other person, than for ourselves.

I’ve recently recognized ways in which I can still be passive-aggressive, not just with words, but with my behavior.  Today I found myself niggled by an opportunity to make a point by not doing something for another person.  No one saw me in the moment, but my omission would eventually be discovered as a silent screw you.  In a split second I made a different choice and did it anyway.  It may be interpreted as a favor, but in truth, I did it for myself to practice rising above meanness and acting with integrity instead.  

I’m not pleased with the fact that I can still be petty, but I’m also not happy that I chose thoughtfulness instead.  It’s not a matter of pride, it’s a matter of principle.  A while ago I made the decision to align my actions with grace, peace, and truth.  I don’t always do it well, but lately it’s gotten a lot easier.  Maybe it’s because I’ve healed pieces of myself that have been broken since I was little.  Or maybe it’s because I’m in a relationship that challenges me to become a better person.  Probably it’s because I’ve finally learned how to see the world as it is, not as I would like it to be.  Now I choose kindness because I finally understand what Warsan Shire meant when he wrote these incredible words…

Later that night I held an atlas in my lap,

Ran my fingers across the whole world and whispered,

“Where does it hurt?”

It answered, “Everywhere…everywhere…everywhere.”

  

  

fortysomething

As winter slowly warms into spring, I've spent my evenings watching the first two seasons of thirtysomething and thought about this blog that I wrote back in 2013.  In the five years since, I've met my own version of Michael Steadman and am not surprised that Steve also has elements of Elliot, Gary, and even Miles Drentell.  Go figure.  It gives new meaning to the cliché “Be careful what you wish for.”  What a miracle that I met Steve while minding my own business, writing a novel in my home office.  He walked by the open window on a sunny day two years ago...and the rest, as they say, is history.

Thirtysomething recently turned thirty and I’m heartened to realize that some of the best television writing can stand the test of time.  Now that I’m fiftysomething, I can look back and be infinitely thankful that I have, too.  To everyone who looked forward to spending Tuesday nights with Hope, Michael, Elliot, Nancy, Melissa, Ellyn, and Gary...this one's for you.

fortysomething

Originally published on May 24, 2013

When I was twentysomething, I taped nearly every episode of thirtysomething.  When I was thirtysomething, I watched them over and over again.  Now that I'm fortysomething, thirtysomething has taken on new meaning in ways that it couldn't have twentysomething years ago.

Following me so far?

Debuting during my last year of college, thirtysomething was an articulate template of how I wanted to live as an adult.  I would be some version of "Hope," and hopefully a "Michael" would magically make his way into my life, perhaps as a blind date on New Year's Eve.   But as Michael eventually revealed, "I keep forgetting that college and reality are not compatible." 

Even though I've had a few slightly neurotic men in my life (both with and without suspenders), how could I have known then that twenty-five years later, I would experience a single life like Michael's cousin, Melissa, leaving behind the illusions of the past?

It's great fun to look back at the clothing and hair styles of the late 80's and early 90's.  To watch characters use pay phones and typewriters.  To be the proverbial fly on the wall as they make their way through the circumstances and responsibilities that come with being, as they say, "a grown up".  I watch the show most often during times of transition and when I'm feeling lonely for real conversation, longing to connect with people like me.  Hope and Michael, Gary and Melissa, Nancy and Elliot and Ellyn keep me company and fill that void when my own friends are preoccupied with their husbands and children, their own busy lives.

I still laugh when watching Michael's nightmare of being visited by very human versions of his inner fear, dread, and anxiety.  I feel sentimental when the soundtrack plays a song from the seventies and still cry when watching the episode "Second Look."  Now I see their stories through different eyes, ones that have lived through my own thirties and have come to find I really resonate much more with Melissa's personality than Hope's.

Last Thanksgiving I was spending time with friends.  We were having a typical thirtysomething moment, sitting around the dining room table talking about life and relationships.  One of the twentysomething men asked me why I'd never been married. 

I shrugged, "Haven't found the right guy yet...and the men I meet don't typically want a woman my age." 

He frowned.  "What's that mean?"

"If you were to look at me on paper, it's not what most guys would consider desirable."

"Try me," he smiled.

"Okay, here you go...," I deadpanned.  "I'm forty-six years old, single, never-been-married, no kids, live alone with my cats, and love to read.  Oh yeah, and I knit."  I shot him a sly smile.

"Yeah, on paper you don't look too good," he had to admit, albeit through laughter.  "But that's not all of who you are....there's a lot that can't be seen on paper."

As a writer, don't I know it.

