How I Keep Guilt From Haunting Me

Max knows how to keep Guilt away!

Max knows how to keep Guilt away!

I’ve just written a post for my blog next week. I’m caught up with the revisions I’m doing on my memoir. There are only two more chapters to talk to my editor about and then the work will begin to have my book become a reality in the fall of 2016. I’m excited.

But I’m feeling restless. The studio needs a good dusting and vacuuming. My computer desktop needs attention and I should start rereading the booklet of things I need to know about She Writes Press, the hybrid publisher I plan to go with. I promised myself weeks ago that I’d come up with an elevator pitch for my book and haven’t thought about it since then. There are over a hundred emails that need my attention and possible filing. They’re mostly about writing, publishing, and building an author platform, a true necessity if one is to sell the book she is getting ready to publish.

There is too much to do. It’s already late afternoon and I need to walk the dogs in about an hour and then there is dinner to prepare. But all I want to do is put my feet up and not be pushed to get more work done.

I opt to relax, write in my journal, and do some reading. But as I sit down in my favorite chair with a tall glass of iced tea to begin my friend, Guilt, arrives and begins haranguing me.

“What do you think you’re doing? How can you be writing in your journal and reading when you’re getting ready to publish a book? You need to go back over to the studio and get to work on your platform. You are not doing enough to pull in readers. You’re lazy and a wimp. Look what your friend J. is doing to promote her book. GET TO WORK!“

Despite Guilt’s unending criticism I pick up my purple pen and start a new page in my journal. I begin by making excuses.

“I haven’t put pen to paper here in almost a week and I need to remember all of the brilliant ideas I’ve already forgotten because I haven’t put in time writing here. There is just too much to do and  sometimes I just need to kick back and enjoy life without being pushed.”

Gathering steam I address Guilt: “You want me to be a writer? Then let me read. Everybody knows that reading other writer’s words is the way to learn. Now go away and leave me alone.”

I end up writing well over four pages about how important reading and writing in this journal is for me. I notice Sam and Max sitting at my feet and staring at me. They have an inner clock and they know it’s close to “walky” time and then dinner. I have twenty minutes left to do some reading before it’s officially their time and I’m going to take it.  I tell them to go lie down.  But do  listen to me? No.

I delve back into the book that has taken me over a month to get to the middle of. I haven’t read a novel in ages, my preference usually being non-fiction.  But The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt is a page turner and I need to use every extra minute I can manage to to read it.

When my twenty minutes are done, I get the dogs leashed up and drag Guilt along on our walk, stopping at every fire hydrant and blade of grass that dogs have peed on. She’s not happy when I start complaining her about her persistant nagging. She keeps trying to get a word in edgewise using her favorite words, “Yes, but.” However, I’m way ahead of her and leave her in the dust just after Max pees on her shoe.

I have to laugh. She never gives up and she’ll probably be waiting for me around the next corner ready to start her never ending pitch on how to keep working non-stop so that my book will be on the New York Times best seller list. I may have to use physical force to keep her in the ditch.  But that’s okay, I think I have the upper hand and she’ll leave me alone as long as my guard dog, Max is with me.

Does Guilt or some other critic hassle with you during your busy days? Do you have a sure-fire remedy for keeping them away?  If you do, I’d love to hear about it.

The Buddha In The Fur Coat

IMG_1280Life is good, but it isn’t always easy. One day the car breaks down and you’re late for your appointment with the IRS, who says you owe them money. On the opposite kind of day, you win the lottery and rush out to buy a new car. The in-between days find you smelling the roses, with a bunch of crappy, little things all going wrong.  You have to work harder to find your center.

My buddy, Sam, developed a hot spot on his tail a week or so ago. He’s been riddled with all sorts of allergies since we adopted him back in August of 2003. The worst are food allergies. A little over a year ago, with the help of a new vet, we found food that he likes and doesn’t make him sick.

But there are all sorts of other things that he’s allergic to. At this time of year when all the leaves are down and the air is filled with leaf mold, Sam itches like crazy. He tries to be patient with it, but the result is often a hot spot, that has gone bald because of his constant scratching, licking and sometimes chewing. It gets infected and then we have a problem on our hands that requires antibiotics.

I’m kind of allergic to this time of year and have been a bit out of sorts myself over the last few weeks. It’s my usual holiday state of mind. There’s too much to do, too many expectations, and the whole world seems to be melting down around me. And beyond Ferguson, the state of the Middle East, and all sorts of other issues going down, it’s been a particularly difficult year for the city of Charlottesville and the University of Virginia.

