Weekly Affirmations

Noember 20, 2011

To venture into the wonderful world of parenting, you have to be pretty clear about how things work. No, no, don’t run into the street. That’s bad. Yes, yes, eat your peas. That’s good. Guiding the little ones through the world is part of the adventure. It makes you feel big and important and like you might just know a thing or two.

One sunny afternoon, Wes complained about having a stomach ache. He hadn’t eaten a whole lot for breakfast and just moved food around on his plate for lunch. I didn’t think much of it, since his dad was out of town and I had prepared both meals.

“My stomach hurts.”

“Of course it does. You’re hungry. Go eat something.” I proclaimed feeling very proud of myself for knowing how the world works –  Mom cooking = avoid eating = don’t eat = get hungry = stomach ache = eat something = feel better.

Wes was only four at the time but wanting to produce a self-reliant child I didn’t bother to get up and fix him a meal or even make a suggestion for what he might like. Instead I directed him to the snack drawer.

I am quite proud of our snack drawer. It is the bottom drawer in the kitchen, under the utensils, dish towels and kitchen gadgets that you use one time, the day you bought them. The bottom drawer is large so lots of goodies fit into it and even a four year old can open it, reach in and find something to eat. It is a bit more difficult for a forty-something pre-menopausal creaky-kneed woman to bend down and get a package of Oreos… do you see the genius in this?

“Get some cookies,” I suggested, pushing him away.

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled, trying to cuddle me.

“Really, you are. Go get a snack,” I insisted.

“Mom, I’m not hungry. My stomach just hurts.”

Well, at this point I had to peel my eyes away from The Mothering Chronicles marathon on TBS and look the bugger straight in the eye. “When you don’t eat, you get hungry which makes your stomach hurt. Go get a snack out of the snack drawer. Pick anything you want, just eat something.”

            To which Wes replied by throwing up all over me.

            After screaming in shock and considering exactly how much clean up there was going to be and if I could get it all done during the next commercial break, I turned to Wes and said, “Or maybe you’re sick.”

This week the mom in me expresses what I think is the correct version of events then waits to be corrected.

November 13, 2011

I admit it. I aspire to be part of the 1%. Not because I want to horde what I have. Not because I want extravagant tax breaks. Not because I kissed a boy behind a magazine.

I just want to be part of the 1% because I have dreams I want to fulfill.

19 years ago while meeting with our financial advisor, Jim asked me, “What is your ultimate goal?”

“To be a full-time writer.” I responded sheepishly, fully realizing how difficult attaining that goal is, but still, it is my ultimate goal and he asked.

“That takes a lot of synchronicity,” he said kindly, as if hinting I might want to rethink the goal or at least give him something he could work with for planning my future.

And yet, I haven’t given up. Even after collecting hundreds and hundreds of rejection slips. Even after getting published several times to little fan fare, except that flames I stoked myself. Even after watching Margaret Atwood on youtube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6iMBf6Ddjk) and fully recognizing that I can’t stand cheese sandwiches. I wonder if peanut butter works?

Even after receiving this rejection this week,

November 6, 2011

I am not a believer in the Darwinian notion that only the fit deserve to survive. Nor do I believe any of us really believe that, so when Herman Cain says, “If you’re not rich, blame yourself” I have to wonder who he blames for being such an insensitive jerk.

I do believe that when one of us succeeds, it is an advancement for all of us, even if it is as simple as publishing a book among those of us who are struggling writers.

Thus, it was with great pleasure that I attended a fellow writer’s book signing party today. Mart Shaughnessy’s book, Palomino Days, (available here http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/martshaughnessy or here http://www.amazon.com/Palomino-Days-Gantry-Walker-Novel/dp/1463712529/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1320599391&sr=1-1) is a mix between time travel, crime mystery and western. Reading the book, you are transported into a world it is clear Mart knows well, and one that envelopes you in the 19th century West. I typically don’t read Westerns, but having had the pleasure of being in a writing group with Mart, I stepped outside my comfort zone and was pleasantly surprised by how interested I became in the story, not only because the plot, the solving of the mystery, kept me turning the pages, but also because I was learning so much about this historical period.

