I Rise!

I was lying on a table in a morgue and there was golden light all around me. The table was an electromotion conserve autopsy, electric corpse dissection morgue table, but it wasn’t cold or uncomfortable. One of my good friends stood next to me smiling, glowing, her shining blonde California hair bouncing as she spoke.
“Everyone will know you have excellent taste in clothing. I’ll put your beautiful shoes on you and make sure you look exquisite.”
I smiled back at her, basking in her care and love, unworried and at peace in a sort of resigning way. A presence was nearby, a male presence, but I didn’t see his face. He was the doctor, the minister, the mortician, the father, authoritative but kindly; a guide, of sorts, but not a guru. His presence was assuring, I suppose. And then suddenly I was walking in a small city garden restive and lovely.
I spoke aloud, “Can I be buried here?” A voice answered, “There’s no room here.”
Then I was quickly back on the comfy morgue table being given a shot of morphine by the male presence. My friend was gone and I went to sleep for a long time. When I woke up, I got off the dissecting corpse table and looked into a mirror very closely and saw myself changed. I was me, but someone else, too.
“Am I going to live?” I asked the presence.
“It could be,” he said casually.
“A miracle, then?
“Perhaps.”
I woke from the dream and it has clung to me for days. It comes at a time when my favorite pair of shoes has worn out and I need to give up on re-soling. But it’s re-souling that’s happening, this dissecting knife cutting away wounds from long ago, ones that I had bandaged up tightly so there would be no exposure. I kept them hidden from sight, like the scars I have on my stomach that I have made sure no-one would ever see. I’ve never had a dream like this, but I have been on this dissecting table before. Something within dies, something like joy, peace, or confidence…you name it, it happens to all of us. And if we don’t get on the table from time to time, there is no breaking through the winter soil of ourselves. I peeked at the daffodil shoots standing straight and green and thought I heard them say, “Whew, we made it!”
It is the season for rising, for transformation, for waking up and coming home to ourselves yet again. May there be many Easters in our lives!

How Shall I Keep Dancing?

You were once wild here. Don’t let them tame you ~ Isadora Duncan

I dreamed last night that I was walking through a pub naked. In the dream, friends and I decided that we would discard our granny panties and be at ease with our bodies in the buff. As it goes with the strangeness of dreams, it ended with me prancing through the pub alone. My friends high-tailed it, I guess. It was the oddest thing, for I wasn’t …em…bare…assed in the least. I’ve had a few naked dreams over the years, but always I would feel horrified and then enormously relieved to wake and know it was only a dream.

I recently danced at a pub (with my clothes on) to live Irish music with a group of friends I’ve set danced with for many years. I was bewitched by the music and as we danced together, I tapped, leapt, and danced so enthusiastically, I drew inordinate attention to myself. I wasn’t tripping anyone or myself up, but I was singularly vivacious and energetic. There were goodhearted (I hope) teasing comments and laughter, but I wasn’t embarrassed in the least. Sure, there have been other times when I went crazy with my dancing, but oftentimes I’d not only have a sore hip, but sore feelings because my fellow dancers didn’t go along with me.

I’ve wondered of late how I will keep dancing. I have gathered pain in my joints from repetition of movement. And I have also gathered pain in my soul from repetition of living. “Let it go!” the guru masters tell us. And don’t you just love this one, “Let go and let God!” And then, of course, there’s this one, “Just breathe!”

I’m not hostile to letting go, letting God, and breathing, but honestly, who really lets go and lets God and who doesn’t breathe? If I let go, I won’t dance. If I let go, I won’t feel compassion and empathy that propels me to action. If I let go and let God, I am separating myself from God because then it’s either me or Him or Her. It sort of implies that I am off the hook, but it makes me feel very lonely waiting for Him or Her. I’ve been there and I know the lingo. I do believe we are in this together and I am not alone in this dance with life.

I’m going to learn some new steps then…new moves and take deeper breaths. I’ve been in my skin for so long now that in some ways it’s stretched enough to give me freedom of movement. Like a well worn treasured garment, I’ll not toss myself away. And if my friends don’t wish to frolic or boogie as I do, they’ll still be there laughing me on.

I’m like a tumbleweed and just mature enough to pull away from old roots that keep me confined. I’ll roll along, gather some new material, and scatter myself in the wind, dancing wildly.

Sipping Tears

I randomly picked up a magazine from the pile of reading material I haven’t had time to catch up with. The January/February issue of Sierra Magazine has a large, bold title, POLARIZED, Levity and Gravity at the Ends of the Earth. Oh yeah, I thought, this is how it feels and hurts right now in my country, but hasn’t it felt this way for a few years now? Honestly, hasn’t it been this way from the beginning?