First there was the disappearance and tragic death of Hannah Graham. Now we’re dealing with the Rolling Stone’s article about the “rape culture,” at Thomas Jefferson’s university, just two blocks from my house. The editors are now backpedaling, saying that some of what was originally reported isn’t true. Thankfully, the powers that be at the University are not letting the issue rest and are working to make sure all students, especially women, feel cared for and safe in what has become a questionable environment.

Whether you’re connected with the University or not, what’s been happening around us is affecting all of those who live here. When Hannah Graham’s body was found, a friend, who lives elsewhere, asked how such a horrendous thing could happened in such a beautiful and peaceful place like Charlottesville. My response was that bad things happen everywhere. Beauty has nothing to do with it. It’s just the way things are and we each react to these events in our own way. But when it’s happening down the street,  events like these can cast a shadow over an entire community. We like to think that where we live is the best place in the whole world and that things like murder, racism, and acts of brutality, don’t happen here.

The other day I overheard an acquaintance, say, “It’s so cold out, even the ‘bums’ aren’t out today.” She was referring to our area’s large homeless population. I was horrified. I wanted to shake some sense into her head. I told her to go and sit with those “bums.”  She might learn something about what it’s like living on the street and why those people are out there.

The morning that had started out so nicely, had just been shot down and I became a raving grouch, leaving a wake of unpleasantness behind me as I stormed home. I was not being helpful … to myself or anyone else. I was being judgemental, just like the one who spoke ill of the “bums.”

When I got home Sam was sitting all curled up on the couch. Trapped inside what some call the “Cone of Shame,” he was the picture of peace. Despite his itchy tail and being a bit grouchy himself, he wagged his tail, looked at me with his big brown, all knowing eyes, and said, “It’s okay, Mom. It is what it is.”

I sat down next to him, and wrapped my arms around him. He’s one of my greatest teachers. The pain resulting from being unable to make the world a better place, slowly released me from it’s grip.  I began to feel sad for that acquaintance of mine. She’d probably been taught that homeless people are bums … perhaps by her parents.

When I finally stood up, ready to go on about the rest of my day, Sam winked at me and gently licked my nose.

Who are your greatest teachers?

Reno Week #1

The living room.

The living room.

The week that was went by in a flash … but it also seemed to take a year to pass.  I don’t quite know how to explain that but that’s how it was.  The hard wood flooring is being put in now and should be finished by Friday morning.  The hall and powder room where the laundry room will be located has now been gutted and work proceeds there.

All in all it was a pretty good week. I managed to do everything but work on my memoir.  Even though my studio is in another building it’s hard for me to focus.  The dogs are jumpy from all the noise and the poor cat doesn’t quite know what to do with herself.  All of us except Sweet Lilli, the cat are staying at a nearby Residence Inn, but even there the dogs aren’t themselves.  They are very much creatures of habit and all of the turmoil is intruding into the quiet security they are used to. It’s the same for both Bill and I but we’re the humans and are supposed to be resilient. We try and are encouraged every day by the progress that is being made.  I can already say that the new floor in the kitchen, though only partially laid, is going to be gorgeous and will make a huge difference in the amount of time I spend cooking.

My biggest hangup has been eating and cooking. I’m gluten-free and am trying go mostly Paleo, meaning no grains whatsoever.  I am also a cook-it-from-scratch kind of person and the limited kitchen arrangements in our room have been a problem until yesterday when we moved into a room with a real stove with four burners and an oven.  It’s still tiny and cramped but I don’t plan on making anything that is complicated. So I think we’re good until our kitchen here is done.

I could go into a rant or have a pity party and cry about how hard all of this is, but it wouldn’t help. Yesterday I finally made friends with the idea that this is going to be a time of getting little serious writing done and having untold interruptions no matter what I’m trying to do. Unlike several people I know who went to Europe while their homes were being renovated, I find it helpful to check in on what is happening in order to keep from being surprised at the end of the day.

As I watch the rest of the world, the work being done here and the great people who are doing it, I find myself being grateful that this interruption in my life is as small as it is. It is nothing in comparison to what the single dad who is supervising this job goes through every day, for his daughters, three and six years old. I’m grateful for the cooking space I do have that is inside a warm building and the choices available to me when it comes to what to eat.

Kitchen floor in process.

Kitchen floor in process.

I’m grateful for everything I have and for a huge amount of stuff that I don’t have. Sure I’m somewhat stressed. Who wouldn’t be?  Life is what it is, but I happen to be one of the most fortunate citizens on this planet.  Suffering is an option but for the moment I am choosing to live mindfully and simply notice what is happening around me and what is going through my head. The only thing I can change is the way I perceive what is going on and I’m especially grateful that I’m able to do just that.