So I couldn’t wait to get to his book signing party! I was ready to buy Christmas gifts for the Western readers in my reading circle and to rub elbows with the select invitees at this gala.

I was not disappointed! There was nice hot tea, chocolate cookies, familiar faces, and Mart entertained us with his reading of a chapter from the sequel to Palomino Days, which hopefully be released this spring.

Mart started by expressing how surprised he was that so many people showed up, as if he didn’t know he had groupies. Then he ran out of books, a great thing for a book signing because you feel oh so popular. Then he signed and signed and signed books for all of us adoring readers.

Then I had more hot tea and more cookies and sat back to watch the group. Everyone held a book in his or her hands and had a smile on his or her face and I was buoyed with hope.

After all, a rising tide lifts all boats, and buoys for that matter, so Mart’s successful book is a success for all of us who know him and have written with him and who are supporting him in traversing the publishing trail.

Yes, I believe that the more one of us succeeds and shares that success with those around him or her, by doing something as simple as providing hot tea and chocolate chip cookies, throwing a party, and reading us a chapter, the more all of us succeed.

Thanks Mart, for a great afternoon, a great read, and a successful day.

This week I will relish in Mart’s success knowing that his tide lifts my boat as well.

October 30, 2011

It’s easy to be a pacifist when you have nothing worth fighting for.

Take the Occupy Wall Street tribe. Now, I’m probably over generalizing here, but most of those hanging out know that the cost of fighting for their rights is much higher than suffering through their dilemma, so peacefully protesting makes perfect sense.

It’s like before I had a child, I thought that non-violence was the way to go. Then I had a child…

I attended a teacher training once which argued that parenting should be left up to dads since moms get too emotionally involved. I was appalled!

“Moms turn into mother bears who will protect their cubs at all costs,” the presenter even raised his paws and growled for emphasis.

My ears burned with anger. It didn’t help that it was a guy making this argument.

“Dads don’t get so involved. They can sit back, weigh the options and make the best choice for everyone involved,” the presenter smiled placidly as if his argument was self-evident. I grit my teeth.

When I got home and complained to my husband that our presenter was a sexist pig and shared with him the presenters ridiculous argument, he just smiled, placidly.

This was before I had my own child. Once I held the little guy in my arms, I knew I could kill another human being. Sure, I would be remorseful, but I would feel so much worse if I let someone hurt him without fighting to the death.

I was a mother bear at heart, it just took the proper situation to awaken her.

So when I watched the occupiers in Oakland this week get pummeled with tear gas and bean bags, I understood that the powers-that-be have much to lose and are willing to fight for what they may lose.

And I began to wonder, when will the scales tip, when will the mother bear be awakened, when will the occupiers have more to lose and be willing to stand up for it.

We aren’t all Gandhi or Martin Luther King, Jr. Most of us aren’t. I’m not. I grit my teeth and push back, and fight back when I feel threatened.

My son is 6 feet tall, weighs 170 pounds and weight lifts daily. I sort of mostly hoping he wants to protect me now that he no longer needs protection.

And I have been staying home rather than show up at the Occupy protests. My luck, I’ll be all over the news throwing bottles at police officers as they are shooting me with pepper spray. My presence is not good for the cause. Instead, I’m there with them in spirit.

A true pacifist knows her limits. I know my limits, which includes a weak bladder and have you heard about the bathroom situation???

This week I will practice true pacifism by staying clear of any confrontations.