This issue of Sierra, however, isn’t about taking extreme sides in politics, but about climate change from the top of the world to the bottom of the world. Nevertheless, I am aware that even the discussion of glaciers melting and climate crises can indeed create polarization amongst the citizens of America, home of the free and the brave.

We all have been grieving over the loss of life, not only in Connecticut, but the loss of children’s lives destroyed by land mines in Afghanistan. And then my sorrow deepened by the vitriolic and raging debate over gun control that arrives like salt rubbed into a wound. I learned that some of my friends hold views that I didn’t know they had (or perhaps I didn’t want to know) and I’m disappointed. And I read that a few people with their rights in tact walked into a Walmart store and other public places displaying their weapons…a day or two after the heartbreaking atrocity in Connecticut.

Are we a nation unable to grieve right? Are we awkward in expressing lamentations for more than a week? As individuals, we go into the cocoon of our sorrow and rub our hearts raw with grief, perhaps eating too much, drinking too much, abusing our bodies because we need to numb our pain and stop the shaking in our souls. We need the prayer vigils and funerals where we are given time to wear our mourning clothes, light candles, and hold one another, but mostly it happens just for a brief time and we maintain our stiff, upper lipped dignity through it all, swiping at the tears quickly before others see. And if there is loud wailing in these places for grief and remembrances, we view it as unrefined and feel embarrassed for those who lose control. And for ourselves if we lose control.

But why is it that we are very much at ease and not embarrassed in losing control with our anger all over the page and air waves? After 9/11, the ban on purchasing assault weapons was lifted and we went to war. Our grief was too much and the only way to deal with it was to be enraged. There is righteous anger, indeed, and there is a time for it, but it is my belief that if it is right and good anger, this anger will result in healing and change. I remember after a few painful incidents with an alcoholic step-father when I was in my early teens, I was so angry that I considered sneaking into bars to light them on fire. I wanted to get rid of my pain and the problem of alcoholism.

I’m uncertain how to go about grieving and having righteous anger in a healthy way. I know it isn’t wearing a gun in public to prove I have rights or burning down places I consider hell holes. I also know that although a time will come to remove my mourning clothes, I will not relinquish all of them. I have lived long and I have learned the names of sorrow, so I will wear some of this grieving to honor those gone before me, to be vigilant for righteous change, to be humble, and to wait for mourning to turn to dancing, for I know we can always dance again.

And then I mindlessly flipped through the Sierra magazine to the last page, and read the title, Last Words, and exhaled some of the sorrow I was holding tightly in my chest as I viewed the photo and description. I know without a doubt that nature can teach us, heal us, and can bring us together:

In Ecuador’s Yasuní National Park, butterflies sip a yellow-spotted river turtle’s tears. The mineral-rich liquid helps the insects reproduce. In exchange, the reptile gets a good eye-cleaning. | Photo by Pete Oxford/Minden Pictures

And so for my friends who disagree with me about gun control, this is my last word here to you. And to all of us responding to the tragedies and loss of our times, we can, through the best of our humanity, sip the tears of the sorrowing and be changed.

In Spite of Winter

Most of the deciduous trees in New England are disrobed and stripped of color when November’s end comes rolling in. Gardens should have already been put to bed properly so they can get a good winter’s sleep and be ready to flourish in the spring and summer. There have been a few years when my flowers hung their heads in dismay and eventually laid down on pillows of snow because of my negligence. I’m always amazed that come spring, in spite of my heedless care, these plants bloom and thrive yet again. It gives me hope, for albeit I’ve blundered as a parent, friend, daughter, writer, there is some kind of intrinsic wizardry and numinous love that prevails on this earth and in my life. In spite of me, in spite of you, and in spite of nature’s backhand striking us hard with hurricanes, nor’easters, and earthquakes, resplendent color comes again into our pallid earth and lives. I know it. I’ve lived over fifty years and this truth is threaded throughout my life’s experiences, in spite of tangled and knotted stitches.

Delores Whelan writes in her book, Ever Ancient Ever New, Celtic Spirituality in the 21st Century:

The journey from Samhain to the winter solstice is a path of continual sinking and letting go, of deep surrender. The days shorten; the nights get longer; the earth draws its energy deep within; death and darkness surround us. We reside in the womb or cauldron of the Goddess where gestation and transformation happen. We are deep within the giamos period, where the experience of linear time is minimized, willpower is muted, and contemplation of the ever-present form or ground of being, from which everything arises, is encouraged. Here the mode of being that is required is rest, passive attentiveness to the unconscious influences of the otherworld, together with openness to growth that is slow and unforced. This is the dream time, where the seeds of new life, new ideas, and new projects are nurtured.