What stresses are happening in your life and how are you keeping it from turning your life upside down?

On Being Hit Over The Head With A Two-By-Four

Chippy and Mildred Blaming the dogs for my broken leg was never an option.

Chippy and Mildred
Blaming the dogs for my broken leg was never an option.

Every now and then when I’m moving through life at too fast a clip and I think I have all of my problems licked, the Universe sends me a BIG, HARD message.  I liken it to being hit over the head with a two-by-four.

It happens when I haven’t been paying attention to the many small hints I’m sent on a fairly regular basis. When I listen and act on what my “gut” is telling me I do okay. And for the most part, I pay attention and take the advice I’m sent seriously. When my head is drooping and I can’t keep my eyes on the screen, I know it’s time to turn the computer off and go for a walk … or take a nap … or pull a few weeds in the garden.  When “something” tells me I need to go in a different direction than the one I insist on, I need to listen.  If I take too long catching on to what is being suggested, the two-by-four comes out.  And it’s usually in the form of a health problem.

The first time it happened was a long time ago in the late 70’s, on a January first. I had been pissing and moaning about how I hated New Years and what a boring day it was.  I was glad the the old year was gone, but I was hoping for a year filled with all kinds of excitement. I hated looking back at what looked to me like an uninteresting life. I was hoping the big calendar shift would bring some exciting new thing to get me up and moving toward something big and bright that would peak my interest and the passion that I’d been missing for a while.

At the time, life was a mishmash of being a mother, a wife, a daughter and whatever else came my way.  What ever it was didn’t matter, as long as I was busy and time passed quickly. I was stuck, overextended, and not appreciating the small things in life that one day turn out to be big deals.

Just moments after bemoaning the dullness of the cold and sunless day, I heard my two dogs, Mildred and Chippy, having a knock-down-drag-out fight out in the field in front of my house.  I envisioned major injuries and blood loss.  Without thinking, I ran like hell down the driveway to break them up, forgetting that there was a cattle guard between me and the dogs.  By the time I realized what was ahead of me it was too late to stop.  One leg landed between concrete piers and I heard a snap.  There was no pain at first, but I knew I was in trouble.  Both bones in my lower right leg were broken and I was in a cast of one kind or another for four months.  If I thought life was boring before the event, it was really bad afterwards.

I got the excitement I wished for, but it was the wrong kind. Within the dark clouds over my head was that often spoken of and highly celebrated silver lining in the form of time. Time not only to heal a damaged leg, but also time to think about where I’d been and where I was going. I changed a whole lot things and became a better person.

The second time it happened was three and a half years ago when I was diagnosed with endometrial cancer.  I had recently lost both my mother and brother to cancer. I was scared out of my mind. I’d been hoarding all sorts of raw, hateful feelings toward both my mother and my brother. I felt broken and unhappy, wondering what would happen next.  Surgery removed all of the cancer and brought the promising prognosis that in all likelihood it would not return.

Again, my gift was time. Over the days, I figured out that I needed a major make-over.  Not a new hair style, makeup and wardrobe kind of makeover, but a new way of looking at life and recognizing the lessons that keep coming my way. Since then I’ve worked hard learning about love, forgiveness, and my own ugly warts. And since I started writing about my my healing journey with my mother, I’m feeling like a new person.

That is until three and half weeks ago when the unimaginable pain of a pinched nerve set me back from the self-imposed deadline of having the first draft done by October first.  For a full week all I could do was stay in bed.  I felt as though I couldn’t hold my head up, and the excruciating pain radiated from my neck down into my left arm and into the palm of my hand.  Working at the computer was impossible.  During the second week the pain lessened but I was told that sitting all day in front of the computer screen, writing my book was the most likely cause of the problem.

In my rush to get that first draft done, I’d forgotten to take care of myself in other ways.  I’d decided not to travel over the summer, became a recluse, and kept on writing.  I wasn’t exercising enough and even my usually healthy diet took a hit. That’s all well and good for some I suppose, but for me those were the wrong decisions.  I was lonely and wanted to get out of here.

I need more socializing than I thought I did and the continual revisiting of dark days in the past wore me down. Something was going to give, one way or another. It seems more than a coincidence that this problem in my left shoulder and arm happened as I was writing chapters about my mother’s last few months of life, when she broke both her left shoulder and her left femur.  I considered them among the worst days of my life.  Is it so surprising that I was having these symptoms as I relived them?