October 23,2011

After the birth of my son, I lost all of my weight and then some. I was back to a size two and wearing a beautiful bikini. It was easy. I put him in the stroller for long jogs. He was content and I was building buns of steel. I took him to the park and ran around with him, him giggling and me smiling through heavy breaths. I fed him baby food while I munched on carrots. Life was idyllic. I took care of the cherub and he appreciated it.
Of course, my son didn’t start talking until he was three. I never worried about the whole “not talking” gig. Others worried and insisted on giving me well meaning advice.
“Quit talking for him and he’ll learn to speak up.”
Like I was an overbearing mother or something.
After all, rumor has it that Albert Einstein didn’t start talking until he was three, so when my son began talking at about three, I figured he was right on track to becoming the genius that only I could birth.
What I didn’t bargain for was that with his own speech, he would also have his own demands.
“No, I want juice.”
“I’m not tired.”
“I’m not getting in the stroller.”
It’s a bit embarrassing to get into an argument with a three year old, and I was going to avoid it the best I knew how.
Well, it turns out that the best I knew how was to fill my mouth with food.
Time after time I found myself at the “snack” drawer, gobbling down chocolate Teddy Grahams wondering how I had spawned such a disagreeable child.
One day, as I sighed heavily into my next handful of gummi bears, it dawned on me – I was eating to avoid arguing with a three year old. This moment of lucidity allowed me to relish those gummi bears all the more. How did the cherub get to be so ingenious? Who except Mrs. Einstein could give birth to sweet, smart Albert?
At this writing, my son is on the verge of becoming a grown man. At this writing, I still struggle to not engage him in arguments and I’m on the verge of moving up to a size eight.

This week I nourish that part of me that wants to be a serene parent, even if it means I am seriously nourishing my waistline.

October 16, 2011

One of my favorite moments from my early years of watching The Oprah Show was her explaining that she refuses to wait for someone else to throw her a party, and if she wants a party, she’s going to throw one for herself. I took that comment to heart and began treating myself like I wished someone else would treat me. So, when I do something worth celebrating, I let others know.

But, part of this is my belief in this saying… usually attributed to Nelson Mandela:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

And so, today, I am sharing with you a place in my life that I am shining. I have an essay here: http://www.eclectica.org/v15n4/toc.html

I hope you enjoy, and just so you know that even as the universe gives, it keeps you in check, I received 2 rejection notices for other essays this week.

This week, I will forget the rejection slips and remember the publication!

October 9, 2011

I crack myself up as I get older.

It’s true that my attitude toward my looks has always been rather nonchalant. When asked by the hairdresser how I want the back of my hair cut, styled, colored, I respond, “I don’t care. I’m not looking at it.”

And it’s true that during one “girls weekend” I spent all of five minutes getting ready then waited 45 minutes for everyone else. One girlfriend actually asked, “What exactly did you do to get ready?”
“Hey! I put on blush, eyeliner, and mascara,” I responded a bit defensively. I may have been grumpy from all that waiting.

This may be because I got married at the young age of 19, and was basically off the market thenceforth. And I happened to marry a man who either has low standards, poor eyesight, or really thinks I’m gorgeous all natural.

This may because as a self-proclaimed feminist, I try to renounce society’s restrictions about what it means to be beautiful. (Of course, I do wear eyeliner any time I go out so there you are…)

Whatever the reason, I have been reluctant to try to keep up with the aging process. Yeah, I do dye my hair, and I do moisturize each night. But I have seen the ravages of trying too hard to stay young. Besides, the young, good-looking guys starting looking through me when I was in my thirties, so now that I’m in my forties, I realize that the only person I’m trying to look good for are other women. Hubby still tells me I look great, though he now says things like, “You have great bone structure” or “Your skin is so soft.” (I think that last comment was more about how soft my less than muscular body than my skin, but he saved himself quickly so I’m willing to let it go).

So, lately I have been interested in some of the aging process I really can’t ignore anymore.

Like how when I put on lipstick, it insists on spreading at the corners of my mouth, and spreading beyond my lips ever so slightly so that I have the mouth of a clown the morning after the big top performance. I can’t help but laugh, not so much because I’m a clown wannabe, but because it reminds me of one of my favorite poets of all time. I don’t even remember the woman’s name, but we were in a writing group together and every week I spent most of the evening resisting the urge to wipe her mouth. But her poetry was good, damn good and all I wished for was to write as beautifully as her. If the path to good writing was a clown’s mouth, I was happy to have it.