Winter has arrived and my miniature yellow roses haven’t lost their heads over it, so why should I? I haven’t tended to my flowers properly, but they will adapt and will probably bloom come spring. And if they don’t survive, they will be missed and not have lived in vain. The earth and I have benefited by their beautiful presence.

But sometimes fear rises up within me in winter like no other time and I wonder if this thread of love will break and I’ll fall apart, perhaps like the flowers that do not survive winter, properly cared for or not. Roofs collapse under the weight of snow. Am I strong enough? Or is this thread strong enough? I was wondering about these things after I had lunch with a writer friend. She gets my writing, for real. She encourages me to screw up my courage to let words grow slow and unforced onto the wintery empty pages. I am fortunate to have her and a few other writers in my life who cheer me on into springtime. I said goodbye to her and was so deep in thought that when I got onto Interstate 93 going north and drove for a few miles, I suddenly thought I was going south. I was headed to Boston! So I got off the next exit to go north back to New Hampshire and after driving for a few miles, I realized I was actually going south. I had been driving in the right direction from the beginning. I had been going north like I was supposed to, but I got off and went south thinking I was going north when I was going south. Did you get that? That glass of wine at lunch had definitely worn off and it wasn’t the culprit. It was winter and I was deep in thought about my new novel and bringing to life what had been buried long ago. I ended up driving up 93 in rush hour and it took me nearly three hours to get home. It should have only taken me 40 minutes. I cranked up my music and tried to relax (and pay attention). And then there was golden warmth that spread over my hands on the steering wheel and crept up my entire being. For the drive home, the sun put on a brilliant show. It was one of those sunsets that momentarily make you feel that “God’s in his heaven-All’s right with the world.” (Browning).

So I messed up. I didn’t put my flowers to bed and rake the leaves. I went the right way thinking I was going the wrong way and then went the wrong way thinking I was going the right way. I’m in wintertime, but there are sunrises and sunsets that assure me that no matter which way I go and whatever happens, there is love. And I’m nearly certain that my roses, which are still yellow, are a very good omen.

REAL MEN READ NORAH!

I spent over two hours writing a blog and then hit “Post a Photo” and lost my blog. I am pissed! I can’t retrieve the Muse to write the blog again. What is wrong with Word Press??

However, I will post my new poster for my book campaign: “Real Men Read Norah!”

Little Apron, Little Loaf, and a Little Thong

Little Apron, Little Loaf, and a Little Thong

When my daughter, Hannah, was very young, she stood on a chair next to my mother, her grandmother, Doris, and learned how to make homemade oatmeal bread. I bought little loaf tins that held the bread dough that Hannah’s long fingered and delicate hands would mix, form, and after rising once, punch down. Our Cape Cod kitchen was the size of a play house kitchen (really, I’m not exaggerating) and Hannah felt it was her toy kitchen. It was in this kitchen where her invisible friends played with her and it was there, standing by her grandmother, where she learned about love through listening, touching, smelling, and tasting. This being next to her grandmother had actually begun shortly after Hannah was born because I had complications and stayed in the hospital for three weeks. Hannah came home and my mother would nestle her next to her on the piano bench and play for her. So it was natural for Hannah to stand next to her grandmother and learn the magic of the kitchen through the art of bread-making.
We have a special Cuban friend, Enes, whom Hannah calls, ‘Aunt T.’ Enes didn’t have much of an education, but she had many talents that we partook of, including teaching us how to dance the Mambo, decorating our home with lace (she even sewed lace on one of my husband, Tim’s, ties, that he never wore), and creating her own patterns for clothing. Hannah was six years old when Aunt T sewed a Victorian dress for her to wear for my tea catering business, as well as mother and daughter matching aprons. When my mother, Doris, and Hannah stood next to one another in the kitchen making and baking bread, they wore these matching aprons. It is twenty some years later and I still have the matching aprons. Little loaf and little apron and very large love.