So again, I’m being taught something and am surrendering to the lessons.  I continue to write a little bit every day, but it can only be for an hour or so. Within that hour I’m supposed to get up and move about every thirty minutes.  I’m seeing a physical therapist, doing lots of stretching, and there is an MRI in the works. But my pain in the neck, shoulder, and arm has given me plenty of time to read and get caught up on filing, and rethinking how this person needs to go about her work.

I am being given the gift of time once again. Time to work more slowly and deliberately, in order to get out the best story I can tell.  Before my pinched nerver,  I was rushing through the darkness so that I could get out from under the clouds.  Now I’m taking both the light and darkness together, slowing down and paying attention to where I am.  It feels so much better.

Don’ Give Up

Grandlings, Zoe and Noah on the Downtown Mall.

Grandlings, Zoe and Noah on the Downtown Mall.

I’ve been running into those words often for a couple of days now as I try to get myself back into my daily routine and at work on my memoir.  It’s been a crazy couple of weeks in which the routine, the writing, exercise, and getting enough sleep have taken a backseat to other things.

The loss of Brody took a number of days before the waves of grief that overtook me became fewer.  During that time I mostly sat and cried, unable concentrate on the simplest of daily activities.

Five days later the annual Virginia Festival of Book started here in Charlottesville, and with it came a visit from a friend whom I’d never before met in person, but with who I knew I had much in common.  We’d emailed and made comments back and forth on each other’s blogs and even talked on the phone once.  Shirley Showalter of 100 Memoirs was someone I’d stumbled upon on the Internet and it turns out she lives only about two hours away.  Her book, Blush, will be in print and on bookstore shelves sometime in the fall.  She’d been planning to visit the Festival of the Book and I invited her to stay with me here in my home.

What a wonderful time it was.  We went to a few of the festival sessions together and spent hours talking and reading to each other from our memoirs. Way ahead of me on the writing and the publishing angles, she is an inspiration and I know that if she lived any closer I’d often be on her doorstep asking unending questions. When Shirley returned home l was filled with excitement, new ideas and directions for my writing as well as pinpointing publishing options.

For a few days I struggled with catching up on all that I had let slide for a week.  The daily rounds of laundry, preparing food for the upcoming Easter weekend and visit from my daughter’s family took up most of my time. Not to be forgotten was taking time to play with our new adoptee, Max, who snuggled his way into our bed and hearts, easing the sadness of Brody’s untimely death.  There was little time for writing, except for capturing notes as I remembered things I would change in my memoir, made lists of new books to read, and emailed a few new contacts. I also just needed to sit with myself to bring the roar of excitement to a lower level in which I could think more clearly, keeping myself from being overwhelmed by all that I wasn’t getting done.

Easter weekend was a blast with my Grandlings (read grandchildren) staying with us, sleeping in our basement, “Harry Potter” room, which looks somewhat like a set from the movie.  We gifted Lisa and Deena with a stay in a nearby hotel so that they could have a few evenings without the kids. We spent lots of time walking and laughing and on Saturday helped to surprise Mark’s stepdaughter Casey on her 25th birthday with a lovely party.  It was the first time in a number of years in which my kids were all here together. We joyfully spent our time celebrating each other.  As I grow older occasions  like this past weekend become more and more important to me.

Casey blowing out her candles.

Casey blowing out her candles.

We’re all back in the daily grind now, and I can’t help but feel a bit let down.  I’ve not felt like writing and last night caught myself thinking that maybe this memoir I’m working on is a waste of time.

I’ve so enjoyed the distractions of friends, parties, great food, laughter and being with my kids, that returning to the serious work of reliving the past and moving through it to healing, seems more painful than usual. The sunshine and the bursting forth of new life is stealing my attention and my need to get my hands into the earth is growing.  Words flow onto the page with difficulty and I struggle to make myself sit down and dive back into what was.  Time marches on and there are so many things I still want to do.

But I am returning to my work, knowing that it is something I must do, even when it doesn’t feel good. I’ve moved my September 1st deadline for a finished first draft to November 1st, and plan on giving myself a few breaks along the way.  We’ re making plans to kidnap Zoe and Noah for a week this summer when we’ll ride the train up to Washington and take in the museums.  We’ll also go swimming, read books together, see a silly movie or two and just be with each other.

In the meantime, I’ll not give up working on my story.  I love the writing, even when I hate it. I’m growing way beyond the trauma that once made me hide from life.  The secret is to integrate the past and the present, stay out in the sunlight, breathe deeply, and enjoy every single moment that comes my way.  Time will do as it will.

“Never give up on a dream just because of the time it will take to accomplish it. The time will pass anyway.”  Earl Nightingale