And so, I laugh at my mouth and console myself with the hope that some other person is thinking, “That woman’s lipstick is a mess, but she is good at….” hopefully writing!

As I get older, I become more and more amused, at myself. Besides, I love what Elsa Maxwell said, “Laugh at yourself, before anyone else can.”

This week I will be amused at growing older, and my clown’s mouth bringing me closer to great writing.

October 2, 2011

I’d like to think that I’m a better parent than my parents were, but it’s not like there’s a book that tells you how to parent or anything. Oh, there are books, lots of them, that tell you how to do it, this thing called parenting, but they weren’t around when my parents were parents.

We probably all reflect on the way we were raised and try to avoid what we thought were mistakes. Like the time my mom left me at a liquor store waiting to be picked up until she was done with her evening chores. Did I mention it was dark and at a liquor store, where men came to buy – liquor? Or the time… actually I’m having a difficult time thinking of any thing to complain about. And that’s the point.

My parents didn’t have books and classes they could attend to be better parents. They had the way they were raised.

Of course, by my memory, I was a great, easy kid. Sure there was that one time I informed my mom at 8:30 pm that I had volunteered to bring cupcakes for the entire class for tomorrow’s class. Or the time I drove to the beach when I told her I was just driving to the nearby lake. Oh, and that time she had to pick me up from the sheriff station because I’d been picked up on a truancy sweep.

My friend, another self-proclaimed mediocre mom, told me how her daughter went to a local fair and won a goldfish. Well, she didn’t want to carry around this goldfish all day and couldn’t her mom, my friend, come pick up the goldfish? The fair was 20 miles away. But, my friend got in her car and picked up the goldfish so her daughter could enjoy the rest of her day. Then the next day, they went out and spent $60 on supplies to take care of the free goldfish.

“Why did I let her go to that damn fair anyway?” We both laughed. Then we pondered. Do you make the kid carry the goldfish all day? Do you make her purchase all the supplies to keep the goldfish? Do you talk her into giving the goldfish away? Do you make her come home the first time you drive to the fair or let her stay and drive back that evening as planned to pick her up? In which parenting book do you find the answers to these dilemmas? 

Parents today do have books to read and classes we can attend. But I have yet to find in the glossary of a parenting book or on the syllabus of a parenting class the topic: child wins goldfish at fair twenty miles away and wants you to pick it up.

I always joke with my friends that my kid has two funds, a college fund and a therapy fund, because I know that no matter how hard I’m trying, he’s going to look back and think, wow, why would she do that?

I’ve learned that raising kids is not a science, it is an art and you work with what you’ve got and do the best you can.

Yes, I do want to be a better parent than my parents, but I realize that this is a bit of a delusion, the delusion of hope for the future, that it improves with each generation.

All I can hope is that someday he’ll have his own kids, like I did, and, God-willing, at some point he’ll understand.

This week I honor and appreciate the job my parents did with me.

September 25, 2011

I love hanging out with other writers. With few exceptions, we are a group who likes to help one another, pointing the way or uncovering short cuts or alerting each other to the pitfalls.

Sure, there was the workshop presenter who spent most of the two hours talking about how once she figured out the 3 part plot, she began selling her novels, but when asked each time what the 3 part plot was, muttered, “It took me ten years to learn it.” Really, so you want the rest of us to wait 10 years?

Mostly though, we help each other. Like the time I shared a “rejection” letter with a complete stranger I happen to sit next to at a conference and she exclaimed, “That was an invitation to submit a rewrite!” Which I did, five months later after the editor who sent the letter had left that publishing house.