Independent and artistic photographer Melissa Steadman endured a thirtysomething single life full of bad dates, wobbly relationships, and people constantly asking her, "Where's your other earring?"  Richard Kramer wrote many of the episodes that feature this incredibly dynamic and unpredictable woman trying to find her way alone in a sea of married couples.  He's said that of all the characters, Melissa is his favorite because she's the only one who's really free. 

She's the maverick who lives by her own rules.

I spend a lot of time alone writing in my home office, away from opportunities to meet and mingle.  But at fortysomething, I prefer it that way.  Perhaps I always have.  In my twenties and thirties when I did venture out, blind dates were a nightmare or I chose the wrong men who treated me badly.  By the time I turned forty, the idea of dating was so tainted, I decided to simply stop.       

I struggled mightily for a long time to make peace with my inner damsel who wanted to be rescued by her "Michael in Shining Suspenders."  I've been infatuated with many versions of him and there was in fact, one New Year's Eve spent with a man whose behavior shattered my heart and blew all of my Pollyanna illusions out of the water. 

Thank God.

Once I got it through my head that there other choices, I had an incredible dream that allowed me to re-frame the past and move forward.  I was standing in a turret built in my front yard.  The sun was bright.  Birds chirped in the treetops.  Not a cloud in the cornflower blue sky.  As I looked out of the arched window, I saw men of all ages, shapes, and sizes walk past the tower, oblivious to my existence. 

“Hey!” I called down to them.  “Hey, don’t you see me up here?  Are none of you going to save me?”

Not one of them paid any attention.  It was as if I was invisible. 

After watching a dozen or more pass by, I leaned out of the window and realized the tower was only five feet off of the ground.  I quickly made up my mind to save myself.  No one would do for me that which I most needed to do for myself.  And so, I leapt from the window, landed on the grass and quickly got to my feet.

There's an superbly written line in "Gentlemen's Agreement" in which one of the women says, "Sometimes when you're troubled and hurt, you pour yourself into things that can't hurt back."  I can certainly relate.  Flowers and yarn and cats and books can't hurt me.  Still, I keep the door open just in case the right man for me is ready to enter my life.  Until then, I'm content to live alone and trust that more will be revealed in time. 

One of my ears is pierced twice, and whenever someone asks me where my other earring is, I think of Melissa Steadman and smile, knowing her eclectic life is a much better fit for this fortysomething gal.

The cast of thirtysomething ... thirty years later.

An introduction to The Lace Makers

While The Lace Makers is a work of fiction, I spent the better part of a year researching the real lives of Civil War era slaves and Holocaust victims.  It was a harrowing and life-changing experience, just as writing this novel has been.  There are countless names and faces I've encountered who have given me the determination to finish a book that revealed itself over time and in a manner unlike anything I have ever experienced.

Along the way, I discovered the work of a heroic photographer, Mendel Grossman, who risked his life to take pictures of the Lodz ghetto in 1940.  Eventually he was sent to a prison camp and later died during a forced march, days before the Germans surrendered. 

He still had his camera with him.

Grossman's images are haunting.  One in particular sat on my desk as I wrote The Lace Makers.  The photograph shows a brother sharing food with his little sister...such a simple, yet incredibly profound image.  I imagine that neither of the children survived the purging of the Lodz ghetto, so in many ways, I wrote this novel for them and for all of the children who did not survive slavery or the Holocaust. 

They have no living legacy, but the stories that remain help keep their memories alive in our hearts.  

Mirror, Mirror -- The Very Best of Open Road

In the late eighties and early nineties, I avidly watched thirtysomething and was continually inspired by the poignant quality of the writing.  Richard Kramer, one of my favorite screenwriters, acknowledged the creators in his book These Things Happen, saying in part that Ed Zwick and Marshall Herskovitz encouraged him to write with the intimacy of writing a letter to a small circle of friends to whom he would never have to explain himself.  It’s hard to believe that half a decade has gone by since I wrote my first blog for Open Road, yet in the process of sharing quiet, personal moments from my own life, I found that it has been like composing letters to a dear friend. 

Many of you have written over the years to say that an essay touched your life or allowed you to look at an issue from a different point of view.  The phrase that echoed the most is I needed to read this blog today…it’s very timely for what I’m going through.  That’s one of the reasons I’ve called the blog Open Road, for it invites all of you to bring yourselves to the story, no matter where you might be.  The path is always open to follow, be it the one I offer or the one upon which you’re already traveling. 

In the past five years I’ve created written snapshots of moments in time to which we can all relate.  From enduring a harsh Midwestern winter or welcoming the beauty of springtime, from experiencing quiet miracles to wondering what the future might bring, I’ve found that I’m in very good company…and more often than not, I’ve also discovered our individual journeys intersect at the perfect moment.

You can find the KINDLE and paperback versions on Amazon.com