In Giving Thanks
It’s not a bad idea to always be grateful for those we care about. Not only our spouses, parents, pets, and children, but also those people who enrich our lives in many small ways that we typically do not think about and who leave small or large holes when they are suddenly gone.
Present-ly
In the ten years I’ve been studying Buddhist philosophy, the one true thing that I have gleaned is awareness. I can’t say I’m more peaceful, or kinder, or wiser. But I do know that I can learn to be fully aware of the results that my actions create, which may eventually serve to make me kinder or wiser and let me live peacefully.
Book of Regrets
Fear is that corrosive rock of despair, the opposite of “that thing with feathers.” It’s a feeling of disorientation. Space shifts. Time warps. I start thinking about crazy stuff, like noumenon vs. phenomena and questioning what reality really consists of.
The Tower
My mother’s family hails from a historic town in Bavaria called Sulzbach-Rosenberg. Built on a massive igneous rock, the town consists of uphill and downhill cobble-stone streets. The original section dates from the 8th century, and was once a vital center for the Palatine dukes and counts. A yellow castle sits at the very top of the igneous rock and looks out over the surrounding hills and valleys.
Omnilegencia
Every week a question is posted to get our writerly brains to think and respond, which usually brings something to mind that causes me to ponder further. This week it was why do you write? The answers are across the board, but I have yet to see one that states: I want to write a Pulitzer Prize winning book, become filthy rich and super famous so I can live the rest of my life wallowing in success.
Do you know why?
Dear (Agent)
I admire those that self-publish. We have all heard about success stories. I’m happy for them and duly impressed. But it’s not me, at this time. I was delighted to take that route with my children’s books. I wanted total control over my books, including the illustrations. My goal was to benefit dogs and help instill the love of reading in children.
A Tribute to Barbara Koski Maxwell
R.I.P. Barbara Koski Maxwell. Barbara was one of the most interesting and warmest people I have ever known. Over the course of two years we offered readings at local schools, libraries, and literary events. While I read, she drew sketches of the entranced children and handed it to them at the end of the reading. She was the rock star, always.
A Perceived Truth
Memoir: In my words: a true slice of someone’s private life that carried profound meaning, created a change in perspective, and carries a universal meaning for others. Memoir is the author’s journey of a time or situation that is resolved in some fashion, at least by the end of the book.
Mother’s Day
On a bright summer day in 1953, Susanna Fornoff walked into the print shop where my father had worked as a typesetter ever since his 1947 release as a prisoner of war. She was looking for part-time work, to supplement her modeling assignments and serving meals at a local Gasthaus. She was hired. My father was smitten.
A Time for Hope
The wood ducks love to swim into our little cove and waddle into the yard to munch on the acorns our old live oaks drop in abundance. The drakes have gorgeous iridescent plumage with crested heads and distinctive white stripes from the eyes to the end of the crest. The hens are not colorful. Their plumage of browns intermingled with beige offer better camouflage.
The Opposite Shore
As the narrator, I have a roll to fill. The late (and great) Ursula K. Le Guin offers a story in her book on writing, Steering the Craft, that uses the analogy of a boat. Here’s my take on it: our readers climb into a boat with us to journey to the opposite shore.
A Silver Lining
As I look forward to 2021, different emotions assail me. Everyone can agree that 2020 has been a sad and frightening year. The whole world discovered it was in a battle. And the battle continues. But now we are over the shock and have girded our loins, determined to win.
Hopes and Plans
My husband and I are packing to go back up to our cabin in the NC mountains for a few weeks. I’m hoping the leaves are red, yellow, and orange by now, my favorite color palette. I plan to sit in the dining room with its 360 degree view of the surrounding Tusquittee mountain range and add the finishing touches to my book. Yes!
Magic
The magic of a book that talks directly to us is a feeling like no other. We are validated, soothed, yet excited to feel a part of something bigger than ourselves. Rebecca Solnit once said The object we call a book is not the real book, but its potential, like a musical score or seed. It exists fully only in the act of being read; and its real home is inside the head of the reader, where the symphony resounds, the seed germinates.
Who Will Drink My Tears?
I’ve been re-reading The Faraway Nearby by the remarkable Rebecca Solnit. The first time I read my now dog-eared copy was four years ago when I became fascinated with the idea of writing personal nonfiction, especially memoir. I picked it up and put it down several times before I was able to settle in and focus.
The Cabin
We dreamed of building our own mountain settlement, of designing and crafting solid log homes that could become family retreats. We found a mountaintop, plopped down our savings and cajoled a local bank to give us a loan and began clearing roads. We discovered a company in Michigan that hauled in huge logs and assembled them with a crane.
Our Sojourn in Solitude
While contemplating a quiet (as in pack my bags and slink off, maybe forever) disappearance, I came across a piece about Monhegan Island in the Travel section of the paper. As I read about the fierce beauty of the cliffs and the muted stillness of Cathedral Woods, a solution presented itself: a solitary retreat.
A message from COVID-19
As seems to be the case with everyone, my thoughts have been consumed by an organism we cannot see, touch or feel until it makes us ill, or kills us. Somewhere in the fear and frustration of understanding that my life will be different for a while—in ways I already dislike and many I have yet to find out—came a thread of thought I’d like to share.
Alone
My quiet home wraps me in a cozy blanket. I meander through the rooms, breathe in the solitude and remember the craziness of those busy, busy years when every second was planned out, long “to do” lists never quite completed, much like my stack of magazines. I wonder how often my son felt shorted of my attention.
The End as Beginning
This has been a mixed bag of a year, about evenly mixed with joys and upheavals. As always, I am my biggest challenge as I plod ahead stubbornly, making mistakes and anguishing for days about what I should have done instead. Forgiveness eventually comes, but never easily or quickly.
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