Or the time a writer friend told me she would pass my name on to the organizer of a local author festival to which I got invited, sat next to a local newspaper columinist and felt like Cinderella way before my fairy godmother turned the pumpkin into a carriage and the ball. More like I was cleaning out the fireplace, but still, I was there – thanks to my friend!

And I have been happy to pass along all that I know and to support my writer friends who have found success. I remember clearly learning in my first writing class with Barbara Wood, romance novelist, that there is room on the book shelves for all of us.

So I am happy to announce some recent and past successes of my writing friends.

My best buddy writing pal won The Tiny Lights Essay contest for 2010 with her essay, “Just Fifteen Minutes.” You can find the announcement here http://www.tiny-lights.com/contest.php?year=2010&id=16. This is Sandy’s second publication and the road to more success.

My “spiritual mom” and writing group buddy, Joyce Lacey, recently had one of her stories accepted into Guideposts Magazine, “Angels on Earth.” Be looking for it soon.

Finally, my favorite part-time California resident, Kai Mayerfeld, just published her book, India Bites You Somehow – True-Life Tales of 40 Westerners Discovering the Sacred Within the Chaos of One Magnificient Country. You can get it here http://www.amazon.com/INDIA-BITES-YOU-SOMEHOW-ebook/dp/B005KSTEX6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1316993336&sr=8-1. If you love home, but also love to READ about other places, or perhaps want to travel and find the your sacredness, this is a wonderful glimpse into the traveling and evolution of others that you can enjoy from the comforts of home.

I believe that we are all lifted through the success of those around us, and I am so happy to be able to celebrate with my writing buddies when they find success. After all, there is plenty of room on the shelf for all of us!

September 11, 2011

As I sat in Norman Mailer’s livingroom a few weeks ago, I was blinded by the light reflecting off the harbor onto the big picture window splattered and smeared by watermarks left by Hurricane Irene. I knew it would be rude to wear my sunglasses during class, so I squinted and averted my gaze, focusing more on the people in the room.

Having been invited to attend a week long training in writing with a master teacher and five other writers in Provincetown, Massachusetts, at the Norman Mailer Writing Center at his residence, I sized up the others in the room. 

At the head of the table sat our fearless leader, tasked with guiding us through the craft of writing creative nonfiction. Across from me sat a distinguished professor of criminology and next to him a writer who had just signed on with a big New York agent. Beside him, a poet who spent time with Allen Ginsberg. Next to him, a MFA fiction professor who teaches here in the states and also in Hong Kong. Then, to my right, a professor of literature.  And I rounded out the table, squinting into the what I thought was sunlight and water and dirty windows reflecting it all.

As the week progressed and we shared our “rough drafts” and motivations for writing, the glare seemed to intensify. Those who had rejected the well-worn path to success in order to study and perfect craft made me reflect that I tended to be more of a weekend warrior. Those who had studied and studied and studied some more and still refused to send things out into the world made me wonder if rather than the whisper of genius, my writing wasn’t more like the banners pulled behind single-engine airplanes at the beach… Taco Tuesday at Joe’s Tonite!

I believe that my most important job here on earth is to continue to work toward being a better person and in pursuit of this I read lots of self-help books. Meditation, nah. Volunteering, too time-consuming. But, reading books and reflecting, I can do that.

Most self-help books I’ve read suggest surrounding yourself with people who have obtained what you want, who are smarter than you, who are more successful than you, who are whatever-you-want-in-your-life-and-have-success-in-it than you. And I work hard to do that. I have friends who are wittier than I. I have colleagues who are smarter than I. I have mentors who are more successful than I. And this week, I was surrounded by writers who were wittier, smarter and more successful than I.

By the end of the week, when clouds had rolled into Provincetown, I realized that the brilliance I was blinded by all week had nothing to do with the sunlight reflected off the water in the harbor then filter through dirty plate glass windows. The brilliance I was squinting against was actually generated by the people I was surrounding myself with.

For a writer, it doesn’t get much better than that. How lucky was I to be there!

This week I will relish the memories of my week with brilliance and hold myself to higher standards.