And now my mother is eighty-five and it would take a very large book to write about her colorful and unique life. I don’t know if I ever will do it. Just an essay here and there over the years because I’m positioned too close to her heart to be able to stand back and see clearly enough to write her story. Recently, she traveled from New York to visit us in New Hampshire, and in my journal I’ve recorded our trip to the sea, to a friend’s house to play her grand piano, to the museum to see a real Monet painting, the many lunches with her gentleman friend, Lester, and when she made us her famous homemade oatmeal bread yet again. Perhaps it was her last time, she had said, but she’s said that before. But she is eighty-five and it just might be that it was her last time for making bread and visiting us. During this visit, my mother made her oatmeal bread without realizing how much I needed old-fashioned nurturance and assurance that rises in my heart like her bread that rises for our sustenance. My grown-up Hannah had just come to visit and say goodbye, for she was leaving the east coast to go to Kansas with her love! I felt the fragility of old age, middle age, and young age all at once. And so my mother’s homemade oatmeal bread came to my kitchen once again at the right time. It gave me that safe, cozy, and all’s right with the world feeling. Timing is everything, they say…and I know. I needed this bread, this memory of a little loaf, a little apron, and the reminder that the little things my mother has given me are actually quite large in meaning. And after Hannah left for her journey and we had eaten my mother’s bread, I was doing the simple task of taking laundry out of the dryer, already missing my daughter and preparing to say goodbye to my mother who was returning to New York. From the dryer, I pulled out two pairs of underwear, one my mother’s and the other, my daughter’s. One pair was black granny panties, and the other, was a little black thong. I laid them side by side on top of the dryer and stared at them, my heart full and sad at the same time. Little loaf, little apron, and a little thong.

A Bitch Blip in Response

I was doing my morning chores of social media networking and read an article in Forbes by David Vinjamuri titled, Publishing Is Broken, We’re Drowning In Indie Books – And That’s a Good Thing. I immediately felt a bitch blip coming on in response.

“Great success is not possible without a certain degree of shamelessness, and even of out-and-out charlatanism” ~ Stendhal.

I have often felt like a greasy saleswoman involved in rabid self-promotion, and that I’m carrying around a medicine tent I set up to woo and wow the crowds. Fairy dust, scones, and dream quotes offered with purchase of a book! Once I was asked to be the feature speaker at a senior luncheon in a church basement. I set up my table with posters and books, but before I was scheduled to speak, in walked a tall, gloomy, man with bushy eyebrows, who said to me that he was the featured magician (his real job – lawyer). “After you…” he said, as he swept his arm towards me as if he was giving me some of his magic. Consequently, he stole my magic that day. The oldies were more amused with his take on Jack the Ripper than stories about The Great Hunger, an immigrant woman, and my take on writing and hope. Not surprisingly, the seniors devoured my scones, but they hated the fairy dust, and didn’t buy many books. Although there was an agreed upon stipend, I never was paid. However, when I sell at Irish festivals, I usually reel in the customers who spill Guiness on my books and tell me about their great American novel they’re writing. By the end of the day, I am drenched in sweat clutching lots of money. I also conduct school visits dressed as an immigrant in a long, cumbersome, dress carrying a cage with a live clucking hen who once laid an egg. Ha! There was my magic, alright.

I would not self-publish for many reasons and ended up with one small (unknown) traditional publisher and one independent publisher who recently closed her business (a year after my third book came out). So…an agent says I have to have a rip roaring success with my next novel (that might take years to finish) in order for the novel I labored over and was initially doing well with can rise and take flight. Although I’m not a Sue Grafton reader, I somewhat agree with the above-named article that quoted her:

To me, it seems disrespectful…that a ‘wannabe’ assumes it’s all so easy s/he can put out a ‘published novel’ without bothering to read, study, or do the research. … Self-publishing is a short cut and I don’t believe in short cuts when it comes to the arts. I compare self-publishing to a student managing to conquer Five Easy Pieces on the piano and then wondering if s/he’s ready to be booked into Carnegie Hall.

I’ve sat at many local book events with self-published authors whose books have had very little copy editing. I want to support them and buy their books, but am mostly disappointed.

I’ve been a speaker at writer events and cringe when wanna be writers ask me how he or she can get published (and now) or tell me they are paying to have their book published after only working on it for a few months.  It does take blood, sweat, and tears.  And I’m not saying my books are superior because it took me that route, and I’m also not saying that some self-published books aren’t worthy ones, for we know of certain self-published authors, such as Amanda Hocking, who became a rip-roaring success. But as Steven Pressfield says, “The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell, whether he knows it or not. He will be dining for the duration on a diet of isolation, rejection, self-doubt, ridicule, contempt, and humiliation.” But not all is so hellish, for in between those times he writes of, there are the many seniors to read to, magicians to ward off, hens that lay golden eggs, and the invitations to hawk books while Whiskey in a Jar, the Irish tune, turned techno, plays in the background.